The following is a work of fiction.

Not Nick Nolte's Diary, Malibu, California
May 17, 2005


Yesterday, the sky over the city was an inconsequential blue. That sounds like a crayola color from the future of some dystopian novel. I mention it, Diary, because the lack of cloud cover allowed Derek to work on what he calls his "Farm league tan." With the roof open, he and I took the rover down to Santa Monica before his game. I've taken it upon myself to act as Derek's decorator. Ishii's old house is like a ten foot wide canvas painted with a thin layer of primer. I must remember to wash and dry the proverbial brushes, however. I don't want to him to resent his surroundings. I sold him on an Eames lounge chair by describing it as a catcher's glove, the leather worn and welcoming to whatever might be tossed its way. The gentleman salesperson asked if I was trying to pick him up. Well he got his commission, but as I often like to say, "Revenge is a dish best served."

[signed] Nick

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