Tuesday, January 1, 1929

1929—The new year’s two minutes old. The old one passed out amid a few feeble peals from the church bell. The gang parading up and down Main St. is singing the Spanish song and making lots of noise—all in the cold windy rain. Here go lots of whistles and sirens.

3AM Gang just went up the street singing. Just finished second novel. It’s still cold and very windy outside.

9:45AM Things are off to a good start today. It is a fine day, though cool and a little windy. Now that I have a couple of heroes happily married off and the villain sent to Siberia, I’ll feel at peace with the world if I get a letter, especially. Would go to church today but don’t want to get dressed up. Maybe I’ll go in my monkey suit; name borrowed from that given to the military suits at Ohio State by their loving owners. One black mark already. It’s poor taste to be subtle so early—and I have several leaves to turn over yet to find the golden resolutions on the back in small type. Last year the leaves were from a rubber tree in Brazil. This year the leaves are from an Ironwood tree at the old Indian Spring Scout Camp.

1. Be kind to all dumb animals, black cats, Spanish customs officers, cats belonging to the fast set who howl under your window all night, hotel advance agents, lying roosters that crow at 12 instead of 5AM (this is a hard one to keep).

2. Help the poor—fools who climb all over you in 3rd-class cars to reach terra firma more quickly, sometimes very quickly; orchestra in Budapest to learn its second piece.

3. Keep clear of all sudden-death carts tearing around the streets. This includes taxis in Paris, bicycles in Copenhagen (though they do not come under this title), and Flivvers in Madrid.

4. To take stories about warm countries with a barrel of salt and some unripe olives.

5. To establish fund for those Italians who, guzzling guzzlable spaghetti, were guzzled into unguzzlability, being guzzlers.

6. To personally slay the cuss that first thought of putting dining rooms in the poop of a ship.

7. To not be automobilized by anything less than a Cadillac.

8. To personally choke this tailless cat at the hotel that is always squalling; also, all guides and postcard sellers.

9. To always be a great cycler, parlor cycler.

10. To enjoy punctures, tire trouble in general, rocky roads, and winds and rain and cold and hills always up, and getting my head chopped off.

11. To do unto hotel men as they try to do you dirt by. (Golden yardstick, but it bends.)

12. To love, honor, and evade all Italian cops, who are always stopping you and trying to make you believe you aren’t who you are.

13. To declare the 18th Amendment in force and all Americans do over here, drink only soup, tea, and coffee.

14. To improve my technique without inspecting any jails. To get more things for nothing and less nothings for something.

15. To weekly tease the Royal Order of the Most Noble C.—at OSU and to daily rake up the leaves that have gone by the boards.

9PM—Same day, third chapter. Met two men who were American and traveling about some, one an architect. The other has been living in Edinburgh for about 2–3 years, and both from San Francisco. It was a glorious day and I showed them around, through Irish Town to the Southern point near the Governor’s Cottage. Had a good time and coffee on the way back at the café.

Have written most of a letter to Jean and am about to read another novel. A novel a day makes one more happily married hero and heroine per. Better add another resolution.

16. Resolved—to always carry at least one book about with me to make people believe I’m the student I claim to be.

Thus ends the first day.

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