One NRP member incurred the wrath of the Party by suggesting that we kill the rich. I agreed with Guadalcanal in theory, but everyone else rejected violence.

“If we use violence, we will be just like them,” Anthony Scibelli said parroting the old movie line foisted on the film’s audience to prevent the poor from ravaging the Upper East Side or Greenwich. It isn’t like Anthony is square, but I don’t trust him, especially since he hit on Alice at CBGBs.

Later at our apartment Alice said that she wanted the NRP to handle security for New Wave Vaudeville.

“We can’t pay anything.”

People put their lives on the life, they get paid,” I countered, although all of the male members are tough as one twenty-five year-old from the South Shore.

“None of them are asking for money. Why are you backing them? I’ll pay you. Just don’t tell anyone.”

“I only want John Kemp to get paid.” The British shoemaker was a good friend.

“Just John.”

“And not Anthony.”

“Certainly not Anthony.

On some things Alice and I agreed completely.

“I don’t think we will be able to pull off the show. Everyone is fighting for the limelight, except Klaus.” She was mostly talking about Susan Hannaford, who thinks she is a genius. I can’t stand her, but have never told Alice that. The Hillbilly ingenue was on the verge of tears. I held her in my arms and told her everything was going to be alright. I hoped it wasn’t a lie.

Mark Mandrell is in Thailand. He quarantined two weeks in a Phuket hotel. I want to go so badly, but my finances are desperate, since I can’t really work in my condition. Heavy labor seems to be the only things that comes my way. Old Yellah can’t seem to get it in her head that I am sick. Not so sick that I can’t walk or lift things, but I need my rest.

Nothing like sleep and even more than sleep with my family in Sri Racha and Ban Nok.