The following is a work of fiction.

Not Nick Nolte's Diary, Malibu, California
April 12, 2005


Last night I realized that I hadn't run the Vega in weeks. By some blue moon miracle, it turned over. Not wishing to see my car guy under the hood for a day, I decided to tool around the basin for a while to charge the battery. It's funny how most of the city is asleep by midnight. On my way back I stopped in at a McDonald's for one of their shakes. Most people don't know their made with 100% organic soy. As I climbed out of the car, I noticed the car next to me was stuffed with detritus, old papers, boxes and clothing. A small television had been strapped to the dash of the derelict sedan. Only then did I notice the gentleman, recumbant in the driver's seat, his eyes slitted like a sparrow's rictus, cooly basking in the blue glow of over-the-air Spanish television. For a moment I thought I had stumbled onto a Gregory Crewdson set. To wrap things up, Diary, the shake machine was broken.

[signed] Nick

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