New York Scribbles
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mccutcheon
- New York Scribbler
- Posts: 4996
- Joined: Tue Oct 03, 2000 8:01 am
- Location: NYC
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mccutcheon
- New York Scribbler
- Posts: 4996
- Joined: Tue Oct 03, 2000 8:01 am
- Location: NYC
- Contact:
RA & GP but Kyle and McCutcheon as well
Last night I hear that these girls were like Ryan Adams is an asshole. I was like baby who isn't. 20 minutes of pussy lickin' for the next bump. My blues eyes always get me in trouble and get me laid and it is all Grahm Parsons. and love and I ain't a whore and I had a real good time. and you missed us gettin' high. And all the music was great. I det it you see. it is all about the music. Read my third novel.
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mccutcheon
- New York Scribbler
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The Fabulous Fifth Borough.
If you only know me from NYC Scribbles you might be wondering what I actually do, I mean besides walking around New York drunk and swimming in the East River. It could seem like I don't work at all. But that's not the case. I work all the time.
I have three jobs:
I write. I do this job for great satisfaction and little pay. I have to do it. No choice in the matter.
I DJ. I do this job for slightly less satisfaction, even though it helps me get laid, and meager pay. I really like to do this job.
I market research for films. I do this job for little to meager satisfaction and slightly more pay. And trust me, it's not a job that gets the juices of the opposite sex flowing. I need this job so I can live in Manhattan and write and buy records. I actually work for a great company. It's just the work itself that sometimes gets me down. I'm not complaining because if I couldn't stand it I'd do something else.
Put all the jobs together and most months I can pay the rent.
My latest market research task has been to open a new location at a movie theatre in Staten Island. The market research I do involves movie commercials and trailers and setting up new locations in the city in which to conduct interviews. In the last six years I've done this job in Seattle and Arizona. Now I'm doing it in New York. If you've been to the movies at Union Sq or Astoria you have probably seen the kiosks I've set up.
So that's how I ended up in Staten Island seeing parts of New York I never wished to see. As I sat on the ferry and looked out at the Statue of Liberty and watched the U.S. Cost Guard boat with its mounted machine gun follow us like a dolphin out to sea, I thought this isn't so bad. It's a new NYC adventure. And I thought of Spalding Gray and his last stand. Or jump. Riding this ferry was the last thing he did.
Unfortunately, the movie theatre isn't located right next to the St. George terminal. Oh no, it's another 45-minute rambling bus ride along Richmond Terrace. And while the journey briefly allows a good view of the Manhattan skyline it is quickly replaced with run down auto shops and industrial waste.
It's moments like this I'm aware that I have no soul and that I'm working for the man. I'm a person Bill Hicks would have hated. My job is to try to sell shitty movies. I went to film school in Paris, France for fucks sake and now I'm sitting on a bus in Satan Island riding to Hell. The most depressing aspect of the situation is that I know that life could be better, that I have tried to live an artistic lifestyle; I even have Oscar Wilde along for the ride.
I don't have the talent to change my circumstance. I'm just another mediocre loser. I'm no better than all the people who never believed in me. I haven't climbed the mountain out of the heap and amounted to anything.
I'm working on my third novel. This gives me a personal resolve. The fact that at the moment I haven't an agent or publisher and no one will ever read it saddens me. If someone dumps a bunch of trash on an isolated part of Staten Island but no one is there to witness it does that trash still exist?
I look around the bus. Not only am I the only one reading The Picture of Dorian Gray but I also seem to be the only one who is literate. I think I'm judging my common man too harshly when a few black kids get on. I watch them sit down and listen to them talk. At first I can't put my finger on why they stick out. Then I realize it is the way they talk and the way they are dressed. They don't curse and their pants are less baggy than my own. These are not the kids I'm used to seeing in the Bronx and Brooklyn. They remind of the studious Africans I once saw debating politics in East Berlin before the wall came down. Except ya know, they probably aren't card-carrying communists. Bill Cosby should meet these kids. I don't remember ever seeing young people so well behaved.
Where am I? I look out the window. And something else is very strange. I'm going through an uneasy Twilight Zone experience. I realize there are no Yellow Cabs. I start to panic. Where in the fuck are the taxis? How in the name of all that is New York am I going to escape from here?
Well, I've spent a lot of time out in Staten Island the last few weeks. The kids riding the bus haven't always been so well behaved, if you want a taxi you have to call one of these town cars, and they pick anyone else up along the way, sometimes making me miss the ferry back into the city.
The ferry is the best thing about the whole trip. Returning to Manhattan at night is almost breathtaking with all the lights, there are a lot of cute European tourists, and it has my favorite restaurant. I can get a sandwich and an oilcan size Fosters beer for under ten bucks. And like I said, you can't beat the view.
Did I mention the ferry ride is free?
I have three jobs:
I write. I do this job for great satisfaction and little pay. I have to do it. No choice in the matter.
I DJ. I do this job for slightly less satisfaction, even though it helps me get laid, and meager pay. I really like to do this job.
I market research for films. I do this job for little to meager satisfaction and slightly more pay. And trust me, it's not a job that gets the juices of the opposite sex flowing. I need this job so I can live in Manhattan and write and buy records. I actually work for a great company. It's just the work itself that sometimes gets me down. I'm not complaining because if I couldn't stand it I'd do something else.
Put all the jobs together and most months I can pay the rent.
My latest market research task has been to open a new location at a movie theatre in Staten Island. The market research I do involves movie commercials and trailers and setting up new locations in the city in which to conduct interviews. In the last six years I've done this job in Seattle and Arizona. Now I'm doing it in New York. If you've been to the movies at Union Sq or Astoria you have probably seen the kiosks I've set up.
So that's how I ended up in Staten Island seeing parts of New York I never wished to see. As I sat on the ferry and looked out at the Statue of Liberty and watched the U.S. Cost Guard boat with its mounted machine gun follow us like a dolphin out to sea, I thought this isn't so bad. It's a new NYC adventure. And I thought of Spalding Gray and his last stand. Or jump. Riding this ferry was the last thing he did.
Unfortunately, the movie theatre isn't located right next to the St. George terminal. Oh no, it's another 45-minute rambling bus ride along Richmond Terrace. And while the journey briefly allows a good view of the Manhattan skyline it is quickly replaced with run down auto shops and industrial waste.
It's moments like this I'm aware that I have no soul and that I'm working for the man. I'm a person Bill Hicks would have hated. My job is to try to sell shitty movies. I went to film school in Paris, France for fucks sake and now I'm sitting on a bus in Satan Island riding to Hell. The most depressing aspect of the situation is that I know that life could be better, that I have tried to live an artistic lifestyle; I even have Oscar Wilde along for the ride.
I don't have the talent to change my circumstance. I'm just another mediocre loser. I'm no better than all the people who never believed in me. I haven't climbed the mountain out of the heap and amounted to anything.
I'm working on my third novel. This gives me a personal resolve. The fact that at the moment I haven't an agent or publisher and no one will ever read it saddens me. If someone dumps a bunch of trash on an isolated part of Staten Island but no one is there to witness it does that trash still exist?
I look around the bus. Not only am I the only one reading The Picture of Dorian Gray but I also seem to be the only one who is literate. I think I'm judging my common man too harshly when a few black kids get on. I watch them sit down and listen to them talk. At first I can't put my finger on why they stick out. Then I realize it is the way they talk and the way they are dressed. They don't curse and their pants are less baggy than my own. These are not the kids I'm used to seeing in the Bronx and Brooklyn. They remind of the studious Africans I once saw debating politics in East Berlin before the wall came down. Except ya know, they probably aren't card-carrying communists. Bill Cosby should meet these kids. I don't remember ever seeing young people so well behaved.
Where am I? I look out the window. And something else is very strange. I'm going through an uneasy Twilight Zone experience. I realize there are no Yellow Cabs. I start to panic. Where in the fuck are the taxis? How in the name of all that is New York am I going to escape from here?
Well, I've spent a lot of time out in Staten Island the last few weeks. The kids riding the bus haven't always been so well behaved, if you want a taxi you have to call one of these town cars, and they pick anyone else up along the way, sometimes making me miss the ferry back into the city.
The ferry is the best thing about the whole trip. Returning to Manhattan at night is almost breathtaking with all the lights, there are a lot of cute European tourists, and it has my favorite restaurant. I can get a sandwich and an oilcan size Fosters beer for under ten bucks. And like I said, you can't beat the view.
Did I mention the ferry ride is free?
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mccutcheon
- New York Scribbler
- Posts: 4996
- Joined: Tue Oct 03, 2000 8:01 am
- Location: NYC
- Contact:
Part of an email to my boss re: Hiring SI
Distance. Somewhere in a galaxy far, far, away:
Planes, trains and automobiles? Not quite. More like subways, boats and buses. The Staten Island site feels closer to Dorothy's Kansas than it does Manhattan. We are hiring people who live in the area. One girl said to me, “I live in the trailer park across the street.� I said, “You start tomorrow.�
Planes, trains and automobiles? Not quite. More like subways, boats and buses. The Staten Island site feels closer to Dorothy's Kansas than it does Manhattan. We are hiring people who live in the area. One girl said to me, “I live in the trailer park across the street.� I said, “You start tomorrow.�
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mccutcheon
- New York Scribbler
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- Joined: Tue Oct 03, 2000 8:01 am
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Anything but coherent on a cold day.
“Do you want it to be good or do you want it to be great?� So starts the conversation with my editor. We have already realized that we are a team that works. I'm the messy, sloppy, artistic genius, yeah for me! And he is the controlling technical freak with the brilliant eye for detail. He said that the actors don't do the script justice. He wants professionals. That's the best and worst news I've heard. It's great that he loves the script that much. And we have grandiose plans. After this we are going to shoot three- thirty minuters, and than a feature. In my dreams, and only if all goes well. But hey, they are already written. And now I finally have the people I need.
But it's too bad he called when I was enjoying a few libations during Monday Night Football. I sorta made a flippant remark of getting Kelso from That 70's Show and now he is all excited. I'm going back to Wisconsin for Christmas. Kelso might be around. I think we will have to go with what we have. Now I have to go shoot the sky for five hours, because my editor is going to compress it into ten seconds. How in the hell am I ever going to do a feature if I can't even get this done? And it is fuckin' cold out there.
The seasons in New York are as severe as the city itself. It's November and the temperature is falling like the dead leaves from the barren trees. It's gone from cool to cold. Last night it got as low as 32 degrees. That's freezing in Celsius speak. Brrrr. Time to snuggle under the covers with some warm body.
It's hard to believe that only a few short months ago I was heatstroke'd and sweat drenched. I was taking five showers a day with the H dial on off and the C dial turned all the way on, and walking around my apartment naked. Now I don't feel like taking a shower at all and when I do I jump right into my towel and tip toe around. This summer I was perched in front of the computer watching the air conditioner spurt stale brown air. That was then, this is now.
It's time to bundle up. I like to wear sweaters and heavy coats and hats and scarves. I like hot coco and Bailey's Irish Cream. (Sometimes for breakfast.) I like to walk into Katz's delicatessen and order Matzo Ball soup or Mee's and get the Hot & Sour. And I can't understand why the girls I'm meeting don't hang around for more than a week when tis the time for my famous fondue. It probably has something to do with the Baileys in the morning.
I have a bunch of albums that I don't play that much anymore but when the chill starts to set in it's hard to go wrong with U2's Unforgettable Fire, Tom Wait's Blue Valentine, New Order's Power, Corruption and Lies, and of course the Pogues' Fairy Tale of New York. Build me a fire, and I'll let you come inside.
Now I'm off to my roof to shoot the sky. Anyone want to keep me company, and warm? Just think: that's where Tour starts and he is in his skivvies watching beads of sweat trickle down Manhattan's hottest cleavage.
One of the first songs I ever wrote when I used to be in bands. For more on that read the story Smokin' Black Crack with Shaun Ryder:
Went for a walk on a very cold day/ met a man who had something to say/ I asked him his name and he told me Jesus/ you know what I thought I couldn't believe this/ so I'm walking with Jesus and he is talking to me/ telling me what's gonna happen, what's gonna be/ he said you fucked it up, you're all going down/ I looked up to him but he didn't frown.
Chorus:
Jesus we're sorry
Jesus we're sorry
Sorry Jesus
Jesus we're sorry.
And this song was written 15 years before the election if you can believe it. I can't.
But it's too bad he called when I was enjoying a few libations during Monday Night Football. I sorta made a flippant remark of getting Kelso from That 70's Show and now he is all excited. I'm going back to Wisconsin for Christmas. Kelso might be around. I think we will have to go with what we have. Now I have to go shoot the sky for five hours, because my editor is going to compress it into ten seconds. How in the hell am I ever going to do a feature if I can't even get this done? And it is fuckin' cold out there.
The seasons in New York are as severe as the city itself. It's November and the temperature is falling like the dead leaves from the barren trees. It's gone from cool to cold. Last night it got as low as 32 degrees. That's freezing in Celsius speak. Brrrr. Time to snuggle under the covers with some warm body.
It's hard to believe that only a few short months ago I was heatstroke'd and sweat drenched. I was taking five showers a day with the H dial on off and the C dial turned all the way on, and walking around my apartment naked. Now I don't feel like taking a shower at all and when I do I jump right into my towel and tip toe around. This summer I was perched in front of the computer watching the air conditioner spurt stale brown air. That was then, this is now.
It's time to bundle up. I like to wear sweaters and heavy coats and hats and scarves. I like hot coco and Bailey's Irish Cream. (Sometimes for breakfast.) I like to walk into Katz's delicatessen and order Matzo Ball soup or Mee's and get the Hot & Sour. And I can't understand why the girls I'm meeting don't hang around for more than a week when tis the time for my famous fondue. It probably has something to do with the Baileys in the morning.
I have a bunch of albums that I don't play that much anymore but when the chill starts to set in it's hard to go wrong with U2's Unforgettable Fire, Tom Wait's Blue Valentine, New Order's Power, Corruption and Lies, and of course the Pogues' Fairy Tale of New York. Build me a fire, and I'll let you come inside.
Now I'm off to my roof to shoot the sky. Anyone want to keep me company, and warm? Just think: that's where Tour starts and he is in his skivvies watching beads of sweat trickle down Manhattan's hottest cleavage.
One of the first songs I ever wrote when I used to be in bands. For more on that read the story Smokin' Black Crack with Shaun Ryder:
Went for a walk on a very cold day/ met a man who had something to say/ I asked him his name and he told me Jesus/ you know what I thought I couldn't believe this/ so I'm walking with Jesus and he is talking to me/ telling me what's gonna happen, what's gonna be/ he said you fucked it up, you're all going down/ I looked up to him but he didn't frown.
Chorus:
Jesus we're sorry
Jesus we're sorry
Sorry Jesus
Jesus we're sorry.
And this song was written 15 years before the election if you can believe it. I can't.
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mccutcheon
- New York Scribbler
- Posts: 4996
- Joined: Tue Oct 03, 2000 8:01 am
- Location: NYC
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Me In Bands (taken from my Black Crack story)
What shit. But it is Punk Rock. So go blow your nose.
Before writing took its demon hold of me, like most young boys yearning to get laid, I was in a few bands. I was kicked out of everyone of them. First I was a singer in the short-lived band Bloom. I got loaded on pills and was feeling it at our first and last ever gig. I was Jim Morrison the Lizard King, I had my shirt off, my eyes closed and I was belting it out on the makeshift stage in the drummer's backyard. The crowd of five felt like a packed Hollywood Bowl. I woke up the next morning passed out, still on the stage. I caught a cold form sleeping shirtless outside. Later the drummer said I was belting it out all right, just every notch was an octane octave out of tune. He told me that he was the drummer and that I should leave the pill popping to him. And also, that his mom wanted me to go home.
Next I was a bass player in a band called The Safety Pins. After the third show they started unplugging my Peeve bass from the Peeve amp. Even during my shining moment, when I had a bass solo on Modern English's ‘Melt With You', I wasn't plugged in. The keyboard player handled the solo. I was okay with this because unplugging the amp was what they did to Sid Vicious too, and he's about as huge an icon as they come. Unfortunately, like a lot of famous rockers, he is also dead, dying way too young. When we played a high school graduation in a park one blistering hot afternoon and I puked two gallons of cherry red wine coolers over the first row of young girls with star fucker fluttering eyes I was kicked out again. Parents and teachers were present.
After that I went solo, I retreated to the bedroom, using keyboards and samplers I couldn't use to try to create super dub soul like Outkast's ‘SpottieOttieDopalicious' but I ended up making a mish mash of electronic annoying noise that even Aphex Twin would be scared to listen to. I fired myself and started writing prose.
Before writing took its demon hold of me, like most young boys yearning to get laid, I was in a few bands. I was kicked out of everyone of them. First I was a singer in the short-lived band Bloom. I got loaded on pills and was feeling it at our first and last ever gig. I was Jim Morrison the Lizard King, I had my shirt off, my eyes closed and I was belting it out on the makeshift stage in the drummer's backyard. The crowd of five felt like a packed Hollywood Bowl. I woke up the next morning passed out, still on the stage. I caught a cold form sleeping shirtless outside. Later the drummer said I was belting it out all right, just every notch was an octane octave out of tune. He told me that he was the drummer and that I should leave the pill popping to him. And also, that his mom wanted me to go home.
Next I was a bass player in a band called The Safety Pins. After the third show they started unplugging my Peeve bass from the Peeve amp. Even during my shining moment, when I had a bass solo on Modern English's ‘Melt With You', I wasn't plugged in. The keyboard player handled the solo. I was okay with this because unplugging the amp was what they did to Sid Vicious too, and he's about as huge an icon as they come. Unfortunately, like a lot of famous rockers, he is also dead, dying way too young. When we played a high school graduation in a park one blistering hot afternoon and I puked two gallons of cherry red wine coolers over the first row of young girls with star fucker fluttering eyes I was kicked out again. Parents and teachers were present.
After that I went solo, I retreated to the bedroom, using keyboards and samplers I couldn't use to try to create super dub soul like Outkast's ‘SpottieOttieDopalicious' but I ended up making a mish mash of electronic annoying noise that even Aphex Twin would be scared to listen to. I fired myself and started writing prose.
Last edited by mccutcheon on Wed Nov 10, 2004 2:21 am, edited 3 times in total.
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mccutcheon
- New York Scribbler
- Posts: 4996
- Joined: Tue Oct 03, 2000 8:01 am
- Location: NYC
- Contact:
I'm a sad sap.
So I got this email today from my brother who lives in China. And it's a nice email. But what breaks my heart is that he sent it out to all his friends and he only had like 4 addresses. And it made me fuckin' cry. Anyway if anyone wants to send him an email, tell him I sent you. I think he'd love it. He can't write like me, who can? But he likes his drink.
hi all,
my new address is z88bjing@yahoo.com
today has been a good day. it started with a lunch in my honor. a guy that wanted to drink with me invited me to his company. we started drinking at noon in beijing, which is about 3am in the states depending on what coast
you're on. there was 8 of us. 4 of us had our own bottles of liquor (they were small bottles=200ml but very strong at 67%)then we started drinkin beer. i;m still awake, somehow, after a long lunch. i just wanted to let
you all know i have a new and separate address. i'd like to hear from you all. i don't really know whats happening in the US. if you have any interesting news, i'ld love to hear it. i gotta go , but hope to hear from all of you
zac
hi all,
my new address is z88bjing@yahoo.com
today has been a good day. it started with a lunch in my honor. a guy that wanted to drink with me invited me to his company. we started drinking at noon in beijing, which is about 3am in the states depending on what coast
you're on. there was 8 of us. 4 of us had our own bottles of liquor (they were small bottles=200ml but very strong at 67%)then we started drinkin beer. i;m still awake, somehow, after a long lunch. i just wanted to let
you all know i have a new and separate address. i'd like to hear from you all. i don't really know whats happening in the US. if you have any interesting news, i'ld love to hear it. i gotta go , but hope to hear from all of you
zac
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mccutcheon
- New York Scribbler
- Posts: 4996
- Joined: Tue Oct 03, 2000 8:01 am
- Location: NYC
- Contact:
Up the Ass --A different version of it all
Since it seems I'm the only fuck head who posts anymore I'm putting it everywhere. It's not the truth and nothing but the truth. But it is my truth.
I'm watching the new Stepford Wives. This is a movie I personally worked on. I hate the Hollywood remake, but this thing is so far from the original they should have had the balls to call it something else. And I gotta say it is actually good. And the first half of the film is predominantly about Artistic Misfit Idealists, NYC, Television, The Septic Tank of America, Jews, Gays, and Love.
The second half of the film is all about how Americans are all robots and sheep asleep to the outside world, and that they don't know what is good for them, or how they kill and are detested, and how all Americans care about is image, money, status, wealth, money, and money.
No wonder it didn't do well in the theatre.
Think about it, this is a film that makes fun of gay Republicans. To para-frizzle-prahse they say a Gay Republican is like a gay guy purposely having a bad haircut. And I remember a time when Tom said he was gonna vote for W. I'm so glad that we have slept together and that I love him. Because only when you have had man meat inside of you banging away, and then after the boy is nice enough to cuddle, can you truly forgive him. I forgive you Tom and can't wait to slip my tongue deep into your mouth and anus. This Thanksgiving as we rejoice in genocide slaughter I will be ridding Tom's drumstick all the way to the Bible belt.
America. Land that I love. Why do you hate people? Well, you have spoken and it is just too bad for you. You have a potty mouth and your shit stinks. I will not be giving you kisses or a ream job. Thanks for sodomizing it all up for the kids.
I write this a few days after the last election and learning 11 Americans died in Iraq today and that the 'insurgets' are going after civilians, which I leaned on the internet is in the 100 of thousands and that bit of information never made it on the national news.
It's time for Johnny Cash's version of Hurt. JC is the only country singer to ever talk against the Vietnam War. Tonight is the new country awards and I don't give a Faith Hill tit (even though she is good in SW- nice tie in McCutcheon, thanks mate) for a breath of Johnny.
I'm watching the new Stepford Wives. This is a movie I personally worked on. I hate the Hollywood remake, but this thing is so far from the original they should have had the balls to call it something else. And I gotta say it is actually good. And the first half of the film is predominantly about Artistic Misfit Idealists, NYC, Television, The Septic Tank of America, Jews, Gays, and Love.
The second half of the film is all about how Americans are all robots and sheep asleep to the outside world, and that they don't know what is good for them, or how they kill and are detested, and how all Americans care about is image, money, status, wealth, money, and money.
No wonder it didn't do well in the theatre.
Think about it, this is a film that makes fun of gay Republicans. To para-frizzle-prahse they say a Gay Republican is like a gay guy purposely having a bad haircut. And I remember a time when Tom said he was gonna vote for W. I'm so glad that we have slept together and that I love him. Because only when you have had man meat inside of you banging away, and then after the boy is nice enough to cuddle, can you truly forgive him. I forgive you Tom and can't wait to slip my tongue deep into your mouth and anus. This Thanksgiving as we rejoice in genocide slaughter I will be ridding Tom's drumstick all the way to the Bible belt.
America. Land that I love. Why do you hate people? Well, you have spoken and it is just too bad for you. You have a potty mouth and your shit stinks. I will not be giving you kisses or a ream job. Thanks for sodomizing it all up for the kids.
I write this a few days after the last election and learning 11 Americans died in Iraq today and that the 'insurgets' are going after civilians, which I leaned on the internet is in the 100 of thousands and that bit of information never made it on the national news.
It's time for Johnny Cash's version of Hurt. JC is the only country singer to ever talk against the Vietnam War. Tonight is the new country awards and I don't give a Faith Hill tit (even though she is good in SW- nice tie in McCutcheon, thanks mate) for a breath of Johnny.
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mccutcheon
- New York Scribbler
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God made me liberal and lovely, thank God.
Many people might wonder how I turned out this way. Why I disagree with the majority of Americans when it comes to morality. The people who voted for Bush think it is morally right to lie, start wars and kill innocent civilians. It is a fact that that is what Bush did. The people who voted for Bush have no problem with this fact. Is there blood on their hands? I think so, but what the hell do I know. I mean people are people. Live and let live. The people who voted for Bush think it is morally wrong to let all God's children wed. I say straight, gay, who cares? It's a fucked institution anyway.
So how did a country boy from Wisconsin turn out this way? Maybe it was just the way God made me. Or maybe it was the Hicksville liberalisms I picked up along the way in the high school gym locker. There were a lot of insightful gems to be learned from the boys flicking towels at my bare ass and trying to give me swirlies. But I have to hand it to them; no political issue was off limits.
The future farmers of America on racism: Black, white? They are all pink on the inside.
The future factory workers of America on homosexuality: As long as some faggot doesn't try to fuck me in the ass. More chicks for me.
Smart guys.
So what did those teenage boys know that the rest of the country still doesn't get? Crude or not, it all comes down to love.
Hell, what do I know? I don't even know why I go all ape shit whenever I see a pretty girl. Maybe that's the way god made me. Last night while I was DJing this pretty girl was sitting there sipping a beer. And I was in my prime behind the decks with the light just right and my cheek bones and blue eyes caught her attention and we were sharing those glances. Those looks you live for. Her friends were all over my music boxes and giving me compliments. But it was her that I couldn't take my eye off. And then they left, and the place got packed, and Tom came with friends, and I was asked to DJ a birthday party next weekend for $500 bucks for three hours work and still all I thought of was her.
Now it is the next day and I'm drinking beer and watching the movie Jackass and the Pack plays the biggest game of the season in a few hours and I got to get focused. But nope. It's all about that pretty girl. I'm gonna get my heart broken soon and it won't be a pretty thing. But that is the way god made me.
So how did a country boy from Wisconsin turn out this way? Maybe it was just the way God made me. Or maybe it was the Hicksville liberalisms I picked up along the way in the high school gym locker. There were a lot of insightful gems to be learned from the boys flicking towels at my bare ass and trying to give me swirlies. But I have to hand it to them; no political issue was off limits.
The future farmers of America on racism: Black, white? They are all pink on the inside.
The future factory workers of America on homosexuality: As long as some faggot doesn't try to fuck me in the ass. More chicks for me.
Smart guys.
So what did those teenage boys know that the rest of the country still doesn't get? Crude or not, it all comes down to love.
Hell, what do I know? I don't even know why I go all ape shit whenever I see a pretty girl. Maybe that's the way god made me. Last night while I was DJing this pretty girl was sitting there sipping a beer. And I was in my prime behind the decks with the light just right and my cheek bones and blue eyes caught her attention and we were sharing those glances. Those looks you live for. Her friends were all over my music boxes and giving me compliments. But it was her that I couldn't take my eye off. And then they left, and the place got packed, and Tom came with friends, and I was asked to DJ a birthday party next weekend for $500 bucks for three hours work and still all I thought of was her.
Now it is the next day and I'm drinking beer and watching the movie Jackass and the Pack plays the biggest game of the season in a few hours and I got to get focused. But nope. It's all about that pretty girl. I'm gonna get my heart broken soon and it won't be a pretty thing. But that is the way god made me.
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mccutcheon
- New York Scribbler
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- Joined: Tue Oct 03, 2000 8:01 am
- Location: NYC
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Saturday Night – Sunday Morning, Sunday Afternoon, Sunday
This weekend I was on a roll.
I've been hanging out with this girl and we were talking about our past. We have a lot in common. She used to party out in LA and would often end up in Vegas or Maui after a three-day bender and had no idea how she got there. Or how she was getting home. Being a beautiful girl she mostly made it.
Sloth, Danielle and I once got arrested on Air France before takeoff when we were off our tits. We had bought 3 first-class, one-way tickets, at Sea-Tac Airport on Slothies dad's credit card. And we would have made it to Paris, if Sloth hadn't dropped his pants and pissed in the cockpit. In his defense you can understand when blind drunk he had honestly mistaken it for the toilet.
So this girl and I were comparing hedonistic horror stories and talking about life, like now, as we know it today. She is 30 and looks absolutely stunning; where as I'm now a bit pudgy and weathered. But we weren't talking about bodies. We were talking about minds and mental health and if all the drink and drugs fucked our futures and chance at happiness. She asked the last time I felt good. Or more to the point how often do I just feel good, like well at ease, while sober and straight. I said I get about 15-30 seconds once a month.
If you can't beat ‘em join ‘em.
So Saturday Night was the most fun I've had Djing in NYC. 12� Bar was packed to capacity. The place was heaving, bodies were dirty dancing and I was getting high fives and pretty girls were smiling at me like they wanted to take me home and get naked, Tom came with his friends and everyone was having a good time. I got job offers and kisses of seduction. I ended the night with my actors and I sitting around the table in the closed bar, drinking it dry for free, while Shaun Ryder's Amateur Night In The Big Top played in its entirety at top volume. Went home and as the sun came up I watched Something About Mary. Only downer was I missed my Sunday morning soccer game in East River Park. But you gotta make allowances for the rock and roll.
Sunday mid morning it's a beer and Kris Kristofferson's Sunday Morning Coming Down. Though today wasn't about nursing a hangover. The Pack was playing for first place. I went down to Ryan's for a few Guinness. Had a chat with Shannon my favorite waitress in the city (and the reason I use the name Shannon in Tour) and then I head farther down 2nd Ave and this punk rock store is going out of business. It's a mad dash hand-grab; the owners had a party the night before and were still drinking and giving things away for almost free. I got Van Morrison, Dr. John and FGTH's Two Tribes 12� for fifty cents and the real kicker- the Ramones' End of the Century for a buck in mint condition.
After I went to the Gimmie Gimmie record store on 5th street, where fuck me, I got Galaxie 500, Happy Mondays, Joy Division and Pale Saints records I didn't have. Anyone who likes Air's Moon Safari should check out Pale Saint's Kinky Love. Those French boys ripped that whole album off from that one Pale Saints song. I don't mind because stealing from the originals is what the best musicians do. And I appreciate the time and place of when records come out. I'm a musical historyologist.
Then I went to Nice Guy Eddie's on Ave A. and Houston. There weren't that many chicks in the bar, but the best-looking girl was this waifish model type named Shelly from Oshkosh, Wisconsin. A handmade knit Packer sweater dwarfed her tiny frame. She is a friend with Josh Hartnett, the actor who got to do that film 40 Days and 40 Nights with Shannyn Sossamon- a girl I have a big crush on.
Josh was supporting the Vikings. After the last second wining field goal when Ryan Longwell kicked it long and well Shelly bought me drinks and Josh grabbed me and said that those last three calls were utter bullshit. I was a drunken asshole and told him that his Purple People Eaters are choke monsters. I mentioned last season. He was like fuck man that's not cool. I felt bad for him. But ya know not that bad for him. He is a beautiful bastard who is in the movies and gets to kiss beautiful actresses. Still, after a win like this I wouldn't change places.
As I staggered home, after the waitress asked for my phone number and gave me most of my drinks for free, I thought ‘Hmmm.' Maybe I do like myself. LIFE IS SO FUCKIN' GREAT. I started singing a song I wrote:
Johnny's in the pub watching football/ drinking pints of lager/ his bird Sylvia hopes his team wins/ so the shag that night will be better.
Someone yelled at me to shut the fuck up but I didn't listen.
Then I woke up Monday morning. Ah shit. Back to reality.
I've been hanging out with this girl and we were talking about our past. We have a lot in common. She used to party out in LA and would often end up in Vegas or Maui after a three-day bender and had no idea how she got there. Or how she was getting home. Being a beautiful girl she mostly made it.
Sloth, Danielle and I once got arrested on Air France before takeoff when we were off our tits. We had bought 3 first-class, one-way tickets, at Sea-Tac Airport on Slothies dad's credit card. And we would have made it to Paris, if Sloth hadn't dropped his pants and pissed in the cockpit. In his defense you can understand when blind drunk he had honestly mistaken it for the toilet.
So this girl and I were comparing hedonistic horror stories and talking about life, like now, as we know it today. She is 30 and looks absolutely stunning; where as I'm now a bit pudgy and weathered. But we weren't talking about bodies. We were talking about minds and mental health and if all the drink and drugs fucked our futures and chance at happiness. She asked the last time I felt good. Or more to the point how often do I just feel good, like well at ease, while sober and straight. I said I get about 15-30 seconds once a month.
If you can't beat ‘em join ‘em.
So Saturday Night was the most fun I've had Djing in NYC. 12� Bar was packed to capacity. The place was heaving, bodies were dirty dancing and I was getting high fives and pretty girls were smiling at me like they wanted to take me home and get naked, Tom came with his friends and everyone was having a good time. I got job offers and kisses of seduction. I ended the night with my actors and I sitting around the table in the closed bar, drinking it dry for free, while Shaun Ryder's Amateur Night In The Big Top played in its entirety at top volume. Went home and as the sun came up I watched Something About Mary. Only downer was I missed my Sunday morning soccer game in East River Park. But you gotta make allowances for the rock and roll.
Sunday mid morning it's a beer and Kris Kristofferson's Sunday Morning Coming Down. Though today wasn't about nursing a hangover. The Pack was playing for first place. I went down to Ryan's for a few Guinness. Had a chat with Shannon my favorite waitress in the city (and the reason I use the name Shannon in Tour) and then I head farther down 2nd Ave and this punk rock store is going out of business. It's a mad dash hand-grab; the owners had a party the night before and were still drinking and giving things away for almost free. I got Van Morrison, Dr. John and FGTH's Two Tribes 12� for fifty cents and the real kicker- the Ramones' End of the Century for a buck in mint condition.
After I went to the Gimmie Gimmie record store on 5th street, where fuck me, I got Galaxie 500, Happy Mondays, Joy Division and Pale Saints records I didn't have. Anyone who likes Air's Moon Safari should check out Pale Saint's Kinky Love. Those French boys ripped that whole album off from that one Pale Saints song. I don't mind because stealing from the originals is what the best musicians do. And I appreciate the time and place of when records come out. I'm a musical historyologist.
Then I went to Nice Guy Eddie's on Ave A. and Houston. There weren't that many chicks in the bar, but the best-looking girl was this waifish model type named Shelly from Oshkosh, Wisconsin. A handmade knit Packer sweater dwarfed her tiny frame. She is a friend with Josh Hartnett, the actor who got to do that film 40 Days and 40 Nights with Shannyn Sossamon- a girl I have a big crush on.
Josh was supporting the Vikings. After the last second wining field goal when Ryan Longwell kicked it long and well Shelly bought me drinks and Josh grabbed me and said that those last three calls were utter bullshit. I was a drunken asshole and told him that his Purple People Eaters are choke monsters. I mentioned last season. He was like fuck man that's not cool. I felt bad for him. But ya know not that bad for him. He is a beautiful bastard who is in the movies and gets to kiss beautiful actresses. Still, after a win like this I wouldn't change places.
As I staggered home, after the waitress asked for my phone number and gave me most of my drinks for free, I thought ‘Hmmm.' Maybe I do like myself. LIFE IS SO FUCKIN' GREAT. I started singing a song I wrote:
Johnny's in the pub watching football/ drinking pints of lager/ his bird Sylvia hopes his team wins/ so the shag that night will be better.
Someone yelled at me to shut the fuck up but I didn't listen.
Then I woke up Monday morning. Ah shit. Back to reality.
-
mccutcheon
- New York Scribbler
- Posts: 4996
- Joined: Tue Oct 03, 2000 8:01 am
- Location: NYC
- Contact:
Martio call me
212.979.5776
call me collect. I see you are on line.
call me collect. I see you are on line.
-
mccutcheon
- New York Scribbler
- Posts: 4996
- Joined: Tue Oct 03, 2000 8:01 am
- Location: NYC
- Contact:
-
mccutcheon
- New York Scribbler
- Posts: 4996
- Joined: Tue Oct 03, 2000 8:01 am
- Location: NYC
- Contact:
down
yesterday i drank green tea and had sex, this morning i wrote 1,000 words on Tour. now i'm coming down alone. that is life. my life. i can live with it. i hope.
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mccutcheon
- New York Scribbler
- Posts: 4996
- Joined: Tue Oct 03, 2000 8:01 am
- Location: NYC
- Contact:
next day will suck again
not a sad bastad -I know I do it to myself. And I can live with it. I hope.
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mccutcheon
- New York Scribbler
- Posts: 4996
- Joined: Tue Oct 03, 2000 8:01 am
- Location: NYC
- Contact:
thanks
I can't go to bed. I can't do anything but listen to music and drink myself to sleep. Thanks to all the people reading this. I'm almost up to 4,000 and it is more you than me. I have the Kinks on right now and I'm out of blow and I love you all. I sit naked and alone. And that is what it is. Jonesing and all that. So I type. Pathetic.