b/w [abbreviation]  1. (music) “backed with.” Commonly used with 45 and 78 RPM records, referring to the flip side (also called the “B-side”) of a record.

Here’s a brief journal entry plus a B-side. As always, I make no apologies for my boorish behavior.

November 5, 1992

I love when I come home and the little red light on the answering machine is going *blink* *blink* *blink.* It validates me.

The first message was from Joann, the blind date from two weeks ago. I never expected to hear from her. While on our date, she never made eye contact with me. She’d look over my head, past my left shoulder, past my right, but never directly at me. It was disconcerting. She has a pair of tickets to Mamet’s new play, Oleanna and wants to know if I’ll go. The tix are for over Thanksgiving and I’ll be in Cleveland. I’ve already seen it but the guy who plays the accused professor is so good that I’d gladly go again. [Note: That was William H. Macy.] I left a message on her machine that I’d be out of town. I was kind of glad I didn’t actually have to talk to her.

What does this mean? Does she want to be friends or what? I asked Oswaldo and he started laughing at me. Then he said he has someone he wants to introduce me to. So does Uncle Frank. Everyone is looking out for me but I’m perfectly content being by myself. I’m not the least bit lonely.

The next message was from Margaret. She left a message at work, too, but I didn’t return it because she aggravates me. Last night, she said there must be something wrong with me because I’m [redacted] years old and not married yet. We ended up yelling at each other. I can’t understand why she keeps calling. I don’t do anything to encourage her. All she does insult me. But she sure is pretty. [Note: In an uncharacteristic fit of towering self-respect, I finally saw past her beauty and told her to fuck off.]

She spends almost every night visiting her mom in the hospital. Also, she’s seeing someone who doesn’t make her happy. He lives too close and demands all of her free time. He’s jealous and insecure. She called him a black hole. She said he’s attractive and energetic and doesn’t understand why he just doesn’t go find someone else. That’s almost verbatim what Karen says about her boyfriend! Except the part about the black hole. Karen isn’t smart enough to know what a black hole is.

The next message was from Bonnie. She’s moving offices and asked if I could help with the heavy lifting. I called her back immediately and said I’d be there whenever she needed me. She said she’d pay me but I told her it wasn’t necessary. I asked if it’d be okay if I ravaged her on top of her new desk. She laughed and said, “I suppose so.”

The last message was from Howard. His sister was in a horrific auto accident. She broke several bones including her pelvis and pubic bone. He said it was her fault. She drove into oncoming traffic or something like that. They had to use the jaws of life to peel her out. Apparently, it’s been really hard on their mom. Her husband was coming home from work and drove past the accident. When he got close enough, he recognized the car. Or, what was left of it. I’ll bet she was glad to see him.

What’s your policy on posting photos of yourself? Some bloggers, in an effort to build brand recognition, use a portrait on their landing page and populate their posts with pics of themselves making wacky, exaggerated facial grimaces. Other bloggers have never—not once—posted a photo, allowing their words speak for themselves.

I occupy a middle ground. If I post a photo of The Daughters, it’s usually from the back. This is an open forum and I feel some discretion is in order. The exception is on my birthday, which is today. I allow one full-frontal shot every July 8th. Any dime store psychologist will tell you that this is yet another sad cry for attention. But isn’t that the very definition of blogging? An ongoing cry for attention?

Me + Daughter #2.

“Dad, I like doing this…” (Traces her finger inside her ear.) “It’s like a maze.”

I can’t believe I’m as old as I am (don’t ask) and have kids this young. Well, not THIS young. This is from a few years ago. Still. The guys I grew up with have kids out of college. I traveled a different path to the waterfall. And it’s a damn good thing I did. If I’d had children in my 20’s it would’ve crashed and burned. I just wasn’t ready. I was perfectly content being by myself. I wasn’t the least bit lonely.

Let’s dip our silver ladle into the big rain barrel of memories and take another cool drink.

August 31, 1993

Last Saturday was a blur of sex, money and booze. Howard invited me on a bachelor party crawl with 10 of his pals. They said I was the token Gentile. I didn’t know any of them but they made me feel welcomed. A few of them live in Israel and told some interesting stories. We ate at Khyber Pass on St. Marks. The groom, Sparky, just had a major blow-out with his betrothed so he was mopey all night.

I hate strip clubs. Always have. I’m strung too tight to enjoy them. They sell an illusion to bored, lonely men. I certainly qualify but I can’t dismiss the reality. Those girls don’t want me! They want the contents of my wallet. As soon as they find out I’m broke, I’m persona non grata. It’s like dating in Manhattan without the occasional loveless sex to break up the monotony. Other guys seem to be able to see past the lie and enjoy themselves. What’s wrong with me?

We went to Honey Buns on 47^th and Lexington. What a dump. We thought we’d get away cheap because there wasn’t a cover. We were mistaken. We were pounced on the moment we walked in. I was surprised (and pleased) at how touchy the girls were. It was okay to reciprocate if you didn’t cross a line. They’d whisper flattering things in your ear. Guys walked in looking like the crosstown M42 just squished their puppy but when a girl sat in their lap they cheered right up. It was a room full of dudes who are crushed by life. Bald, overweight, lousy jobs, lousy wives, too many responsibilities, too little fun, old, sad sacks. But those girls made them feel like winners. There’s something sweet about it.

There was a $10 “entertainment” charge but that includes three beers, which I thought was a bargain. Later that evening, a bartender at the Blarney Stone told me those places serve non-alcoholic beer. I’ve never been able to hold my liquor and it dawned on me that after a three beers, all I had was a foul taste in my mouth.

I paid my $10 and tipped the girl $1. She said she usually gets $2 for a beer so I gave her another $1. A shockingly beautiful Japanese girl sat next to me. I was wearing shorts and she started twiddling the hair on my leg. She asked if I would buy her a drink and I said, “SURE!” A waitress brought the drink, set it down and said, “$20.” I started laughing because I thought she was kidding but she wasn’t. It was the most expensive drink I’ve ever bought. I told my companion that I was dirt poor and to enjoy her dink because there wouldn’t be another one. I was angry.

As an icebreaker, I showed her my tattoo. [Note: It’s a Japanese symbol. How horribly cliché.] I said I was tired of dating and wanted to see just one girl. I don’t recall asking any questions about herself. What could I ask?! She was sitting in a dank, second-rate strip joint with hardly any clothes on and her big Japanese breasts spilling into my lap. I know this sounds idiotic but I think she liked me. It was obvious she wasn’t going to make any money off me but she didn’t leave. She sat there for quite some time and we chatted. She said she didn’t meet very many “nice guys” and that it was refreshing to just talk. I was so flattered that I almost ordered her a glass of water.

A waitress came by, picked up her unfinished drink and that was her signal to move on. I was pretty bored after that. Later, I saw her sitting with a TOTAL STRANGER stroking his leg. It broke my heart. I thought I was special.

A stunningly beautiful girl sat next to Howard. Howard is happily married and a self-professed cheap bastard. The girl sat there just long enough to learn those truths: about :30 seconds. A man at the next table was sitting with his back to me. A girl was sitting in his lap facing me. He was kissing her neck and caressing her back. The girl had a blank, distant look on her face. Like she was composing her grocery list. She’s got a boring job, too. Howard said he saw them walk to the back of the club and up a staircase. It was depressing. I wanted to leave.

We walked to the Blarney Stone and got properly soused. One of Howard’s friends is from Cleveland and I tried to chat him up about my old town but all he did was complain. He bitched about everything. The walking (people outside the city drive everywhere), the money, the girls, the “weird food,” the city—everything. I ignored him. Someone bought rounds of shots. A girl walked passed and bumped into me. I asked her if I owed her $20 for that.

We went the Paradise. There was a $10 cover. The Paradise has a VIP Lounge. A private dance in the VIP Lounge costs $10. I got angry because for the price of ONE dink at Honey Buns I could have had TWO VIP dances. For the extraordinarily well heeled, you can ride around Manhattan in the back of a limo with the girl of your choice. That costs $300. I wonder if one of the gorillas working there goes with you or do you get to be alone with the girl?

The girls immediately pegged us all as a bunch of cheap bastards and never approached us. There were TV monitors around the perimeter of the stage playing hardcore porno. Everywhere you looked there was fucking and sucking. Sex, sex, sex. Vaginas as far as the eye could see. You couldn’t get away from them. It was a room filled with drunken, horny, desperate, lonely guys who were being driven mad with desire but wouldn’t have anything to show for it at the end of the evening except an empty wallet and blue balls.

While hailing a cab at the corner of Broadway and 33^rd I saw some guy pissing in the doorway of a bank. Not a bum. Some white kid from the suburbs. I hate when people piss on my city, so imagine my utter delight when a patrol car pulled up and arrested him. The cops stood him spread-eagle on the hood of the cruiser while they called in his ID. Now, THAT’S what I call a happy ending. Home at 3:30.

Last Saturday I took 13-Year Old to the Whitney. They have a brand new building in the meatpacking district. The building is spectacular and the exhibit, culled from their permanent collection, is beautiful. Too crowded, though. Here, my daughter and I argue the merits of Rothko. My artist pal, Sharon, took this. Always bring an artist to a museum with you. They explain stuff. That’s the same little girl in my banner up top. Time’s insatiable appetite.

My heart wandered without direction, untethered and searched up and down Manhattan for safe harbor, usually without success.

September 23, 1993

I met Jennifer at the Algonquin for drinks. I love that place. I like taking out-of-towners there. If it was good enough for Graham Greene and Hemingway, it’s good enough for Ohioans. An odd thing happened. An older waiter—not the one who served us—walked up to our table and stood over me, looking down. He didn’t say anything for a while. It was uncomfortable. Finally, I said, “Can I help you?” He asked to see an ID! He wanted to make sure I was 21! It’s dark in there, but not THAT dark. What an idiot.

I can’t get past the fact that Jennifer graduated from Yale. She’s way smarter than I’ll ever be. What am I doing with her? We talked about our families. Or something. She’s fun. She seems game for anything. Last week, we went to a Freddie Jackson concert out on the pier. As far as I can tell, we were the only white people there. I mean…there must have been others. But I didn’t see any.

We were sitting the in bleachers off to the side. I was fumbling with my keys and accidentally dropped them. They bounced down onto the pavement beneath us. Jennifer said, “I’ll get ‘em!” and before I knew it she was crawling between the seats and down the scaffolding to retrieve them. We were up about 15 feet. While she was climbing back up to our seats, a big black woman sitting next to me leaned over, nudged me and said, “She’s a keeper.”

Yes, I’m sure she is.

We walked out of the Algonquin. She turned left to Grand Central, I turned right towards Times Square. I crossed 6^th Avenue, turned around and walked right back into to the Algonquin. I got on the payphone and called Bonnie. I wanted her to come meet me at the bar or invite me over. Preferably the latter. She shocked me with the news that she’s got some guy living with her. She made a point of telling me he sleeps on the sofa. He’s an old friend who is in a crisis and needs a rest. I can’t believe how much I care. I care!

Instead, I met Cindy at Nightingales down on 13^th and 2^nd. We drank and shot pool for a bit before she had to leave to meet her scary lesbian friends. She was in a foul mood because she gave herself another shitty haircut. We played teams with some guy who was a Lower East Side cliché. Full of pretension and manufactured anger. He said his name was Evil and he wore a skull ring. “Hey, Evil, it’s your shot” got stuck in my throat a few times. While waiting for his turn, he’d pose with his pool cue and smoke in an overly-dramatic fashion, like he was a model in the middle of a location shoot or a tragic character in a bad Tennessee Williams play. When he shot, he’d rest the cue on the side of the table and only use one arm. Idiots uptown. Idiots downtown. I’m surrounded.

Cindy left so I sat at the bar. That hippie barmaid who was always mean to me isn’t there anymore. The new hippie barmaid is much more personable. There was a pretty blonde sitting at the end of the bar writing, but I was too nervous to say anything to her.

Margaret was just here at my desk and I worked on her resume. She’s so pretty that I might be able to overlook her unrelenting unpleasantness. There was a lot of standing over me unnecessarily close while I worked. Her long, red hair cascaded down onto my shoulder. She said it’s too bad I don’t have a car because then we could hang out on weekdays, but I’ll be damned if I’m buying a car just for that. She smells nice. Her blouse hung open a bit between the buttons and I could see the outline of her breasts. She’s even prettier since having her nose done. How do I get my hands on her? Other than buying a car, I mean?

The third grade had an assignment to write a poem based on a color. 8-Year Old Daughter was given red. Hang in there for the Flannery O’Connor ending.

Red is…
Red is a grape tomato ripe from the patch.
Red is the sunset on a cold fall night.
Red is a strawberry so juicy and ripe.
Red is Christmas with the bells ringing.
Red is blood on a child’s arm.
Red is…

I didn’t see that coming. Jesus. She’s just a kid. It’s even more macabre when you see it in her own handwriting.

REALLY, Marriott? You’re going to do that to me? What a bunch of chintzy pickpockets.

“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 20^th.
The first day of spring in suburban New Jersey.

Sure, it’s pretty…in DECEMBER. Enough, already.