Are you ready for another spin in the time machine? Set the controls for Brooklyn, circa early 1990’s. Fasten your seat belts, bitches.

October 4, 1992

I was standing on the subway platform in Times Square waiting for the uptown A train. I was reading Casino Royal. I love these Bond books. They’re preposterous. In Goldfinger, Bond converts a lesbian named Pussy Galore to heterosexuality with his superior lovemaking skills. Fantastic. So real. Anyway, there’s a scene in Casino Royal where Bond is being tortured. SMERSH operative Le Chiffre ties Bond to a seatless cane chair and repeatedly hits him in the nuts with a big knot of rope. It’s shockingly well-written. As I was reading it, I began sweating and felt myself getting dizzy and nauseous. My head was throbbing and I got tunnel vision. In slow motion, I eased myself into a lying position in the middle of the platform and PASSED OUT.

When I came-to there was a circle of people standing around me staring. Two guys helped me onto a bench. Another guy handed me my backpack. A woman, thinking I might be diabetic, gave me a piece of candy. Initially, I thought everyone was just gawking but that wasn’t the case. They were all genuinely concerned. I was astonished at how many people helped me. The train arrived and it was pretty crowded. A giant black guy made someone get up out of his seat so I could sit down. I love this town.

I finally took Margaret out. She’s a piece of work. She made some cheap cracks about gays and Jews. I told her I lived in a predominantly black neighborhood and she said, “Why would you do that!? Oh! I know! Because it’s cheap!” She added that she would never, under any circumstances, visit me. She’s Russian and lives with her granny in a one-bedroom apartment in Brighton Beach, so it’s not like I’ll visit her, either. It’s just as well. We don’t seem to have any chemistry. But, Christ, she’s beautiful. Beautiful but stupid.

I took her to Remembrance. It’s an off-Broadway drama about two families in Northern Ireland. It’s got a good cast. Milo O’Shea, Frances Sternhagen and Mia Dillon. I thought it was fine but Margaret was yawning a lot and said it was too long.

Afterwards, we ate at The Riv. We both had sesame chicken. She was so hungry that she ate the ornamental bed of lettuce. It was kind of gross because it was all soggy and waterlogged from soaking in the sesame sauce. She told me her brother is an overly-protective gorilla and interrogates her about her dates. She said, “He still thinks I’m a virgin!” and barked a laugh that was a little too loud. Everyone stared at us. I paid. It was an uncomfortable parting at the subway, as they always are. I wanted to kiss her but I was mad because she insulted my neighborhood. I asked her when I could see her again.

The Ramones were on the Tonight Show. Last week, Morrissey was on. I think they’re trying for a hipper audience. Good luck. I saw an infomercial for, I kid you not, aerosol spray paint for balding men. These bald dudes were sitting in a row of barber chairs and the treatment involved spraying their bald patch with black paint (or whatever color their hair used to be). Then they were sprayed with a finisher. Initially, I thought it was a comedy sketch but it wasn’t. It was serious. Oswaldo came up and the two of us were laughing our assess off.

Speaking of Oswaldo…he drove Ellis and I to the outlet stores in Secaucus. At Harvey Electronics, I told a salesman I had $200 to spend on speakers. He immediately showed me $300 speakers. Why do they do that!? He then showed me some speakers in my price range and I, naturally, bought the $300 speakers.

I love watching Oswaldo and Ellis shop for clothes because they get all bitchy. Ellis wanted a coat at Anthony Marc but Oswaldo wouldn’t let him buy it because it had a big rip down the front. As we were driving away, Ellis said the rip could’ve easily been repaired started complaining that we prevented him from buying the coat. Oswaldo stopped the car in the middle of the road, did a fast, illegal U-turn and said “We’re going back because I don’t want you holding this over us!” Ellis didn’t buy the coat.

It was sunny and crisp outside and Oswaldo said it’d be a good day to toss a football around. Ellis said, “That’s what you guys can get me for Christmas! A football!” Then they went at it.

“What would you do with a football?”
“Hey, I’m a tight end! Wooo!”
“I’ll bet you are. I hear you’re a fast forward, too.”
“That’s right.”
“I’m a wide receiver.”
“Ewwww! Not me! I’m an ineligible receiver!”

This sort of thing goes on all afternoon. I feel bad for people who don’t have gay friends.

When we got back to Brooklyn we ate at a diner that opened in 1936. Oswaldo said he was going to show me a newer place where I can take my “white friends” when they come to Brooklyn.

Reporting on the death of Leonard Nimoy, The New York Post crammed not one, not two, but THREE Star Trek catchphrases into a single headline. How do they do it?

Muffin and Hermes.

I’ve heard people say that being Fresh Pressed isn’t what it used to be, but it made me happy. People who say they write for their own pleasure and don’t give a damn if anyone reads it are bullshit artists. Everyone craves attention. I suddenly find myself with loads of new followers. But do you know what? I’m not convinced they’re all human.

Dear New People:

A big part of my blog are these:

These are journals from when I first moved to New York. I often crack one open and post an entry. In retrospect, it turns out I was having a pretty interesting life, although I didn’t see it at the time. I was too busy being miserable.

November 2, 1992

The election is tomorrow. Clinton has a slight lead but because of the margin of error it’s a statistical dead heat. It’s very exciting. After work, I’ll go to the gym, stop and get a pizza from Sal’s and watch the returns. I think we’re in for four more years of Bush. Christ, I hope not. If Bush wins, just between you and me, I thank God I’m white, middle class and heterosexual, because minorities, the poor and gays will be in for a rough ride. Mom is throwing her vote away on that clown Ross Perot.

I had Friday off. None of my grand ambitions materialized. I played guitar (I actually think I’m getting worse), read the paper, masturbated, took a nap, drank a pot of coffee and played with the cats. I tried reading The Tin Drum by Günter Grass but the font was so small it was giving me a headache. Plus, I didn’t understand it and it was really boring, so I threw it in the garbage. I went to the laundromat. It was packed. Don’t people have jobs?

Finally left the apartment because I had tickets to see Ali, which I’d already seen but is so good that it’s worth a second look. I love one-man shows. They’re either transformational or a train wreck. I can’t decide which I find more entertaining. Klinger came with me. We stopped for a bowl of chili and, my God!, he paid! If only Klinger had a vagina. Cindy offered to pay for the movie next week. What the hell is going on? Maybe the earth passed through the tail of a comet and scrambled everyone’s DNA. I must’ve been indoors because I feel the same.

The play was great (again). We drank at Boxers after. I remember when I used to hang there in my Coast Guard days and it was Jimmy Day’s. It feels like a bunch of assholes bought my bar and made it happy. Sinatra used to drink at Jimmy Day’s. Now it’s like drinking at Kmart.

He told me Mimi stories and surprisingly, it didn’t upset me. The last time I heard her name it gave me a belly ache for a week. I wrote an apology that will never be sent. Klinger is doing a scene with her in front of an agent. I wonder why she picked him? He’s a good guy but shouldn’t she have found an actual actor? Maybe she thinks she’ll look even better in front of someone without any training. Who knows?

I took a train to Princeton to see Karen. What?! Don’t look at me like that! It wasn’t MY idea! SHE called ME. Two and a half years is a long time.

Got to Penn Station early, sat down to read the paper and was harassed by an obnoxious, aggressive homeless woman. I saw it coming. Penn Station is disgusting. Every train should leave from Grand Central. It’s got its share of homeless, but that place is an architectural marvel. Princeton is so beautiful. Do you think any of those students have the proper depth of appreciation for it? Probably not. I got there and thought she stood me up but she was just late. I was left standing alone on the platform and she zoomed up in her red Trans Am.

Lord, she’s pretty. She ditched the stone-washed jeans, which I was happy to see. The prettiest blue eyes you’ll ever see. You can get lost in them and lose the conversation thread if you’re not careful. I hadn’t shaved and she twiddled the whiskers on my chin. It was a nice flirtation.

We ate where it all started. I ordered a mimosa and she had water. She said she stopped drinking, which probably isn’t such a bad idea. She’s still having man problems, but this time with a new one. She broke up with her fiancé after the abortion. The new one is a Marine and she said terrible things about him. I listened. Then I told her how smart and beautiful she is. I told her how much I suffered after our fling and her eyes lit up and she seemed to get a warm glow about her, as though she enjoyed the idea.

We were there longer than I thought we’d be. We went for a walk in town and while in a leather shop I took her hand but it made her uncomfortable so I knocked it off. I told her I needed to get back to the city for the Village Halloween parade so she took me to the train station. We kissed in the car. I have no intention of calling her again. Once you’ve been burned, the mystique evaporates. The kiss was heartfelt but she tasted like cigarettes.

Commuter parking: The tracks of their tears.

This is a replica of the toilet in CBGB’s. It was constructed at the entrance to the PUNK: Chaos to Couture fashion exhibit that was at the Metropolitan Museum of Art a couple of years ago. It’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen in a museum. And I’ve seen PLENTY. As if any of those Couture nitwits would have gone anywhere near CBGB’s in its day.

Prologue for the uninitiated.

If you go to my basement and look under my workbench, behind the Christmas ornaments, you’ll find this:

This is a bin filled with journals from my early years in New York. Hundreds of typed, single-spaced pages and about a dozen hand-written books. I occasionally post an extract. I wasn’t always kind to women (or myself, for that matter). Some of it is a bit graphic. But I make no apologies for who I was back then and I ask you to not judge too harshly. I was just a kid. A seeker on a path. The feedback I get on these posts is humbling. People either really enjoy them or they’re being charitable.

February 27, 1993

Somebody put a huge car bomb in the basement of the World Trade Center yesterday. I can’t tear myself away from the TV coverage. It happened at 12:30 in the afternoon. It detonated on the second level of the parking garage and completely demolished three levels. Seven people died and over 650 were injured.

My primary temp agency is in Two World Trade, which is the tower that sustained the most smoke damage. Good thing I wasn’t there! I don’t have hospitalization! The family called to see if I’d been blown to bits. I hadn’t. This time (ha). I’ve got a gig there next week at Lehman Brothers. I wonder if I’ll have a job to go to?

They have no idea who did it but they suspect Yugoslavian nationalists who are mad at us for dropping relief supplies to the Bosnians, who are at war with the Serbs. Fucking Eastern European douchbags. What if that shit had toppled over? Can you imagine?

Sunrise over Queens and the East River.

I went to a play on the Upper West Side by myself. I didn’t know it, but there was a party for singles after the show. I looked around and everyone seemed to have a friend with them for support. I felt like such a loser for being there alone that I couldn’t concentrate on the performance. The thought of wading through a singles party made me so nauseous that I left during intermission. It’s too bad because this morning the play got a spectacular write-up in The Times and now you can’t get tickets.

Bonnie came over on Valentine’s Day. I made a huge vat of white clam sauce, threw it on linguini and called it dinner. I don’t like white wine but Ellis told me not to serve red. Made out on the couch and Bonnie tasted like white wine. She left around midnight. At 12:30 my phone rang. It was Ann. She called to wish me a happy Valentine’s Day and to congratulate me on my move from Brooklyn to Manhattan. She told me she just met Andre Watts. I have no idea who that is. [Note: I do now.]

Can you imagine that poor old thing still carrying a torch for me after all this time? I think she’s 32 or 35 or something like that. I can’t bring her around to my friends. But she’s a dynamo in bed. She would slather us both with coconut oil and we’d roll around on top of each other like two puppies wrestling. The smell of coconut would permeate the bedroom. Now, I get a hard-on if I eat a macaroon.

She’ll try any position. She’s fearless. Laura told me she’s never had an orgasm but Ann has them ALL THE TIME. Once, while looking out her window and watching the sunset over Central Park, she dropped to her knees and delivered the goods. I didn’t ask for it and wasn’t expecting it.

I didn’t want her to become attached but that’s exactly what happened. I hate it when someone is hurting on account of me. It’s such a waste of their time. I’m not worth it. Calling her would just be an excuse to get back into her Upper East Side king size bed. It would be wrong. [Note: It was wrong, but I did it, anyway.]

Sunset over the Hudson River and New Jersey. Both pics taken from my 50th floor office.

My new apartment is nice but the neighborhood is scary. I hear gunshots almost every night. I was walking down the hall to the elevator and a tiny black mouse ran past me. I could have kicked him into his next life but I let him live. Klinger came for a visit and he was offered works three times before he got to my building. [Note: Works = hypodermic needle and accoutrements for injecting heroin.]

There are more journal entries linked in the Memoir category. But if you want to cut to the chase, this post is my favorite. When I read this, it feels like I’m reading about somebody else’s life. But it’s not. It’s mine.

Hermes.