“Journals? Give me a break. Who’d want to read someone’s journals?”
—Me, two posts ago.
August 18, 1992
Bonnie and I saw Neil Diamond at Madison Square Garden the other night. Neither one of us can stand his music but she got free press seats so we went. I’ll see practically anyone for free.
Before the show we had dinner at Pete’s Tavern. She knows the owners so we didn’t have to pay for the drinks, thank God. We’re both broke. I ordered a veal chop and when the waitress set the plate down in front of me, a cockroach walked out from underneath it. He probably hitched a ride from the kitchen. Neither the waitress nor Bonnie saw it. I was worried that Bonnie was going to spot it and scream.
I watched it walk across the table and wished it out of eyesight. It crawled onto the pepper mill so I back-handed it to the floor. I made it look like a clumsy accident. Roaches are fast but I’m clever. $20 for a veal chop and I have to watch a fucking cockroach stroll across my table. I’m ruined for veal chops. I hallucinated it was a giant, upturned cockroach. I cut into its belly, extracted its guts and put it my mouth. The same thing happened to me at the Hard Rock Café over a slab of ribs. What the hell’s wrong with this town, anyway?
The waitress was a beautiful, olive-skinned Egyptian who I wanted to ravage right there on their roach-infested table. She’s married to the guy managing the joint so I kept the roach story to myself. I told Oswaldo and he couldn’t stop laughing, but I won’t repeat it to anyone else. [Note: The hell I won’t.] I paid for both meals and the cab ride to Madison Square Garden. I miss Dorothy if, for no other reason, she pulled her weight during the lean times.
Growing up, mom fed us a steady diet of Neil Diamond so I knew every lyric to every song. She had a live album called Hot August Night and it was a hot August night, so that’s a full circle. I took Jennifer to the Lone Star Café to see Robert Gordon last week and the two shows couldn’t have been more dissimilar. Diamond had a surprisingly complicated laser and light show and a killer sound system. Robert Gordon? Not so much. Just straight ahead, kick-ass rockabilly. At the end of the Diamond show, some guy ran up on stage to embrace him. It was kind of scary. He could have had a big knife and stabbed him in front of thousands of adoring fans. By the time the show started, Bonnie and I were loaded out of our minds. We kept a running commentary that criticized his clothes, hair, bland songs and over-zealous fans. We got a lot of dirty looks. Not our finest hour.
I stayed overnight at Bonnie’s. The doorman always gives me this “way-to-go” look that annoys the shit out of me. I had worked all day, then the meal with drinks and the long concert, so my expectation was that I’d fall asleep instantaneously. I laid down on the sofa and tried to understand CNN while she went to change. She came out in a plush, white terrycloth robe with a Four Seasons crest on it. I knew she wasn’t wearing anything underneath.
She sat next to me on the sofa and the next thing I knew I got a second wind. Older women are better. They know what they’re doing. Also, there was something about the robe. It made me woozy with desire. I threw her down onto the sofa in a not-very-delicate manner and tore it open. In one swift, smooth, fluid motion she unclasped my belt and unzipped. No fumbling around. Again…older women. Being so worked-up that you can’t be bothered to take your clothes off is kind of hot. I should’ve used the robe sash to tie her hands but I didn’t think about it until the next day.
We washed up, brushed our teeth, got under the covers and after some spirited encouragement from Bonnie, surprise, surprise. Once again, I grossly overestimated how tired I was. At one point I put a condom on and everything came to a screeching halt, as it always does when I do that. I wonder if Bonnie can still get pregnant? We went at it again the following morning and now I’m kind of raw. I won’t be able to abuse myself for a week. Our morning pillow talk was about AIDS and how we really should be more careful.
She made an incredible breakfast. I was watching and initially, it didn’t look like she knew what she was doing but everything turned out okay. She made French toast. She cut thick slices of bread from a loaf of challah and fried thick slices of honey cured bacon. She fried the bacon until it looked like blackened strips of ash. I thought she’d overcooked it but it was delicious. A good pot of hot coffee, too. We sat on her sofa and read the Sunday New York Times.
Jennifer told me she’s seeing some guy who’s 39, divorced and has two kids. Why would she get involved with some decrepit 39 year-old with kids?
Saturday morning, March 20th.
The first day of spring in suburban New Jersey.
Sure, it’s pretty…in DECEMBER. Enough, already.