New York Scribbles

[mccutcheon]

hey to everyone taking the time to read NYC Scribbles. I didn't know how it would turn out, still don't, but it's got over 500 views and I'm the only one typing on this thread, mostly, so that's cool. hope to keep you entertained a bit, ruin your beautiful eyes on a computer monitor instead of the idiot box. cheers. and the milky bars are on me!

[mccutcheon]

Today in New York it is a beautiful Sunday morning. I'm waiting to play soccer in East River Park. But my mood doesn't match the sunny spring weather. I go on line and there is more death. All this killing makes me so sad. Why are we doing this? Because we are there in the first place.

I went to Tara's memorial web site and with tears in my eyes I thought of her and the times we had. How much her death has changed my life. How much I miss her, but even more, how much I miss her missing life. And I am only one person. I'm not her mom, dad, or brothers. I'm not family. I didn't grow up with her. I just loved her.

And Tara's death was a single death, a tragic accident during peace.

And what life is she missing? So much goodness and some bad. Tragedy we wrote. In other parts of the world war rages. The more we kill, the more hate we leave in our wake.

Here is the news--Today in Baghdad, Iraq Marines battled a large force of Iraqi insurgents near the Syrian border Sunday in fighting that killed five Marines. At least 10 Iraqis, including the city police chief, were also killed, according to a hospital official. The police chief was killed by an American sniper.

According to Webster's an 'insurgent' is a person who revolts against civil authority or an established government. Who is the established government? Is the US the established government, they must be if these Iraqi's are rebelling against us. How can the police chief not be the established government in his own town, place of birth, and he gets killed by an army that came to his country only a year ago? It makes no sense. And still...

The fighting at the town of Husaybah, on the Syrian border, appeared to be related to insurgent violence in the western towns of Fallujah and Ramadi.

It began when insurgents ambushed Marines in the city on Saturday, sparking a 14-hour-battle with hundreds of gunmen. Fighting continued Sunday in three neighborhoods of the city, which was sealed off by U.S. forces.

Five Marines were killed in the initial ambush and nine more were wounded throughout the fighting, an embedded journalist from the St. Louis Post-Dispatch reported.

Ten Iraqis were killed and 30 wounded — a mixture of insurgent fighters and civilian bystanders, said Hamid al-Alousi, a doctor at the hospital in the nearby city of Qaim, 240 miles west of Baghdad.

The word 'insurgent' is used 4 times in this short article, and in every paragraph but one. Did the doctor really use the term insurgent? The AP really likes this word. But they are using it wrong.

I am so confused. I still don't understand 'friendly fire'. It hurts to be stupid in a time of confusion. All these tears I have when I thought my dumb-ass-ness would save me from the pain. I will never get over Tara's single death. How can we ever get over all the rest.

[mccutcheon]

I've died and gone to heaven. Wait, I'm broke. Oh how God the all mighty Lord tests my resolve. What am I talking about? The best record fair in the United Sates of course. The WFMU- Wholly Fuckin' Music Universe is in town.

We might be at war and this post might be a little shallow considering events in other parts of the world. But life must go on! This is why I believe Democracy isn't a mockery. Hell, this is why I live in the great capitalist US of fuckin' A! Shit man I do pay taxes. So why not live in a place where everything can be bought and sold, and where I can go have a pint, buy some fetish black crack, put it on a turntable and get people to boogie their life away. I give good entertainment.

Shit. I wish I knew how to count. Sure, I have a calculator but what I don't have is a mind that can keep straight my financial situation. The last week I've been having lots of fun drunk shopping for loads of records and DVD's and buying rounds at my new local pub (which leads to drunk shopping in the first place), but when I woke up with a bit of mental clarity I realized that once again I was broke. And this sucks because I just found out that the best record fair in the world is coming to town. Finally, I might be able to track down those Galaxie 500, Spacemen 3, Primal Scream and Happy Mondays records. Only problem is to afford it I'll probably have to hock my turntables.

I'm waiting to get paid for one of my stories but the check hasn't come in the mail. The story is all about, well records! Around and around it goes- like, erm, a record. Good image that. Anyway check out the link below. I'm off to the Bronx to give blowjobs for some quick bucks.


http://www.wfmu.org/recfair/

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So I might start writing for these Italians. Their project is called Petite Mort. My first job will be to cover a music fest in East River Park.

http://www.eastrivermusicproject.com/

Here's an email I just got. Looks like fun. I hope I don't fuck it up. I'll keep you all 'posted', as we say on websites.

Matt,
Glad your interested in the ERM project. I had been trying for some time to
get an interview with Mike Burke (JMZ records) who had a hand in putting
this event together but I hadn't much success. It could be a very dynamic
piece, I can see your writing style working with the topic, let's get
together and talk about it briefly, I have some ideas.

This week is a bit busy for me, but perhaps you want to come with me and
some other people from the magazine to photographer Mick Rocks book launch
party this Tuesday. It's for his new book "Picture This: Debbie Harry and
Blondie". It should be an interesting event with a fun mixed crowd.

http://www.mickrock.com/

It starts at 8p.m. I don't normally get to events on time but I think It
might be good to get to this one when the doors open. I'm guessing there
will be somewhat of a mob scene if kate moss is really hosting it like the
invite says.

Anyhow, if you can make it we should meet at 6:30 and talk about ERM project
etc.. I work at 57th and 5th, we can meet and go from there. Or since the
book launch is in Chelsea we can meet around there. What's good for you?

Best,
Antonio


ERM SCHEDULE
-------------

saturday, may 22
(in association with Todd P)
Sharon Jones & the Dapkings
White Magic
Aa / Big A Little a
Measles Mumps Rubella
Blood on the Wall


saturday, june 26
Cat Power
Double Leopards
2/5 BZ
Valley Of Ashes
DJ Brian Turner


saturday, july 24
Ted Leo/Rx
The Natural History
Sea Ray
+1 more

[mccutcheon]

A bottle of white wine
a cigarette and you
here in this saloon
white wine and you

-Iggy Pop


Like I said. I didn't want to fuck it up. I emailed Antonio back and wrote, see you Thursday. And he wrote back, no, it's Tuesday, like tomorrow. Can you still make it?

I said of course I could.

I have never been on a blind date. The only two people I have ever waited for, sight unseen, was Martino- who bought the foreign language rights to my short stories and Antonio, editor and chief of Petite Mort.

I don't know what would be worse, waiting for a stranger who had the potential to become a future lover or someone who is there to talk about your work, i.e. my writing. Both have the potential to lead to intimacy and turmoil.

Luckily for me, both times the meeting places were serving booze and I was drinking. And even luckier for me, both times the people who showed up to shake my hand were cooler than I could ever imagined. Definitely cooler than myself. If I ever do go on a blind date I'm going to make sure the girls' name ends in an ‘O'.

So, Antonio, his girlfriend and their friend, who all work for Petite Mort and I drank bottles of chilled white wine and talked. It went pretty well. They picked up the tab.

Then we went to Mick Rock's party. There were a lot of posers there, but I did briefly talk to The Kills and ran into George Boy and his entourage. The DJ wasn't too bad. Then when Petite Mort was leaving, but I wanted to stay but had run out of money, they even gave me their last bit of cash so I could drink the bar dry. My new boss is very gracious. Saturday we are covering the East River Park festival. I won't fuck it up.

[mccutcheon]

LOVE&LOVE

[mccutcheon]

A portrait of the artist as a young tub of lard… This is why it's called NYC Scribbles, my Ramblin' Rose, my Demo Crazy.

This is for you Jack, get home safe. On Wisconsin.

Memorial Day Weekend has arrived. Here we go. It's movie time again.

Let me first say, I think Coffee and Cigarettes will be the best movie I see all summer. I don't really like the American ballbuster, oops I mean blockcocksucker, oops the Blockbuster.

I love movies. Who doesn't? The Sloth and Holden Caulfield. That's who. But hell, like I said, I love movies, but then again, I'm from Wisconsin, just like Annie Hall.

I was very excited to learn I live across the street from Michael Rapaport. He's been in some Woody Allen films. And he was perfect in the film Beautiful Girls. “A beautiful girl can make you feel high, like you've been drinking Jack and Coke all morning.�

Have you seen the poster for the film Catwoman? She is wearing a leather bikini top. Now as much as I like to see Halle Berry's breasts bounce around, I mean she is the hottest woman to have ever lived in Wisconsin, wouldn't that outfit hinder her from fighting the super villains and saving the world? Wait, isn't Catwoman a bad guy? I guess the top is okay then.

What will be the biggest Blockbuster this summer? Brad Pitt running around in a faux leather dress, looking more and more like Kato Katlin, the boy from Wisconsin who was once OJ's best friend. A little murder put an end to that. Kato is one of those famous people from my home state. But he isn't the only one. Oh no we have others you might have heard of; Ed Gien, Jeffery Dahmer, Oprah Winfrey and Fred Astair. Killers one and all.

What does a real Trojan soldier wear under his skirt? Why a sheepskin condom, of course, where as Leather Face would wear a condom made of other people's skin. Some of the people in Wisconsin are a little odd.

And what's up with that The Day After Tomorrow movie? I don't want to see a movie about New York getting destroyed. Fuck that. It's where I live now, along with Jim Kimpfel and James Chance, two other transplanted Wisconsinites now living in the Big Apple. I admit they too could be considered a bit odd, and even though they are not as well known outside of hipster circles, I'm sure their Trojans are of the Latex variety.

But here I am already digressing before I even get started.

When I was living in Paris I briefly went out with a top model. I was proud of myself. I remember thinking, not bad for a fat boy from Wisconsin. Of course, it didn't last. During our short courtship, one night I took her to the movies. She wanted to see something with Meg Ryan. I took her to Welcome To The Doll House. After the film she said to me, “Oh my god, that is just like my life. Except I had a horse.�

I couldn't believe this. I looked across the table at one of the most famous young women in the world under the age of twenty-three and thought, yeah right, you were once an awkward little girl. It kind of put me off her. Then I thought, I can't wait to get her home and have sex.

Today I went and saw 13 Going On 30. Not because I act like 13 going on 30 and I wanted some empathy. Not because Jennifer Garnier is hot. Not because I go and see all Mark Raffalo films because I think he is the best actor working today and seems so cool I even have a little bit of a crush on him. No, I went for the same reason I always go to romantic comedies alone during the middle of the day, because I'm now single again after a 4 month break up, when loves involved it takes a while, and I'm a sad sensitive little shit who likes to hide away from the world in a dark theatre watching romantic fluff. It takes me out of myself and for a brief period I forget my personal problems and the current woes of the world.

The film sucked.

But I AM the Mark Ruffalo character. I mean that REALLY is me! The characters' name is Matt. And I was a pudgy kid who loved music no one else liked. I was the one no one wanted to invite to parties. I liked girls who didn't like me back. But then when I grew up I turned a bit handsome. To this day I am still living out the fat, picked on kid's sexual fantasies.

And just like in the movie the kid grows up to be not such a fucking loser. Which if I stretch it and am feeling a little gracious instead of self-loathing, I can say some days, I'm not such a fucking loser. And now I'm a writer. I don't make a lot of money. I live in New York. And I'd like to believe I still hold my convictions. Like, when I was 16 I thought the drinking age should be 16. And now that I'm in my 30's I still think the drinking age should be 16. More the merrier I always say.

Also, the girl I hung out with when I was a young tub of lard is the splitting image of Jennifer Garner. Her name is Jennifer, too. The two Jennies could be twins. The first time I saw an ad for Alias I thought that it was my Jen. Both girls are very pretty and very athletic. My Jen and I used to go running and play tennis together. I took her to the Talking Heads concert film. But alas it wasn't meant to be. She was in love with this guy who went on to play Triple AAA ball, and even though it wasn't the Big Leagues, it was a very big deal.

After the film I took a long walk. I was mindlessly strolling down streets and thinking of my past, and how much I hated high school. I recalled a pivotal turning point in my youth, a day that shamed me so bad it molded me into the man I am today.

Okay I'm gonna insert Kiss Off Version 2.0 here:

Kiss Off
By McCutcheon


The day I learned to hate another human being started like any other day that summer. We were hanging out on Greg's front lawn practicing our Karate Kid moves. Greg's older brother had just passed his drivers test. He was going to borrow his mother's car and take us to Summer Fest.

Summer Fest is located on Milwaukee's lakefront and has the distinction of being the biggest music festival in the world, if not the best. Most of the bands are local bar acts that play working class, third rate Bruce Springsteen songs. The bands get the audience they deserve. Have you ever see those Milwaukee Brewer's baseball batting hats with beer cup holders on the side, and a long tube attached that runs along the helmet and fits into your mouth so the wearer can suck two beers at once as they walk, leaving their hands free to grope female buttocks? If I had to guess, I'd say those helmets were invented at Summer Fest.

My friends and I were going to see the Violent Femmes. The group had gone to a high school in our district. My friends didn't like the Femmes as much after their second album Hallowed Ground. I loved it. It didn't have the instant teenage angst classics of the first album, but it had a dark evil side. Hallowed Ground taught me there was more to pop than just having fun. This was Poe poetry set to hillbilly music for the damned. I was captivated; it was like nothing I had heard before. I couldn't wait.

Four of us were going that day, Greg, Eric, Carl and me. Eric had snuck some booze from his parent's liquor cabinet. He filled a two-liter Dr. Pepper bottle with a few ounces of everything until it was full. It was a strong concoction.

When we got to the festival we had a few hours to wait until the Femmes went on. We bought sodas for a mixer and went to the waterfront to sit on the big rocks over looking Lake Michigan. After a half hour three girls came and sat with us.

We shared our drinks. The girls started to pair off. This is when the problem began to arise. There were three of them and four of us. Somebody was going to be left out of the anticipated kissing session.

That summer I was hopelessly in love with Elisabeth Shue, but I was willing to cheat on my true love for the chance of feeling my first tit. I swilled the potent drink and prayed I would be chosen. To me this was far more important then the humiliation of not being picked for dodge ball. I put my trembling hands in my pockets and played it cool.

One of the girls sat down next to me. She was the cutest of the three, a black girl with the whitest teeth, huge eyes and a budding woman's figure covered only by halter-top and shorts.

“Hiya.� She said. “My name is Halle.�

“Hi.� I said.

“This drink is strong,� she said smiling at me. “I'm getting tipsy.�

‘I'm getting tipsy' was the teenage girl's verbiage for ‘Let's get it on.'

I couldn't believe my luck. But before our lips could meet, before my fingers could cup a breast, Carl snuck up from behind me and lifted my shirt. He said, “Don't kiss that slob, he is fat.�

I looked down, and sure enough there was a layer of baby fat hanging over my waistline. I sucked in my gut as fast as I could. But it was too late. It didn't matter that I wasn't that fat, or that I wanted to be with Halle more than Carl. The gesture was complete. Carl got the laughs and the girl.

I sulked off on my own. I skipped the concert and cried in a port-a-potty as drunk older men banged on the fiberglass walls and threatened to tip it over if I didn't get the hell out of there and let them piss. I rode a bus home. It took four transfers and three hours.

I am not a good person. That day should have made me stronger, given me a hero's resolve. I should have risen above it all. But I didn't. Instead I vowed revenge.

A decade later Carl was getting married. I flew to Wisconsin for the wedding. Carl put me up. The night before the big event we were out celebrating with the boys. It was like the old days, except I had lost my baby fat and crush on Elisabeth Shue.

I made my excuses at the strip club and went to crash on Carl's sofa bed. I had jet lag. And the ten years difference hadn't left us with much in common. Greg, Eric, and Carl never escaped Wisconsin, while I had been traveling the world.

Carl's fiancée was sitting at the kitchen table when I got in. She was crying and drinking. We shared a few beers. She opened her heart to me and told me her fears. I had met her for the first time that afternoon. Before I knew it we were kissing; long smoldering kisses with tongue. Then we had a quick fuck without a condom. I came inside her. After, she gathered her clothes and went to bed.

I sat in the dark kitchen drinking beer. It must have been last minute jitters on her part. But I didn't stop it.

The next day was the wedding. The ceremony passed without incident. The couple exchanged vows. Carl consummated his marriage with sloppy seconds. I never saw Carl, or his wife, ever again.

Insertion over!!!!!!

A horn blares and I look up. I somehow ended up on 5th Avenue. It's all tourists and it's not uncommon to see a group of out of state high school scholars being shuffled off to a Broadway play or something. And that is exactly what caught my eye. A group of kids chaperoned by adults trying to cross 5th Avenue without getting hit by a taxicab. Why they didn't wait for the walk sign is beyond me. But what grabbed my attention was how poorly they were dressed. I don't mean they were shoddily dressed, like a bum or me. The whole group, from the kids to the parents, had made an effort. Unfortunately.

It was the style or lack of style they wore that stood out. I'm not talking suburban Mall labels. Their cloths were pastels, polyester and one kid looked like he was wearing plastic wing tips. The dresses were ill fitting and adorned with gaudy glitter, the girls bellies protruded out farther than their boobies. The boys were tall and had faces full of zits, their suits were hand me downs. They were dressed up for a night on the town. They just missed the Queer Eye For The Straight Guy makeover. Not that they would be able to afford it, or let a damn homo talk to them. The only other time I have ever seen such a clash in culture was when I was in Germany, right after the Berlin wall came down, and you could instantly tell who the East folks were by what they wore.

Usually when I see people making an effort to look nice and failing miserably it depresses me, so much so I think it's the reason I never dress up or make an effort to look nice myself. But today it just made me laugh. This group could be from a small town near where I grew up. And as I walked alone, out on my own, heading home, tummy tucked in, I thought, not bad for a fat boy from Wisconsin.

Now go see a movie. Spiderman doesn't seem so bad.

[mccutcheon]

last night was weird. hung out with my sister and Carmen Electra. drank $1,000 bottles of champage and didn't pay a cent. ran into an old clubbing buddy who I haven't seen for over 10 years and he tells me this guy we used to hang out with died of a heroin OD last month. and there was more but can't rememebr now. and also Mav called.

[mccutcheon]

So last night I was Djing and it was a quiet night and still young and full of possibilities, and these two Scots walk into the bar. No this isn't the start of a joke.

They are brothers here to watch baseball games. I find baseball as boring as cricket but don't hold it against them. One guy is named Gary and the other is, um, Scot.

Well, it doesn't take long before we are working our way through my old stand bys, the music I bring for myself that I play late at night to end it all, to keep my youth or just to be a fat old bastard stuck in his ways, I'm the kinda cunt I never wanted to be. But fuck me- the music is so good. Screamadelica is my generations Sergeant Peppers. And if you don't know that you don't know diddly.

Yeah, these guys are a decade younger than me but they love it, these are the classics and they missed the e fueled hedonism when it came around the first time. I felt like James Brown- from Loaded, not the funky ass soul singer. I'm spinning the Roses, Primal Scream and Happy Mondays, turning the Soho club into an Ealing student uni bar. And Gary, who I am yelling at “Gazza get another round in you deep fried Mars bar� eats it up ears wide open.

It was so fucking refreshing because these guys just fucken love their pop culture, man, we are talking about tunes and birds and all that shite that makes life so much fun. Then Scot fell on my decks and broke one of my prized records, and the owner said it was time to go before I tempted fate, and then later we lost Scot completely but Gazza and I carried on, he was drinking for Scotland and I was drinking for humanity.

Then later around 9 AM at an after bar party in the lower east side Gazza and my record boxes and I are havin' a blether and a bevvy when some crazy bitch walked up and slapped me across the face. I was stunned and fell unsteady off my stool. A big fight broke out but I was too pissed to understand. The crazy bitch was kicked out and these wired model types started buying us pints and gave us lines because I was slapped unprovoked, Gazza had an accent and we were bar hopping with record crates. Wired model types are fun to party with. I gotta get slapped more often, and maybe the next time I go out I'll bring the records even when I'm not Djing.

Thank you Scotland!

If it sounds like fun and you want cool tunes and cold beer you can find me next Wed, and every Wed at 12� Bar 179 Essex.

Post is in the mail Script- Does Ian Brown make a cameo in the new Harry Potter? Fuck me monkey face.

Post Post is in the mail Script- This post was brought to you with a naked wired model type sitting on my bare lap, all night no sleep, and in this life you are on your own, but sometimes you're not, but anyway, excuse us if it went astray. (It's a good thing I got old Prince, you know the one, the electric) Let's Go Crazy!!!!

[mccutcheon]

If Elizabeth reads this I didn't get your phone number entered into my mobile phone. So please call 212.979.5776.

[mccutcheon]

my only friend Pepe is going back to London/Spain.

But we had a good day today but my phone didn't ring. Mav knows what I mean.

[mccutcheon]

This is for Myke and Pepe....

I'm in the dumps. That's okay. I'm an artist.

My girlfriend recently moved out. I'm into the break up stage were you start to get very lonely and think you will never find love. Which sucks because the stage before that I was telling myself I didn't believe in love. That now I will have quality time for myself. And yes, now I do have time for myself, too much fucking time. There is a certain type of person that doesn't really like too many other people, but when alone for hours at a time starts to really question his own worth. Unfortunately, I'm one of those types of people.

This should be a perfect opportunity for refection. Time to work on me. I could face all my faults with reality and resolve. I could stop drinking, get fit, send the novel out to agents, find more DJ gigs in the city, and go on long walks. I could turn my life around. I could live an after school special.

And I have; taken long walks that is. But that is where this feel good story with the cheesy soundtrack goes astray. This is how I found myself drinking a bottle of white wine in Central Park at 9AM.

My story was never going to have a happy ending with a sappy soundtrack. I have too much good taste in music for that to ever happen. And I have a deep belief in the writing cliché: that you have to suffer for art.

That's how I live. Not on purpose. I didn't choose it. It chose me. And the life given was one of misery. But I said okay. I'll stay around a while and play along. I understood that if my own personal story were ever easy my writing would be shit. And even though I gave into it, it didn't deal a fair fucking hand. I'm constantly confounded by the fact that I'm just no good. I thought I would be better. Oh, the trappings of mediocrity. Oh, the tragic honesty.

I mean if I'm gonna drink like a writer, endure poverty like a writer, and barely function and live in a state of slow panic and shameful embarrassment for walking the earth like a writer, then why the fuck can't I write like a writer.

Many are called but few are chosen. And some, like me, are fooled into believing a Full House will win the pot when some other cunt that gets paid from that office on Broadway has a Royal Flush. It just doesn't seem fair. That and the fact I'm lazy and can't face rejection and never seem to get down to the business of the business.

The night before I went and saw Alex Garland read at the Boarders located at the massive new shopping mall in Columbus Circle. And Alex was quizzed by some pencil pusher employee- not a manuscript writer, if you know what I mean. He was asked these cretinous queries, inquisitive questions I imagine literature grad students and people in writing groups ask. And looking around at the audience weighing in, that was about the turn out. I noticed this once before when I went to see Irvine Welsh read, the people who come out to these little events are academic wanna-be poseurs. People who ask, ‘how to write?' Instead, they should write. It's like a young DJ (you know they have schools for this job now) asking what type of music to play.

One question was, so how do you feel being here, doing this book tour? Alex said he hated it and needed a cigarette. I realized others who ‘make it' do the business of the business even if they detest it as well. It's sad. And makes me feel I'm a long ways off.

But by the next morning at 9AM in Central Park it didn't matter. I found myself in some sort of overgrown atrium. I had a bottle, and an excuse to tell the cops if they should happen to come around to take me to the drunk tank- my best friend Sloth had just died from shellfish poisoning down in Florida and this was the first time I've ever done this sort of thing, I swear oooffffither.

I sat and shivered. The deep wrung of flowing emotion. The sky above was azure, the numerous flowers were budding and swayed with nature's fragrance—I have never understood why being wasted on a brilliant morning unveils the worlds' vibrant beauty in its most stunning clarity.

Like I said, I had a bottle, and native beauty, a notebook and pencil and my despair- slightly kept at bay. I was in a Vincent Van Gough moment. It was up to me to capture the moment like Van Gough. And I didn't. Instead I used modern technology and called a friend and rambled on about the morning to him.

Shit, fuck, my life. Oh, the trappings of mediocrity. Oh, the tragic honesty. I ended up too out of it and unable to function to DJ that night. I'll probably get fired. And no matter what excuse I tell myself, like how that moment in the park was worth it, I don't know if it was. For many days after I have felt low. My mental health has taken a nosedive. I have brain damage. I've hemorrhaged all the cerebral good feeling right out of me. So what do I do? I write about it.

Dear Vincent, How's it going? I was in the park thinking of you….

[mccutcheon]

So I met L and her lover.

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I'm three posts away from 3,000.

[mccutcheon]

I'm two posts away from 3,000.