Category Archives: Memoirs

A diary of my early years in New York. Mostly tragic.

Wet Kiss on Second Avenue

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My new job has me completely buried in the weeds. It’s a workload I’ve not experienced for a long time. I’m also trying to figure out the politics and personalities. I’m overwhelmed and exhausted. I don’t have time for a proper post so in the meantime, here’s another bon mot from my old journals. As usual, I make no apologies, etc., etc. The usual disclaimers.

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August 7, 1992

I took Cindy out. She’s always my last resort when nobody else is around. I wonder if she realizes that? Knowing her, she probably does and doesn’t care. The theater, a couple margaritas at Mary Ann’s and then kissing in the shadows on the corner of 2nd Avenue and 3rd Street. Her kisses are really wet and slippery. Over drinks, she said she’s sad that she’s back in the same boat with Laura that caused them to break up in the first place. She thought it’d be different this time but it isn’t. It never is, is it? Listening to people talk about their relationships makes me glad I’m not in one. They seem like such a burden.

We were out last weekend bar hopping and listening to bands and Laura was following us around on her bike from a half block away. We’d walk into a bar with Laura watching from across the street and when we’d leave, she’d still be there. Then we’d walk up Avenue B to the next bar and she’s peddle slowly from a distance. Cindy was laughing at her but I felt kind of bad. I hope Laura doesn’t stab me or anything.

After we kissed for a while I asked her to come over tomorrow night to watch the Presidential debates. I remember watching the last set of debates four years ago with that girl from Nottingham. The one with the smelly feet. What the hell was her name? Her feet smelled like a litter box but I didn’t care because of that accent. I loved how she said my name. Maahhhk.

Cindy just called. She can’t come over for the debates because she was able to book time in the recording studio. So that’s that. Her stuff is really good. I hope she makes it. [Note: She didn’t.]

September 18, 1992

I was alone tonight and happy for it. I went to Cafe Mogador on St. Mark’s place. I had a bowl of split pea soup and then a cappuccino. I watched the pretty girls come and go. I’m invisible to them.

A few days ago, while walking down 2nd Avenue, some guy asked me for a dime for bus fare. The bus was approaching and all he needed was 10 cents but I didn’t give it to him. I felt terrible afterwards. A lousy dime! What the hell’s the matter with me?! So I made a commitment to be more generous. More humane.

Tonight, a derelict was sitting in the middle of the sidewalk with an empty coffee cup in his hand asking for handouts. I dug into my pocket and threw some change in. At the last second, I saw that my ONLY subway token fell into the cup. I asked him, “Can I have my token back? It’s my ride home.” He said, “Sure!,” dumped the contents into his hand, picked out my token and gave it back to me. He joked that even though he doesn’t have a home, he didn’t want to prevent me from getting to mine. We both laughed about it. So I feel a little more human tonight.

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To celebrate my new yob, I had dinner with my lawyer pal, Rob, at The Oyster Bar in Grand Central Station. It’s a genuine piece of Olde World New York. A landmark. It opened in 1913 when Grand Central Station opened. The vaulted, Guastavino ceilings made of off-white tiles are a distinctive architectural flourish.

photo 2 (2)Who knew there were so many different types of oysters in the world?! The menu changes all the time, even as the evening progresses.

photo 1 (3)We usually order a dozen from the east coast and a dozen from the west. More if we’re still hungry. In honor of my having recently scaled Mt. Sons and Lovers, I chose the Lady Chatterley’s. They were succulent and delicious. The trick is to not drown them in horseradish, lemon or cocktail sauce. The flavors are subtle and you can lose them if you’re not careful.

I’m not here. I’m there.

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Hacker, Ninja, Hooker, Spy and blog behemoth Aussa Lorens asked me if I’d like to guest post over at her place while she’s vacationing in New York City. “Hell, yes!,” said I. What a genuine thrill. It feels like I won a contest.

In keeping with the spirit of her trip, I stepped into the Wayback machine and pulled an excerpt from my early NYC journals.

Join me and her vast following over here.

More debauched tales from my callow youth

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Time for another journal extract. And you thought it was going to be just another dull Sunday evening, didn’t you? As usual, I offer no edits or apologies for being the insensitive rogue I once was.

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November 7, 1992

Grandma passed away yesterday. I can’t go to the funeral. My checking account balance is -$49.63, so I can’t afford the ticket. I never visited her in the home so I don’t suppose it makes a difference now that she’s gone. I never wanted to see her in her fucked-up, vegetative state. Mom said the last time she went, grandma was so out of it that she didn’t recognize her. Her own daughter! Grandpa died 22 years ago this month. I wonder what kept her hanging on for so many years? None of the other grandchildren who live out of state are going either, so I’m not the only dirtbag. Those crazy, old-world I-talians are going to insist on an open casket. Gross. Uncle Frank is already in Cleveland. I heard that dad is going to be there, too. I’m glad I’m not going. Who needs that noise? Remind me to scratch Walnut Hills Nursing Home off the Christmas card list.

November 9

I was sitting at my desk and Dennis passed the phone to me and said, “It’s a secret admirer.” Do you remember Madelynn? The tall blond with the nice demeanor and ordinary face? She said she didn’t have anything to do and asked if I would like to meet for a drink after work. I got over being better than nothing and said yes. I met her at that Irish bar on 46th and Broadway. I was propositioned by a whore on the way up 8th Avenue. I had my hands in my coat pockets and she walked up next to me and locked her arm in mine and asked where Broadway was. I pointed. She asked if I would go with her. [Note: That was then. That neighborhood hasn’t seen a prostitute for a long, long time.]

I got a stool at the bar and Madelynn was on time. She looked beautiful! I was hoping her sister would come but it was just her. We had a beer and talked. It was nice. I said, “Let’s go somewhere a bit dumpier” and she said, “I know just the place!” She wasn’t kidding. I was waiting for a knife fight to break out. It was in the appropriately-named Hell’s Kitchen. Her neighborhood. She’s got a lot of nerve making fun of me for living in Brooklyn. I didn’t drink much—because I don’t—but she got really drunk. You can always tell when someone’s drunk because they keep asking “Am I drunk?” over and over. She’s confrontational and thinks she’s an intellectual. 35 years old! I didn’t know she was that old. [Note: That old?! *sigh*] We talked a long time. I got home at 4:00 a.m.

I called her the next day and asked her out for Friday. She said yes. I told her I’m glad I got to her before her calendar filled up and she said not to worry because nobody ever asks her out.

November 12

I went up to Bonnie’s on Sunday to help move her office. Instead of meeting at her office as originally planned, she had me come to her apartment to type out her resume. I didn’t have a case for my laptop so I just carried it out in the open. On the way to the subway I bumped into an Hasidim selling laptop cases. He was so funny! We joked around for a while and I bought a padded case for $50.

I took a cab from Union Square to Bonnie’s apartment. I typed out her resume and a letter and then she wanted to go to bed. I said yes and she had her clothes off and was under the sheets in about six seconds! I never saw anyone move so fast in my life! It was like watching an old-time, black and white, sped-up film. I wore a condom and hated it. It was ghastly but at least I didn’t lose my erection. I never finished. Neither did she but it was still really nice. Sometimes, it’s all about the journey.

Afterwards, I was wiped out and would have preferred to lounge in bed all afternoon and nap but I had to move her office. I asked if we could have sex on her new desk. She laughed and said yes. We got there and I met Bonnie’s secretary, a vivacious, beautiful Israeli. Bonnie was in the other room and she heard the two of us laughing and talking and having a good time, so she walked in and announced that we had just had sex. Strange.

I lugged those goddamn boxes all by myself. Bonnie said she’d buy me dinner and I said I had already extracted payment from her *wink-wink* but she insisted. We took a cab to Café Des Artiste. I was dirty and sweaty from the move and I told her I didn’t want to eat anywhere fancy so we found a casual Italian joint. I had chicken and sausage in marinara sauce and Bonnie had chicken with sun dried tomatoes. Two glasses of Pinot noir. 110% delicious. $26 total. That meal would have cost $150 at Café Des Artiste. Fuck that joint.

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This week marks the sixth anniversary of my blog. 915 posts. That’s a lot of water under the bridge. A lot of personal history.

A forgotten doorway to my past

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binLong-time readers know what these are. For the benefit of new readers, [I have new readers! Thank you, WordPress migration.] this is a storage bin  filled with journals from when I first moved to New York as a young, scared, lonely boy. There are hundreds and hundreds of single-spaced typewritten pages and many books filled with shaky, unsure handwriting. I had completely forgotten about them for many years but they resurfaced not long ago. I occasionally crack one open and post an entry. I offer these without edits and with the caveat that I was an emotionally immature, crude and not very nice person. Especially to women. But I’ve since learned a thing or two and I have forgiven my trespasses. I hope you do the same. I am in a constant struggle with whether or not I should destroy these. I don’t want any of the ladies in my life to read them.

When we last saw our hero, he was in the throes of a crisis of his own making (as they almost always were). An extraordinary woman he was seeing, Bonnie, had given him his walking papers. He had spouted off at length about how the work of avant garde artist John Cage was dull, unimportant, lacking structure and, worst of all, pretentious. Unbeknownst to him at the time, Bonnie, an older sophisticated architect, wrote her thesis at Yale on the career of John Cage.

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August 30, 1992

In an effort to better educate myself and repair the damage I wrought with Bonnie, I invited her to a concert of John Cage’s work at MoMA. Bonnie asked if I was paying penance and I said, of course I was, so she agreed to go. The concert was just awful. Honestly, it only confirmed my suspicions but I’ll never admit that to Bonnie. I still want to sleep with her.

They had a lot of nerve calling it a concert. It had very little to do with music. The opening and closing numbers used traditional instruments—violin, viola, flute and a few others. They would each take a turn playing a long, sustained note. They’d occasionally overlap for texture but it was little more than a drone. The middle piece was three guys standing in front of a microphone crumbling and then un-crumbling pieces of newspaper and then slowly ripping them into long strips. This was accompanied by a man tapping a plastic plate, a woman pouring water and someone tapping two plastic tubes together. We heard some people in the back laughing, so I know I’m not alone in my mystification. There was a beautiful Steinway grand piano on stage but the only sound that came out of it was some guy occasionally plucking a string or slapping the wood. I listened with all sincerity but all I heard was someone ripping newspaper and beating up some poor piano. It didn’t mean anything to me. At the conclusion, the audience erupted with wild applause. I don’t get it. But I think I might be back in her good graces, so that’s good news. (Note: It didn’t work. Things were never the same again.)

September 1

I just got off the phone with Bonnie. Apparently, it’s not enough that her business is failing and she’s teetering on bankruptcy and might lose that spectacular apartment. She said, “Mark, I had blood coming out of my rectum. I thought it was just a simple hemorrhoid but I went to a doctor and he’s sending me to have tests done.” She’s at Cornell Medical Center as I type this. I told her I’d accompany her back home but I’m being spared that horror, thank heavens. I feel awful for her but it’s disgusting to hear about it in such graphic detail. I’m completely turned off. She said I could stop by later today but I’m wondering if she’ll be too out of it to receive guests.

Bonnie is sick. Joan only wants me to look at an apartment in Chelsea that I can’t afford. Klinger is in Miami. Colleen wants to see me, but I think she’s getting the wrong ideas. Cindy is in Arizona. I haven’t heard from Jennifer. I can only see Laura if I pay for everything and I’m broke. That leaves a city full of strangers. And my cats.

September 2

Bonnie got back from the hospital late last night and sounded awful so I didn’t visit. She’s going to be okay, thank God. Hemorrhoids. What the fuck is a hemorrhoid, anyway? Remind me to look it up later. Her doctor thought it might be colon cancer. They knocked her out with nitrous oxide, lucky duck. I’ll bet they didn’t have go to the Key Foods and empty all the Reddi-wip canisters, like I have to. I’m happy she’s okay but all I can picture is blood flowing out of her ass. I don’t think I can sleep with her again. Maybe if she goes down on me I’ll be okay. We’ll see.

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Quite the charmer, wasn’t I? I’ve created a new category for my other journal entries, but THIS ONE is the best of the bunch so far. It’s amazing how you walk around thinking nothing is happening when the truth is you’re having the time of your life.

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Another big blankey of snow this week. No surprise there. On Tuesday, I heard Irish author Roddy Doyle read from his new novel (and got a signed first edition, OF COURSE). He said the Irish winter he left behind was typically cold, wet and gray. He’s absolutely thrilled with the snow. Wait until he tries to fly out. See how much he likes it then. Here are some shots of Central Park. See…it ain’t all bad.

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Of CBGB’s and the way-back machine

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journalsA while back, I unearthed a plastic bin filled with journals I kept when I first moved to New York as a confounded young boy. Thousands of hand-written and typed pages. I had forgotten about them and their reappearance knocked me on my ass. Looking back, it’s astonishing how naïve I was in the ways of love and life. But I suppose that’s a claim we can all make.

Occasionally, I’ll arbitrarily pick a book, crack it open, and post what’s within. It’s surprising how entertaining the seemingly mundane can be. Well…entertaining to ME, anyway. Admittedly, I have a bias. Caveat: I offer these unedited and make no excuses or offer any apologies for the offensive material and coarse language. I wasn’t a fully-formed human being yet and it shows.

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August 23, 1992

I’m miserable, bored, lonely and tired of all the rejection. I’m sick of not having any friends. Sometimes, I stare into the mirror for a long time to see if I can see what’s wrong with me. Fuck this town. But moving isn’t the answer, either. I’m better off bored and lonely here than bored and lonely someplace else.

Last Wednesday I walked over to CBGB’s because both Austin and Cindy’s bands were playing on the same night. How convenient is that? I hate walking into that place alone. There’s Cindy’s band clique and there’s Austin’s band clique and I don’t feel particularly welcome by either one, so I sat at the bar alone. I think they all think I’m creepy. And sitting at the bar drinking alone exacerbates my creepiness. I looked like the house leper. I ended up staring at Hilly Kristal all evening and if there’s anyone in that joint who’s creepy it’s THAT GUY, not me. Cindy said he’s a cheap bastard who doesn’t pay the bands, even though he charges a cover. He considers it a privilege to play there. Fuck, Hilly, it might have been a privilege in 1979, but it ain’t no more. Pay the fucking bands, man.

[Note: CBGB closed in 2006. The site is now a John Varvatos boutique, which makes me deeply sad.]

At least Cindy and Austin were happy to see me. Cindy’s kind of ordinary looking, but when she’s on stage playing her bass I want to rip her clothes off and ravage that flat chest of hers. Girls who play bass are HOT. Today, we rode our bikes to the park and sat in the grass. It was nice out and even though she didn’t get back from a gig until early this morning and looked like a corpse, I tried to kiss her anyway. She started to but pushed me off and said to stop because I have a girlfriend, meaning Bonnie, which isn’t really true. We rode to an outdoor cafe and had a couple bottles of beer, which I paid for.

We rode back to Cindy’s apartment and there was a big Puerto Rican street festival in front of the Nuyorican Poets Cafe. Her bedroom window was right above the stage so we had a perfect view of the bands and beautiful Latina dancers. There was a huge 12-piece orchestra with a big horn section. We sat on her fire escape and drank beers (which, again, I paid for). Even though I made a failed pass as her, there was no tension between us, which can sometimes happen. We enjoy each others company. I was drunk when I left and let me tell you something, riding a bike down Church Street into oncoming traffic with a beer buzz no fun.

Last Friday I was supposed to go to the laundromat but Bonnie called so I took the N train uptown instead. I don’t recall the exact sequence of events but eventually we wound up in bed. I exhibited an almost bizarre degree of control. First fast and then slow. She said slow was driving her crazy. I have no idea how I was able to hold out but I did. I never finished because I didn’t have a rubber. She, on the other hand, had a tremendous orgasm. Afterwards, we walked to the Evergreen Diner and I was laughing because she could barely walk. It’s just a few blocks away and when we were done eating, she told me she had to take a cab home because she still couldn’t walk. I started laughing and she got really mad at me, so now we’re on hiatus. Way to go, Mr. Sensitive.

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The Bryant Park Hotel and Empire State with holiday lights.
Wednesday, December 18, 8:45 p.m.

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The New York Times with taxi cabs.
Wednesday, December 18, 9:05 p.m.