New York Scribbles

[mccutcheon]

Dick Cheney is a fart bag like Darth Vader and his gay lesbo daughter is like Luke Skywalker. We need Han Solo more than ever. And John Kerry ain't Yoda. But that is okay. Because ANY E.T. BODY OR BUDDY BUT BUSH. The force not be with us.

Why do I over simplify and extranet my metaphor?

Because it is the only language Bush can understand. If you think deep you ain't a Greek philosophizer but a flip flopper. No need to know the real issues, or facts that have hard questions and that need thought behind them. Bush will spell it all out, wrongly, and in the end be worse than Hamlet. Warmonger who will burn in hell.

(Not the hell Luna and I am going to-- but that is a happy story with sex drugs and rock and roll. Bush's hell will frozen over, while ours will be melting lust---but there you go…another difference and another reason to love instead of being the man responsible for the whole world hating your country and being the man in charge of being an international killer of people.)

History repeats itself, and if Bush keeps it up we are going down like the Romans, only in a lot less fun way.

Bush is a used up and mind fucked little puppet. Ice tea is all he needs. The Dark Side has got him. He was always willing to give in because the coke and booze was too much. He had to become a Christian because having fun and still living was too overwhelming for is minuscule mind.

And like all sad fucks who go through a so- called rehab and the 12 step program he is an over zealous zealot trying to ruin the good times for us all.

Life could be different. He could have stayed the loser who escaped duty and hid when the going got tough, he could have stayed the small town Texas village idiot. Instead he is operating on a global stage.

And of course he never liked France. What does he offer when it comes to culture, great wine and good times? Bush couldn't handle the Bon Vivant and he wants us all to suffer for it. Even worse, he made many people die for it.

Time to watch the Pack.

[mccutcheon]

Things I have been thinking about. And I better get it out now before the drinking starts. It is 9am and I'm going to Coney Island….So, Brett and Tom (not Tommy) are both beautiful boys with the physiques of middle weight boxers….Brett has a beautiful wife and a new born baby which I can only imagine is beautiful. Tommy (not Tom) ((likes Rugby because I can only imagine needs male contact and doesn't want to be called a poofter)) (((I can post this here because he never reads it, and even if he does, he can't reply ha ha ha))) has a beautiful wife and two beautiful kids, which I don't know too well, but I'm sure Missy Tommy likes it that way, and baby, does the Sloth have a beautiful wife? Fuck yes!!! Yes he does!!! Slothster has the most beautiful wife. And me? Well, I ain't got shit. But the other night this girl said to me, “I've never been with a guy like you before.� And I thought, okay here it goes, she is gonna call me fat. But instead, she says, “I've never been with a pretty boy like you. You are the prettiest boy I've ever seen.� Well, Tom was in the room and so I said, “You ain't seeing him. You are fucking me. Remember?� But she meant me. And so today I can leave my house and go on a diet. Time to start drinking. I'm on a diet. Remember?

[mccutcheon]

Pack won!!! Don't go to the South.

[mccutcheon]

Tom remember when I tried to go to Coney Island and didn't get past Canal street and I called you up and said meet you there?

Who did I meet? Mav Man.

[mccutcheon]

Three Lower East side cool cat girls are sitting a few barstools down from me. I try to look at them without them noticing, to see if they might be checking me out. I can't tell. If it's a game we play they are winning.

My cell phone rings again.

“Hello?�

“Brady?�

It's Shannon.

“Yeah?�

“Where are you?�

“At a bar.�

“You gotta get up really early tomorrow.�

“I know.�

“You all packed?�

“Yeah.� I lie. Lying to Shannon is becoming too easy for me.

“And you are gonna get up?�

“Yeah, why sleep in and waste all that morning drinking time?�

“You are cute.�

“Thanks.�

“See you tomorrow then.�

“Okay.�

Shannon hangs up. I look down the bar. The girls are gone. Time to live to fight for another day. I pay my tab and walk outside. I hail a cab home. The driver tells me that religion is the Devils work, created by Satan so good people will kill each other in the name of a deity.

“Yeah, yeah.� I agree. And close my eyes and pray I survive the tour.

[mccutcheon]

This is taken from the weekly New York rag the NY Press. The better Village Voice as I call it.

BURN IT CLEAN
Post-breakup contact helps no one.

By Judy McGuire
dategirl@nypress.com

Q:

My somewhat-longtime girlfriend just moved to the city. We'd been carrying on a reasonably successful long-distance thing, seeing each other perhaps a week out of every month, if not more. It was sweet, and good.

But a week after moving here (the day she found work), she suddenly tells me we should just be friends. She used the old "I love you but I'm no longer in love with you" line. I was understandably devastated. For one, because throughout the time I've known her, she'd never given me the impression she was having these kinds of thoughts. We'd really had an incredibly close and moving relationship—or so I thought—and she'd confirmed that impression on more than a few occasions. I'm also upset because I spent much time and energy helping to get her up here, doing whatever she needed me to do—and frankly, now I feel really used, and lied to.

The problem I'm having is this—she keeps calling, sending me text messages, etc., asking me how I'm doing and telling me she misses me! She even called me the day of what would have been our anniversary to let me know she still loved me, cared about me, respected me. Every time I start to think I'm getting over her, she gets in touch with me and the agita starts up again.

When this first started (the breakup happened a while ago), I saw her a couple of times. Both times I was a bit of a wreck afterward. Now I simply want to yell at her to leave me the hell alone, and truly answer her with, "How the hell do you think I'm doing? You left me, I'm not exactly a bowl of cherries," or something a bit harsher than that.

I just don't know what happened—if she's lonely and freaked out and just looking for a friend, or if she's genuinely fucking with me. If it's really over, I want it to be over. I don't know if I should blow her off completely, or confront her about this. I'm generally a pretty strong guy, but this feels like salt in my wounds, and I've never experienced anything like this before. All I know is that I still am hung up on her, but I can't let her eat up my life and my energy this way.

Honestly, at this point, what should I do? How should I handle it when she calls, or expects me to call her back?

—Felix


A:

A certain gentleman of my, ahem, acquaintance feels compelled to remain friends with all his ex-girlfriends. And not just the nice ones either. He's on good terms with the cheaters and crazies as well. Why? He's tried to explain himself many times, but it's like he's speaking another language. Does not compute. Though I'm friends with one or two exes and bear no ill will toward many others, generally when someone dumps me, that's it. Done. They're dead to me. Hard-hearted, yes; practical, also yes.

On the subway yesterday, I ran into an acquaintance who told me about a breakup she'd recently suffered. What made her pain more acute was that within a week of dumping her, her ex had already found himself a new girlfriend (to add insult to injury: a Bikram yoga instructor!) with whom he moved in almost immediately. This girl bravely told me how she was trying to remain pals with him but was having a hard time of it. I'll bet.

"Why the hell would you try to stay friends with him?" I yelped, genuinely outraged. She hemmed and hawed, and it quickly became apparent that she was only trying to do so because she's been brainwashed into believing that staying friendly with the jackass who broke her heart is the right thing to do. No!

I told her and I'll tell you: There's no reason in the world not to harbor a little rage toward the person who used your heart as toilet paper. Sure, one shouldn't let the anger become all-consuming or provoke one into perpetrating felonious behavior, but what's wrong with a hearty "Fuck you!" or a few unsolicited bill-me-later porno mag subscriptions? I'll tell you what's wrong with that—nothing!

Stifling your anger makes you ill. Why should you suffer when the other person is at fault? She used you, dumped you and then, instead of having the good sense to bow out gracefully, she keeps calling and sending you mixed messages. And do not think for one minute that these pathetic olive branches aren't her way of assuaging the guilt she feels for doing you wrong. If you don't hate her, she can't hate herself.

However, if you keep seeing her and responding to her dopey text messages, you have only yourself to blame. Time to buck up and tell her to piss off. At least for now. Inform her that her continued presence in your life is only serving to make you miserable. If at some later date (after you've fully recovered and are dating someone 10 times hotter) you feel like a friendship with her is something you wish to pursue, you will contact her. Until that point in time, she is to leave you the hell alone. Chin up!


McCutcheon replies to Date Girl:

Dearest Judy McGuire

Burn it Clean was the best advice I've ever read- or
could relate to when it comes to break ups. After my
first ever real fucking painful heartbreak I made lots
of drunken phone calls and let her into the fact I was
wetting my pillow with tears every night. This did
nothing to win her back. After going off the deep end
ala the Charlie Nicholas break up in High Fidelity I
sort of got my act together. And one of the things I
learned was that when it is over it is over.
I still long for you Danielle but don't worry I won't call.

Since then I've only had two longish relationships,
and when they ended I was stoic and Burned It Clean. I
wasn't a bad breaker upper or even subscribed them
issues of porn. I just wanted all contact to end- to
deal with the hurt on my own. This behavior lead to me
gaining a reputation as heartless; I was accused of
being an immature ex boyfriend. I was concerned that
maybe I was too sensitive for this world and that even
though it hurt me I had to make the effort to stay
friends. I asked a few girls I knew what they thought
and they made it clear I was in the wrong, one even
clarified with a, “like if 9/11 happened again you
will really regret it.� Only if I survive, I thought.

I was going through life as a big wimpy loser until
one night my sister and I were going through a few
bottles of wine on Ludow St and I asked her about it.
She said shit no. Once it's over it is over. Thank you
and goodbye. Don't let the door hit you on the ass on
the way out. I concluded what I thought was once a
problem between genders was really just a problem with
my family. Until now. Thank you. I'm almost looking
forward to that next break up, ya know, as soon as I
find a girlfriend. But that's another whole problem.

Cheers, McCutcheon

[mccutcheon]

Sudafedlica---Sudafedalized---Sudafried---Sudafucked

I've been struck down very sick with the flu and since there are no more influenza vaccinations left in the great United States of America I've just had to deal with it.

Today Tom called and demanded why I wasn't writing on NYC Scribbles. I explained my computer caught a virus and I caught a virus and The Pack is losing and Howard Stern is going to outer space. So why bother.

Tom told me to buck up like a buckaroo. I don't want to buck anything at this moment so this posting will be shit. It's not like I've been overpaid to do it or I have a dead line. I'm just the walking dead--- more on that later.

The other day sick as a Lower East Side junkie in the 70's and loaded up on a cocktail of cold medicine I went on a chicken soup for the soul expedition. I started looking around 1st Ave. diners for the kind of nutrients somebody else's mom made. I mean I've seen Norman Rockwell paintings hanging on coed dorm walls but I have never been inside one personally. The paintings that is, I have had the pleasure of being inside a few coeds.

My head was spinning around like it was lost inside an Orbital song. I was walking around like a Shaun of the Dead zombie having Stone Roses albums thrown at me.

From the movie:

Shaun and fat friend have their record crate out and are zipping vinyl at the zombies.

“Stone Roses.�

“No.�

“It's Second Coming.�

“I like it.�

“Prince, Purple Rain.�

“No way.�

“Sign Of The Times.�

“Nooo.�

“Batman Soundtrack.�

“Throw it!�

I ended up in some walk-in clinic cafeteria with unhealthy freaks and helpful geeks. That is not being very nice to either group. If you are ever feeling sorry for yourself go volunteer at these places. When you see a guy in a wheel chair with the body of an elf and a head the size and color of a pumpkin the fact that your novel isn't published doesn't seem like such a great disaster. And I saw a cute nurse, cute for any standard and not just the geekish, and she was wearing Pumas, a brand name that Pax Acidus endorses and a tight T-Shirt that read- I Heart Nerds. I feel in love with her immediately and then checked myself out because I was too near the saddest institution ever- the children's hospital.

I tried a few Chinese restaurants but all the PHO didn't seem appetizing. I went into a Bodega with the healing chicken soup, only it was self-serve and when I lifted the lid on the pot it looked like vomit slowly simmering.

I finally went into a diner on 3rd Ave. crowded with cops. I was only tripping on over the counter pharmaceuticals and still the paranoia crept in. I couldn't keep the Strokes' song New York City Cops out of my robot hustling and Pseudoephedrine Hydrochloride head. I never made it home.

On another note of non-interest I've been having loads of great sex with girls who don't like me very much. That is another post when I become human again and can function without the cherry cough drops.

[mccutcheon]

Yankees Mystique. I don't believe in that shit. But then, either did the Twins.

In eighth grade I was in the chorus of Damn Yankees. I wasn't talented enough to get a lead role or anything and since there weren't too many guys who even went out for theatre the teacher was grateful to stick me in at the back and with a pat on the head whispered in my ear, “You, you don't worry about singing too loud.�

Around the same time the Dallas Cowboys were America's team and my beloved Pack was in a decade slump. As I was a lonely, sensitive, impressionable lad these experiences combined to affirm in me a life long love affair with the great losers of this world. I've always rooted for the underdog. And I hate the big money teams, the show offs-- the LA Lakers, Manchester United and Real Madrid and yes, those damn Yankees. But I have to say the Bronx Bombers make October baseball fucking exciting.

I watched the game with Tom down at Ryan's and was a little pleased that the Twins took a 5-1 lead. My favorite player in the post season has been Torii Hunter and I was hoping he would make a game winning play. That was in doubt with a four run cushion, so I sat back and enjoyed the game, the pints of Guinness and flirting with Shannon our waitress. I came up with the ultimate drinker's drink, a drink for when the body is pickled by too much booze but ya just can't stop the tipple—an Alka-Seltzer Martini named the Fizzing Fitzgerald after the great F. Scott.

While I was enjoying myself Tom wasn't. He kept biting into his A Rod T-shirt with a look of disgust and worry. During the seventh inning stretch he threw a tizzy fit and a bottle of Heinz ketchup against the wall. Luckily we are handsome men who the wait staff wants to sleep with so we got to stay. Plus this was a rowdy NYC bar and the Yankees were in the playoffs. There were a lot bigger things being thrown than a bottle of ketchup, like the overweight couple from Duluth, Minnesota who got thrown out the door. Well, we all know what happened, it's in the history books, as they say. Next up are the BoSox. It's gonna be a blast.

Oh how it must suck to be a Minnesota sports fan. Last year the Vikings jump to a 6-0 lead, and then they don't even make the playoffs when the Arizona Cardinals throw a fourth down and 26-yard touchdown pass with no time left on the clock in the last game of the season. That happened down in the Evil Heat and gave the Pack a Wild Card berth. I don't believe in mystique but I do know I had something to do with that.

Tonight is Morrissey at Radio City Music Hall. Sometimes the fun never stops.

[mccutcheon]

It doesn't get better than Pills and Thrills. Still, I broke my right big toe playing soccer yesterday. it hurts like a motherfucker. Another sip should help that pain.

Sometimes the fun does stop. It's not the worst I've looked, it's just the wost I've felt. Last thing I remember is talking to Chole S. from Kids and Tom telling me about pre-cum. After that it was all Lower East Side fuckedupness.

Good things in life:

Morrissey show last night. Quote from the Moz--"I see people bootlegging this, good choice." He was on fire. And Radio City Music Hall doesn't upset.

Tom.

Myke. (who has been calling and crying and wants to fuck Tom.)

Driving fast in NYC (me in the passanger seat with drink in hand, the music loud, Happy Mondays of course, the bright lights of the big city flashing by, hoping to live not caring if I die.)

Bruce Spingsteen's Nebraska. Today I drink beer for breakfast with this album on the turntable-- quickish, and now I'm off to the subway. I'm taking the N to Astoria, but I might fuck up and take the Q to Coney Island.

Lunalee who I wish I could have a drink with in the morning while making love to Bruce Sprinsteen's Nebraska. It's not all Born in the USA ya know.

Bad things in death:

RIP Superman.

[mccutcheon]

So the best pick up line that works for a model you have seen in a magazine is, "So what do you do? You sorta look like you work at Taco Bell but I won't hold that against you. This is my gay friend Tom."

It worked for me. Though she was only pretty on the outside. Never heard of Morrissey or McCutcheon.

[mccutcheon]

I just looked in the mirror and I was beautiful. Too bad it won't last. I also read some of my work and thought I was a talented. Too bad it won't last.

[mccutcheon]

Ryan Adam's Gold is about the East Village and heart break.

Somehow, Someday.

Girls just don't get this one. But it is good.

See you on the streets.

[mccutcheon]

Prince and Purple Rain and the Replacements and Let It Be are the best albums ever. Who knew it all came out of Fargo in the 80's. And yes I know where Faro is.


Echo and the Bunnymen anyone? Yes please.

[mccutcheon]

Anyone want to go to rehab with me for the fun and free food? We must sleep together and have lots of sex. At the same time. If you know what I mean. I think it's called 'Making Love.'

[mccutcheon]

http://www.cmj.com/

Tonight I'm going to Clinic at Irving Plaza. Also on my playbill is Camper Van Beethoven, U.S.E. from Seattle, Sonic Boom, The Fall, Low, TV on the Radio, Interpol, The Zombies, Love with Arthur Lee, and Colder to name a few.