Bulletin Board of Bad Behavior

Saturday Night Tom and I got together again. Believe it or not, instead of wanting to get drunk right away I suggest some record shopping. But Tom wanted beer. So we headed to the German Zum place on 7th and Avenue C. Tom had 1 ½ liters (he was driving) and I have 2 liters of fine chilled Bavarian lager. It's the place Myke and I got thoroughly pissed and you might have seen pixs on the site.

I ate some cheese and bread as Tom just nibbled away at a pickle. I was trying to gain some sustenance for the evening. It didn't work.

We went to a roof top party with a DJ. It was overcast and cloudy all day but as we got there the sun started to set over Manhattan and if you have ever watched the sun go to sleep over this concrete jungle you know natural beauty does exist here.

We met up with some of Tom's friends. There was this thin, trim, hottie from Florida. She was prim and proper and 22 and getting married. I shook her hand and said how nice that is for her, keeping my opinions of young hot girls getting married way too youthful to myself. We started talking and I was very attracted to her. I started thinking of what a lucky bastard her fiancée was.

When she asked me where I went to school and I said Paris she was like “WOW! How cool.� I get that a lot. Thanks Paris for the education that keeps giving. I told her about Paris and she was hanging on every word. She told me she wants to go but her hubby to be has no desire so she is going by herself. I already saw trouble in her Sun Shine State Paradise. I told her I'd go with her.

I wanted to know this woman, but she was prim and proper, had a big rock on her finger, and I was drunk and scruffy and trying to stand up straight and pronounce pronouns without slurring.

I was like, well it was sure nice to meet this one, but ya know. That's the way life is. Then the next thing I know, and I have absolutely no fucking idea how it all happened, there we were together, she was riding piggy back on me down Ludlow Street, screaming about her thong sticking out, as my own pants started falling down to my knees. She had a bottle of wine in one hand and a glass in the other and was giving me sips as I carried her to the next bar.

Once we crashed there we talked about orgies and I got a back rub. Then after some shots it all sort of goes fuzzy until I'm with Tom and another girl who is super cool and we are sitting outside Ryans on 2nd avenue in the wee hours of the morning and this girl is reading my stories to me and Tom and I are drinking Jager and pints.

How it all happened I don't really know. But if you have 2 liters of beer before you even get to the party, then it seems like almost anything can happen afterwards. You can get love or a punch in the face. I got neither but almost a little of both.

This is a response to another thread about what my new novel Tour is sorta about. Oh yeah, and also a transvestite hooker hanging out in a Phoenix truck stop. What is she doing there? Well let me tell you.

The hooker is actually part of a novel I'm working on. She comes in later, part of the back-story. It is the reason Brady decides to play country music for the tour ala Calexico. You know the band Calexico, from deep in the heart of Arizona, so great that they do a great cover of the great Love song ‘Alone Again Or'. Oh yes great great great.

Music from the Evil Heat.

Calexico also does the song- ‘Not Even Stevie Nicks'... who is from PHX and they also had Andrew Weatherhall—from Primal Scream, Sabers of Paradise, Two Lone Swordsmen, to name a few monikers do a remix. So congrats to them.

The compilation tape, compact disc, sorry novel, I'm working on is really for music geeks and me. I'm a drunk lonely music fool, and if I ever read a novel when I was young that mentioned all the bands I'm gonna bring in—well my head would have spun around like a record baby, round, round, like a record baby. And I would have found comfort in that.

So I'm doing it for when I'm dead. If anyone bothers to read it in the future they will understand my passion for music. And maybe they will learn a new band, a new album or new song. If I can turn someone onto the music I loved, isn't that enough? I've given up on world peace and ending hunger.

I'm now like the 60's. The people from the 60's had a brief moment in time when they could have changed the future for the better; instead they choose to change themselves for the better. So only a few got free love and free drugs, it was open to the individuals who indulged. Not saying that is bad because the frat boys and sorority girls really got shit, all they got was some money and kids. The rest of the world got day and night. Again and again and again…

Sorry I'm that flawed. But it is true. Here is what I offer you.


ya ya ya here we come as soon as I get to it.

And by the way, on a political note start writing to your local publisher to get Burnt Roof of Mouth published.

Thanks, McCutcheon

Pete what is up motherfucker?

lord be the death of me.

I got some passes and free drink tickets to a Libertines show. Actually I ain't that cool. I got it but don't know where to go.

And I saw John Waters on 5th Ave by the park today. I said, "Hey man I used to like you and your stuff but I don't eat dog shit."

A few days before New York is invaded by the RNC, The Republic National Convention, I experienced an invasion of my own. My parents came to town.

It was great to see mom and dad McCutcheon. The first day we went for a huge sushi lunch followed by a bike ride around the city. There was something heartfelt about watching my 61-year-old mother peddle over the Brooklyn Bridge.

That night we went to a Broadway show. We have a deal when it comes to the New York theatre that was decided long ago. They get to pick one Broadway show and I get to pick one off Broadway or off-off Broadway play.

When we were down at the South Seaport ½ price seats place there was slim pickings, and we settled on The Producers- the so-called new musical because it is about New York Theatre. Incredibly my parents didn't know the story, having never seen the play or movie before, and it was the only thing left they were willing to see. I wanted to go to Rent.

It's kinda curious because I love all types of music and I love storytelling whatever form it takes, be it novels, movies or plays. So I don't know why I just can't stand most musicals.

I thought it sucked. My mom thought it was well over the top. I guess she missed Mel Brook's masterpiece Robin Hood: Men in Tights. I read and reread my Playbill through the first act until Ulla came on to do “When You Got It, Flaunt It.�

I had no idea just how much ‘when you got it, flaunt it' would mean to me only a few hours later.

After the show, under the neon carnival spectaculars of Times Square I saw Lleyton Hewitt and Kim Clijsters walking down the street. The weekend before I had watched Lleyton win the Washington D.C. tennis tournament. It was one of those hard court tune-ups to the U.S. Open. Kim was in the stands supporting him. I think she is injured and sitting out the Open. On her official website she writes, ‘Hope I meet you soon.' And signs off with XXX. http://www.kimclijsters.be/ If I went and said hello I would be making her dreams come true.

It was weird to see them so close. She is about as big as he is. I hear they are getting married so I didn't want to ruin their good times by explaining my theories on love and marriage at too young of an age, and that they should keep God and the Law out of their affairs. Kim probably wants to get hitched to keep affairs from happening in the first place. I kept my mouth shut. I mean what could I say about matchmaking when they both could beat me game-love, game-love, and game-love all match.

It was about midnight and I was having a civilized drink with my parents when my phone rang. It was this girl who has been a fan of Pax Acidus for the last five years. One night she came to watch me DJ. She ended up punching out a boy from Long Island, but that is her story and I won't tell it here. Other than that we haven't seen each other because she lives with her boyfriend.

Her boyfriend was out of town on tour with his band and she invited me over. It was getting sort of late, my parents wanted to retire for the evening so I took a cab to Alphabet City. I thought I'd go for a quick drink and say hi. How much trouble could I get in?

Sufficient it to say we went through four bottles of wine, smashed an expensive wine glass, the cops came to complain that there was a 9-1-1 call sent out, but luckily the NYC 5-0 left before the drug dealer came with a giant bag of cocaine.

Then things really started to get rowdy. I was privileged to my first personal striptease. When you got it, flaunt it. And a sweeter ass I have never seen. Not to toot my own horn but I have to say I got great taste in women, and have been lucky enough to date some of the most sexy, beautiful and charming girls of my generation (and a few from the younger generation after mine) and this girl was so stunning I was awestruck how cool she treated me.

If you have been following NYC Scribbles you might have noticed I mentioned I'm not feeling too happy with my body and self-image of late. I hurt my knee and have gained weight and am pretty much a mid-thirties disgusting slob. The only thing to my credit is that I don't have a double standard. I hate all these American situation comedies where the wife is beautiful and the husband is a fat, but jolly, mind you, tub of lard.

I have started to deteriorate at an alarming pace. I still run, play soccer and tennis but it isn't enough to counteract the affect of aging, and time spent sitting on bar stools and my seat in front of the keyboard. But see, once I really put my foot in my mouth. Sober even. I was talking to a friend who was dying of Leukemia and would never make it to thirty. I was a dumb shit and made a flippant comment about how getting older sucks. He looked me straight in the eyes and said, “Matt, I wish I could grow old.� Those words have never left me.

So I lived it up, I took all my clothes off, went running around like a lunatic, chopping up lines with a Ginsu sized butcher knife, and sniffing coke off of every peak and valley of this amazing woman. I had a great fucking time. And I think of my friend and I think of Bill Hicks, and I think of George Bush and if he wins the presidency how life will feel a little like it is over.

That is all the ramble of too much cocaine in the brain. There is so much I would rather say about the girl. The subtle ways she is so sexy.

But I said I wouldn't write too much about her or mention her name. I'll just say she is pure Pax Acidus. It was wild and I'm sure we would have ended up heroin addicts in Tompkins Sq Park, but you know, they cleaned the place up.

Oh shit. Here I am writing about sex, drugs and rock and roll. Oh well. Unlike Lleyton Hewitt, I will never win the U.S. Open. I'm sure he got to bed at a respectable hour. Call it ironic or call it what you will, but in the midst of the blizzard one of the things this girl told me was I have to start using my talents as a writer to greater capture the human condition; to stop wasting words on just sex, drugs and rock and roll. I swore I would. It didn't matter we were naked, doing class A drugs, and the stereo was on full blast.

The next thing I knew it was 9 o'clock. I was a wreck. She had to go to work, and like a fucking trooper made it. I had to go home to face my parents. Normally when I find myself in situations where I'm bugged out and tweaking I wish for the nostalgic simple life. I want my mommy. Well, I was gonna get my wish. Only now she was the last person I wanted to see. Or rather, I was terrified for my mother to see me.

I went back to my apartment used up and disgusting. I felt like death run over by a tractor. The fun times came to end like they always do. Like life does.

The first thing my mom said to me was, “are you okay?� I said I was. I made some comment about too much sushi yesterday. Raw fish gets a bad rap. I bet most food poisonings are blamed for bad hangovers. They do feel the same.

Out of earshot of my mom, my dad said, “Can't handle those all nighters anymore, huh? I never could either.�

I took a shower and we went to the Chinese Embassy so my parents could get their visa. My brother lives there with his wife and my parents are visiting him next week. The Chinese might be racking up the gold medals in the current Olympics but the place ain't exactly party central. I couldn't score any oriental drugs to ease my pain.

For lunch I took them to an old Tavern not far from St. Marks. The place is an old fashioned relic that still has sawdust on the floor. It's like drinking in Gangs of New York, except I didn't see Cameron Diaz. I did see Ryan Adams and Parker Posey. But I see them everywhere. I had a Liverwurst sandwich with their potent mustard that can clear the most clogged sinuses, no matter how much coke is caught up the old hooter. I also had a few beers to help settle my head.

After lunch is was up the Upper East Side and Museum Mile. We went to the Jewish Art Museum and looked at the Modiglianis. He was an American who got his thrills in Paris. After looking at great art I couldn't stand anymore. I went home to bed feeling wicked, while my parents went to Wicked.

And that was only the beginning…

We interrupt the regularly scheduled Sex, Drugs and Rock n Roll romp through New York to bring you this special update on the RNC.

At Union Sq things started heating up as some dumb shit started praising Bush and God. It wasn't long before the paddy wagons were called. I stepped aside and stared at the cute girls being dragged away in handcuffs.

As for the weekly rags in this town, it isn't always well known that the The NY Press is a far superior periodical than the Village Voice. For a good laugh check out this 1001 things to hate about the convention.

http://www.nypress.com/

When you are done read ‘Slack Jaw' by Wisconsin boy Jim Knipfel.

We now return you to sniffing cocaine off sweet fucking asses...

There are a lot of WHYS? in my world. Like WHY does the NYC pretzel from a vender now suck but costs more? Or WHY is my neighbor such an asshole? My list could top the number of reasons WHY Bush sucks and lies. But tonight I have other pressing matters.

LOS ANGELES - Oscar-winning actress Charlize Theron was injured while shooting her new Paramount film, "Aeon Flux," in Germany, but her representatives aren't saying how badly she was hurt.

Theron suffered the unspecified injury while doing her own stunts in a wire-hanging action sequence, the movie's publicist, Jeanmarie Carrasco, told The Associated Press Tuesday.

"No cuts, no broken bones," Carrasco said. "I think it was something less tangible than that. ... Something vague and nagging."

WHY oh WHY CT?

After fifteen hours of fitful sleep I wake up at 7am to play tennis. In warm ups I'm hitting the ball pretty consistent. I'm in a good grove. Then the match starts and my mind starts to wander (wonder).

That cocaine-fueled night was fun. Why am I thinking of cocaine when I have a tennis match to play? Who did I think I was, Bjorn Borg? Man, what a sweet fucking ass that girl has.

Ace. 15-Love.

Oops.

Come on, come on, I need to concentrate. I'm sure Lleyton doesn't think of Kim's ass when he is playing. Boy that guy is on winning streak. But then again Kim's ass isn't as fine as…

Ace. 30-Love.

Shit.

Wake up McCutcheon. Stay focused. Return it like Andre. You can do it. I wonder if Andre ever did coke off of Brooke Shield's body. Naw, he is pretty square. Which part did I like best. There was that one pile smeared right above her butt checks.

Ace. 40-Love.

Motherfucker.

I never did get a point that first game. And soon the set was over. It continued downhill from there. Like I'd be serving at deuce into the ad court or even worse, give the balls to my opponent, completely forgetting who's serve it was in the first place.

After tennis I had to meet my parents. I was walking past Herald Square and noticed all the new concrete dividers in front of financial institutions and storefronts. These are strategically placed on the sidewalk to prevent automobiles packed with explosives from crashing into them. I can understand the need to protect the banks from suicide bombers but do we really need them in front of Victoria Secrets? The last ad I saw from Victoria Secret was that they were claiming to ‘bring back the bra.' Boo Hoo. No, don't bring back the bra. I like all the bounce and visible nipples I can get.

I met my parents and we went to the International Center of Photography – Asia Society and Museum. Experimental artists in China have consistently responded to the drastic changes taking place in the environment: the disappearance of traditional landscapes and lifestyles, the rise of mega-cities and new urban cultures, and the large-scale immigration of populations.

I learned there is one growing city with a population of over three million people between the ages of 18 and 30. Think of the singles bars in that town. It puts NYC and it's famed 5 to 1 ratio to shame. In New York there are 5 girls to every 1 guy. And also, there are 5 Democrats to every 1 Republican. So not only are there lot's of girls running around horny and looking for some action, but they are the liberal, sexy, fun kinda ladies as well.

At the Guggenheim we took the elevator to the top and spiraled our way down. That way you can get the abstract minimalism bullshit out of the way first. Like a steel pole placed in the corner. Don't touch it, it's art. Someone was really taking the piss. Though I do like the paintings of Piet Mondrian.

As I was going down, I noticed a museum pervert lurking behind this cute French girl. The girl and her boyfriend didn't seem to notice. But I was checking her out as well. Everywhere she went; this guy was trailing right behind. And he wasn't being too fucking conspicuous with his bugged out eyes and bulging boner following the girls every move. I wanted to shout out or say something but soon the freak went to the restroom to take care of his business.

Gross me out.

At the Whitney I avoided all the perverts and got into Hopper and Benton. I was torn by Ed Ruscha and his conceptions; the idea of placing words over paintings or making words and phrases the artwork itself is intriguing, but it doesn't have much staying power past novelty after you deduct it's just a word (though I highly respect words) written in a squiggly way.

That night we went back to Broadway. I was too worn out to pick a play. We went to see Mamma Mia. It was a blast and totally revitalized me. The show has the youthful energy of Greece (sic) with the songs of ABBA. Which is a wonderful thing; me being one of the only straight guys to own all the albums and the Box Set: Thank You For The Music. I was dancing in the Greece (sic again) isles.

For dinner we had a late night meal in an outdoor French café in the Village. After the wine was drunk it was time to call it a night. I had a restful sleep and dreamed of Dancing Queens and Bjorn Borg sniffing blow off the bum of Britt Ekland. What is it about the Swedes?

Okay that's enough of that booty callin'.

The next day was the start of the weekend. My parents were headed to China and Tom was coming to town.

Wednesday, September 1st I went to the U.S. Open. On center stage, Arthur Ashe Stadium, Lleyton Hewitt was playing. I had gotten my ticket for free. A friend of mine is working the Open. When he gave me the tickets I had no idea who was playing that day. I also didn't check before showing up. So when I got the schedule and draws pamphlet and saw the boy from Oz was on show I knew it was something special.

I saw Lleyton and his fiancé Kim Clijsters at Times Sq the week before. He is the #4 seed and the guy I'm pulling for. I like baseliners, and besides, Roddick is too Frat Boy glib and Federer is too Swiss clock perfect and Agassi is too, well hell, I still love Mr. Mullet even if Andre is bald now.

While sitting in the stands I met some rambunctious Aussies who are legendary at international sporting events. They are called The Fanatics and they attend all games and matches where Aussies perform and liven' up the joint with their enthusiastic support of any athlete from the land down under.

One of The Fanatics chants goes:

EVERYWHERE WE GO
PEOPLE WANT TO KNOW
WHO ARE WE?
SO WE TELL THEM
MY NAMES DAVE
AND HIS NAMES LLEYTON
MIGHTY, MIGHTY LLEYTON
MIGHTY, MIGHTY LLEYTON

And so it goes. I love American football, but am a little dismayed by the fact that the American audiences and fans are too dumb and dimwitted to come up with great team songs like the English football and rugby clubs enjoy.

I can't see Packers fans singing ‘Always look on the bright side of life.' They stick to shouting, “Defense, Defense, Defense!!!� When yup, you guessed it, the Pack is on defense.

Oh, well. One facet that Packers fans and The Fanatics share is their love of beer. So I joined the boys in sun, suds and song. One thing about drinking with these people is you know you are gonna get pissed, because in groups like this everyone is obliged to buy a round, and the rounds never seem to end. Australians make drinking more enjoyable.

After Lleyton whooped his opponent The Fanatics left for Armstrong Stadium to help out Mark Phillippoussis – to no avail- Phillippoussis screwed the pooch and had to pull out in the fifth. Try saying that last sentence fast five hundred times in a row.

I stayed at Arthur Ashe to see what outfit Serena Williams would be wearing. She didn't disappoint, depending on taste, when she came out in a black studded warm up jacket, hot pants so tight they could cause crotch burn and knee high boots. She won her match easily.

I ran down to court 4 because Maria Sharapova was playing mixed doubles on this small side court and I thought I could get a close up look at the beautiful, blonde Russian who had just won Wimbledon. I had the same smart idea as 600 other people. The place was packed; it was past the start time with no sign of the players. I was smashed together with every other spectator trying to get a glimpse of the long legged teen phenom.

There was a rustling behind me and as I turned around I bumped right into her. The players were being hustled trough the crowd. Maria's arm brushed mine and for the briefest glimpse our eyes locked for a moment she will never remember and I will never forget.

I needed smooth libations to extinguish my ignited libido. And to remind myself Maria was born the same year I graduated high school. I found a few of The Fanatics crowded around the Heineken Red Star Café. They were talking to rich young Manhattanites, who were once called Yuppies, but this day were called, “It's your round, mate.â€?

Talk turned to the crazy Russian Marat Safin who went out in the first round. It is largely regarded this guy is a huge talent who is throwing it all away on cocaine. Even Johnny Mac has gone on record that Marat needs to get off the party circuit.

One of the guys said to me, “Well what would you choose? He was probably doing blow off some models tits the night before.�

I said I abhor drugs of any form and couldn't possibly understand the thrill of sniffing some sort of white substance off a part of a naked woman's anatomy.

The guy looked at me like I was the biggest prissy puritan in the world, so I added. “It's your round, mate. Why you holdin'?" Nudge, nudge.

After someone got wind of my NYC Scribbles column some pucky buckaroo got the brainstorm that my writing is just what a major tennis event needed.

I got a job with the U.S. Open reporting behind the scenes goings on. I gained access to the pithy locker room banter. I reported on what kind of fabric softener Andre used to get his shirts just the way he likes them and what happens if you have to take a big dump during a fifth set tie break. The pay was good and I got free cigars.

They set me up in the press box. Hunter S. Thompson shared his mobile cocktail lounge with me. We drank Grey Goose and Iced Teas. Everything was fine until the NY Post headline that unceremoniously graced the front page yesterday:

READ ALL ABOUT IT!!!!! MCCUTCHEON & MARIA SHARAPOVA IN 69 SEX SHOCK HORROR!!!

Damn those tabloids. Now I'm back up in the blue seats. I'm thinking of suing for slander. What ever happened to professional journalism?

In other less important tennis news Mighty Mighty Lleyton advanced yesterday with an easy win in the last match of the day.

In women's singles today Venus in Furs goes against Elmer Fud Davenport. This is only a 4th round match. Women's tennis is in a good place at the moment, and I don't mean all the young Russian hotties hanging out at my house.

What kind of fish don't swim? Mardy Fish. Who swims in bunches? Karolina Sprem. Who's too fat for his pants? Martino. No, no that would be Sebastien Grosjean. Who drinks cheap beer from Seattle? Rainer Schuettler. Who's soul can be found behind their belly button? Ai Sugiyama. What kind of overhead smash technique does Maverick use? Trick question. Maverick doesn't have an overhead smash.

Labor Day Weekend was a lot of work.

Saturday I played a 5 setter of tennis and it took almost 4 hours. I might not be as quick as Mighty Mighty Lleyton, but I am a finesse player who runs down balls. By the fourth set I was so fatigued I wanted to cry like a little baby. I thought: FUCK THIS. I'm not getting paid to physically punish myself. This was supposed to be a fun Saturday morning. It didn't help I lost the last set after being up 2-LOVE.

Sunday I played soccer and scored an own goal. For you not in the know, that means I scored a goal against my own team by accident. I'm only one of two Americans on my team, the rest are Africans and Jamaicans and they started yelling and screaming. The goalie threw a punch. Now this was pretty bad but not as bad as in Columbia where they shoot you for that sort of thing.

Being past my athletic prime in New York is really putting me in my place. Anyone who has had the displeasure of being on the same team as me, whether it be doubles tennis, pick up basketball, or a soccer club, knows that I rant and rave like a lunatic and that above all else I hate to lose. Mav, Sloth and Tommy know what I'm writing about. Once on a road trip across the States, Trevor and I were tossing the Frisbee around and drinking beer. I had to turn a lazy Sunday afternoon into some sort of competition. Trevor never played any kind of sport with me ever again. He said my competitiveness was scary.

It is that sort of drive that I always thought would allow me to make it as a writer; that I would be just too damn dumb and stubborn for it not to happen. Well, 6 letters sent out to 6 agents in the city and 6 form letters returned to say thanks, but no thanks. And still I write.

Monday was a roller coaster ride of good times and sudden depressions. My sister was in town. Tom and I met her and her friends from Texas in Central Park. Rachael set up a picnic. She remembered visiting me in Paris and the long hours spent acting like we were in a Manet painting. Eating outside on grass and swallowing wine in the sunshine is my favorite way to have a meal. The weather was perfect and we had a great view of the city from our perch. We talked about Rachael's Saudi Arabian soul mate. She thinks when he comes back from the Middle East they will get married. After seven years I hope so. But I told her she can't change her name to bin Laden. All the Texan girls were in love with Tom. Even more so when they found out he was gay? Why does it always work that way? I don't get it.

Then Tom was gracious enough to drive the girls around the city. The top on his Jeep was down and we had the Happy Mondays (it was a Monday holiday- get it?) blasting on the stereo as we rushed down 5th Avenue and maneuvered through Soho streets.

After we dropped the girls off Tom and I drove over the Williamsburg Bridge and had some beers in a Brooklyn beer garden. The day was about perfect. Then it was back across the river to the East Village, because I didn't move to New York to hang out in Madison, Wisconsin.

Tom got the idea to call this girl I met last weekend. She was a great one-night stand. We had sex seven times (it coulda been ten if I didn't have to wear those damn condoms) and we made each other laugh. In the morning we were casual and she spent the day. But I wasn't too sure she ever wanted to see me again. Well, Tom thought she did so we went to her Upper East Side apartment.

Here is some advice before we get to the shitty part of the story. Don't try dinking wine out of a plastic cup on York Avenue while driving in a Jeep with the top down and New Order on the stereo. The street is under construction and I totally splashed my shirt with Bordeaux.

When we got to her house everything was cool. She really likes Tom, of course, and we drank and talked out on the fire escape. Then for some reason she told us that last Sunday after spending the day with me she hooked up with this filmmaker she met the same night. Things got awkward as you could expect. The fire escape seemed a lot smaller after that and didn't offer me any easy get away.

I stayed the night. When we tried to have sex I couldn't get hard. This is a problem I have once in a while because I drink so much and it doesn't bother me. It might be troublesome if I was sober long enough to think about it, but… But this, after fucking seven times in a night and then not being able to get hard was a sad shock of events. And I would be sad, as I sit here at 8am drinking warm beer and listening to Ryan Adam's Love is Hell 10� vinyl and type away. But I know something you don't know. I know the meaning of life. You want the answer?

Mighty Mighty Lleyton storms into US Open Quarterfinals after a good nights sleep and NOT driving around with Tom and McCutcheon all day yesterday. 2001 champion Hewitt extended his winning streak to 14 matches Tuesday, with a convincing 6-4, 6-2, 6-2 victory over Slovakia's Karol Beck. The fourth-seeded Australian, who has not lost a set in any of his matches here, now moves on to his fifth consecutive US Open quarterfinal, where he will take on the winner of this afternoon's fourth-round match between Tommy Haas and Tomas Berdych.

McCutcheon watched from the blue seats.

If you ask any real New Yorker where something is, and if they actually take the time to explain, they are sure to ad, “It's the best in the city.�

Manhattan has been described as the largest collection of small villages on Earth. And people take pride in where they live and their community. One day I was in McSorely's rustic tavern having a Liverwurst sandwich. That place is teeth and nails real New Yorkers. I've seen tourists come in and not get served. And I don't mean obnoxious patrons but families from Dayton, Ohio.

I asked the bartender where I could get a key made. He looked at me with a hard stare, figured his breath could be wasted, he was doing nothing else but leaning against the bar, and he told me a locksmith on 2nd Ave. He added, “Best locksmith in the city.�

Today on the corner of 17th and 2nd I asked the coffee vender where the hot dog vender was. I hadn't seen him for two days. The coffee vendor said maybe he was sick. I imagine we both had concerned looks on our faces.

The hot dog vender is an ornery hunched over little man of 80. He drinks 12 beers and smokes 2 packs of cigarettes a day. He is missing two fingers on his left hand and one finger on his right. He has been at that corner for the last 26 years and still never learned to speak English. His prices are right. A hot dog, pretzel or knish is a dollar. And, of course, he is the best damn hot dog vendor in the city.


For the last two days my tennis matches have been canceled because of rain. Oh yeah, and they have had rain delays in Flushing Meadows as well.

Sunshine, mighty mighty Lleyton wins in straight sets. Regina Specter makes us happy. we party at Knitting Factory--- no not that Factory Marky... think Milkyway in Amsterdam. so Tom has heart broken by Kraut-- Tommy Haas really is the handsome man, but then so am I sometimes.

9/11. Enough said. Or rather, it has all been said.