The following are unedited excerpts from the diaries of Peter Braunstein, who is accused of sex abuse, kidnapping and other charges stemming from an alleged Halloween attack on a former co-worker in her apartment.

Wed., nov. 14, 2005

I'm strolling along the bombed out streets in my trademark fashion ("like i haven't got a care in the world" — i don't, really) when i glance to my left and spot a metro pd cruiser heading my way. No big deal. Then another. Then i turn around and see about 12 more. Suddenly, right next to me — a swat van pulls up & the tactical boys jump out in full regalia, weaponry, & body armor. In about 2 seconds i shift from alarm to resignation, saying, 'ah, yes, the inevitable has arrived. A little too soon for my tastes, but why quibble?' so i reach for my beretta because, even though i'm so outgunned, i still have to go thru the motion of firing off a few rounds at the swat team so they'll return fire & incinerate me. That is, after all, the plan. But lo and behold, the guys were all around me-and then straight past me-into the charred apartment building to my right. Dio mio — they're after some other criminal!

And also, i've never seen real swat guys deployed before. It's quite a show. Now i'm really looking forward to when they descend on me & we all play out my last moment on earth together.

Fri., nov. 19, 2005

Story continues

(i wonder if esmeralda is doing okay, and if she ever thinks of me. I didn't mean to scare her so.) So now my body is screaming for some downtime but once you give it a dose of rest it's bound to go overboard & want more. But i can't complain. My body, the same body that imbibed little more than booze and cigarettes from june '04 to june '05, is becoming a machine. I'm so proud of it and a little bit bewildered at it powers of redevelopment. It's typical of me that, even on the verge of death, i'm in the best physical shape of my adult life.

I'm developing a sensible, unintentional tan. Another perq of this lifestyle — don't have to worry about melanoma. Not going to be around long enough for that to matter.

Tues., nov. 23, 2005

I was hoping that my gut instinct to head toward the katrina disaster zone states would payoff, & it has. Yesterday, i went to the memphis catholic archdiocese charity clearing house and, posing as a katrina survivor named mark jeffrey — name i love! I wish it were my name! — told an incredibly sad story of woe and loss that brought the sweet and soulful-looking case worker, esther, to near-tears. Basically, the tale — made more realistic by & precise by actual names, addresses, locales n new orleans i gained from the internet on monday, — was about this guy mark, who for 20 years was the caretaker for this generous couple named the ellisons, who lived on pitt st. In the new orleans neighborhood of carrollton. Because that was my only job, i don't really remember my social security #. Like 'mrs. Ellison' always did my taxes for me. I left 2 days before katrina but mrs. Ellison, 73 years old & incapacitated by gout, wouldn't budge. Now i'm heading back to la. To take in the wreckage. This time, in telling the story, my tears were real — must have something to do with the part about having no friends or family & a future that is, to put it generously, unbelievably precarious. Anyway, the whole routine got me a 4-day hookup at some religious-oriented shelter/ house ('restoration house'), the perfect set-up to ride out thanksgiving week. Here, no one would know anything about you because you have no $ and this is america — you're effectively written off as socially dead. Just where i wanna be right now as i plot the next set of hijinks.