WORD ON THE STREET: Hey Mary! How are you and Mark doing? I talked to both of you about two months ago.

MARY: Wow, hey. You remembered my name. Yeah, we’re alright.  We actually started dating right around then. We first saw each other at a Starbucks—we met through a mutual friend—and we were immediately attracted to each other. We later talked about how it was a mutual feeling when we first locked eyes.

Oh yeah? What first struck you about him?

Ha ha! Actually it was his nose—he has a very Italian nose. He’s really insecure about it but I fucking love noses [laughs]. Especially that one.

Do you ever pinch it to just to piss him off?

No, but I kiss it. And I nuzzle it. You know, like Eskimo kisses.

So how did you and Mark start talking?

Well, he adored me. That’s probably what kept me coming back. He was just such a sweetheart; very affectionate.

Did you and Mark go do something your first night?

No, but we would see each other here and there. Mark later told me he would look for me every day, you know,  trying to purposefully bump into me. He was always the same—flirtatious, but in the good way, and not in the obnoxious way, which I get all the time and totally turns me off. The way he did it was just really sweet.

What was Mark’s approach?

Well, he would listen to me in conversation, like just like a friend, but he would give me compliments, good ones, so that I knew he was paying attention to who I am, as opposed to just what my face looks like, or my tits. He said things that genuinely led me to believe that he was beginning to see who I was—and genuinely liked who I was. That’s appreciated.

What’s the nicest thing he ever said to you?

Hmm…I can’t think of it right away. We’ve been fighting so much, lately. He’s actually the shittiest boyfriend ever. What I’m describing is how he was when he first drew me in.

When did things get rocky?

When I realized Mark’s not capable and/or willing to do the things for me that I had done for him. For instance…there are many different ways to show love and affection, right? …Like thinking of that person when they’re not there. If you walk by a florist and you see white roses—and you know those are her favorite—you buy her the white roses. Or, you’re in a record store and you see the favorite album she lost—you buy her the album. Things like that. I had done some things like that for him, and then the time came where he had the opportunity to do something like that for me and it just never happened….Or…let’s be real…I had bought him dope several times, because he doesn’t make money as easily as me. Then there was the time I didn’t have money, and he had $30, and instead of getting me one bag and him two, he got himself three and me none. There were other things, like I would buy him a gigantic thing called Tilt in the morning, and he wouldn’t even want to give me a few sips. He would just grunt and complain. He’s very selfish and it’s becoming more and more frequent. I’m just realizing that’s who he is. He hid it well, at first.

That sounds frustrating.

Yeah, and he lies about things. He’s just very consumed by taking care of his needs and doesn’t seem concerned with being with someone else in the way a relationship requires.

Where’s Mark right now?

Where is Mark right now? Probably passed out on a park bench or crashing into a wall. I don’t know; he’s inebriated wherever he is.

Do you like him inebriated?

Nooo, he’s terribly obnoxious. But, then again, when he’s completely straight in the morning, he’s miserable. But then, in the middle of the day before it’s too crazy, he’s normal. You know, he’s not fucked up to the point where he’s stumbling on his words and being boisterous. He’s straight enough to have a civilized conversation. And be sweet.

He’s at his best in the afternoon.

Well, it all depends on how much money he makes….I think sometimes it’s my fault. I’d never had a relationship on the street before. Maybe my expectations are too high—that’s what Mark tells me—and that I’m expecting too much from him. What I keep telling him is all I expect is decency, to be honest, to think of me when I’m not there, to be where he says he’s going to be. And to not be so selfish. There’s no reason to treat me that way…but he’s so conditioned by what he’s been through on the street that he just treats everyone in this way—as if it’s him against the world.

I think that’s a common theme among us young men.

Yeah, but I think you should put that aside when you meet someone you’ve supposedly fallen in love with. He tells me he “loves” me all the time.

You’ve been together two months and you’re using the L-word.

Yeah, that started about a month ago or so. I said it first. I was the one to say, you know what, how about we just be boyfriend and girlfriend and be committed. You don’t shit on me and I won’t shit on you and let’s take it from there. I don’t remember exactly when I told Mark I loved him, but he had probably just done something sweet.

What’s something sweet he does?

OK, he does do sweet things all the time. He takes my shoes off every night and massages them. Every night. And he hugs me and holds me and touches me. Mark is very physically affectionate.

You said before he’s an angel when he sleeps.

Yes! That’s when it’s the most peaceful and beautiful, when we’re falling asleep and lying in bed. It’s just pure affection and innocence, you know? Nobody’s looking for anything, nobody’s being selfish. We’re relaxed, calm, and we’re in the moment.

Is the sex good?

It’s very good! Maybe that’s what’s keeping me going. He’s surprisingly good in bed. I can tell if a man is going to be good with me in bed, just by the way he touches me at first. My reaction to Mark’s first touch was: This is how I like to be touched.

Did you guys do anything special for Valentine’s Day?

I was alone on Valentine’s Day. We’re weren’t really together-together on that day. Actually, my valentine was an overdose.

Oh, fuck.

Yeah, I was on cocaine and heroin. My dealer gave me a gift by giving me $70-worth of coke when I had only bought $40. I figured I would just push this as far as it will go. I put it all in the cooker at once and shot it and I had a seizure.

That sounds painful.

I actually came out of it feeling very good and wanting to do it again. Nobody else wanted me to do it again, though. They took care of me right there—the seizure didn’t last long. Mark wasn’t there that night—I was hanging with my dealer and a couple other girls.

What was Mark’s reaction?

He told me shooting cocaine was no good and he asked me to stop because it’s crazy or stupid. You know, the general caring reaction.

Are you going to miss sleeping next to Mark tonight? Or do you think you’ll find him?

Well, we agreed to meet up at ten o’clock on St. Mark’s and Second Avenue, and if he’s not, he’s in big trouble.

Do you think you guys are going to work it out?

I totally see us having a future—if we left New York and/or just generally got off the drugs and tried to do the right thing and live a good life—the way we were meant to…or the way that would be most conducive to our happiness.

Why can’t you keep the love and the drugs?

Because they make people someone they’re not, and Mark is not a selfish junkie who lies; Mark has become that because of the life he needs to live to maintain the drug usage.

How do you know that about Mark if you’ve only known him to be a junkie?

Everyone has their light, and everyone has their darkness, and his light shines through occasionally when the drugs aren’t as prevalent. The drugs have kind of taken over right now, but it doesn’t mean he has to be that way the rest of his life.

You said you were in jail recently. Mark must have been worried.

Oh, yes he was, but not at first. We had had an argument, because he lied to me when he said he didn’t get any bags out of copping for someone when he actually did. I yelled at him, walked away, and I got arrested just a few hours later. He had assumed I had just left town and that he meant nothing to me and he was pissed.

Why did you get arrested?

I was inside one of my dealers’ houses…narcotics had been watching him and I didn’t know it. So my dealer was expecting his dealer to show up at any moment, and when there was a knock at the door he didn’t look in the peephole and he opened the door wide open. Behind him sitting on the carpet was me and two other ladies shooting dope and coke—that was enough for the cops. Before I knew it we were all in handcuffs. I would have been released the next day, but someone messed up on my paperwork—which happens all the time with people who don’t have expensive lawyers—and I got stuck in Riker’s Island for 20 days on a $1 bail. Once Mark found out what happened he couldn’t have even gone to pay it because I was under a fake name. I was so dope-sick you wouldn’t believe it. I had the worst vomiting, diarrhea, and disgusting aching body for seven days until I finally got medicated with methadone.  But that’s the deal you make with Satan when you start shooting dope—you have to live through that suffering. So my dealer got released, paid our bail paid and ran up to Mark and told him where I was. Mark felt so awful because he had been angry.

Was it was a happy reunion.

Oh, my god. When I first saw him he looked so happy. He jumped on me and kissed me in front of everybody, all the street kids. I hadn’t made someone light up like that in a long time.

Is there anything else you’d like to say about Mark?

[Sighs] That I love him, even though he’s not perfect.

–PETER MADSEN

Ps. WordontheStreetNewYork has become nearly unnavigable–and totally inaccessible to me–just yesterday. There’s this stretch of code or something on the top of my homepage that has appeared. My website’s back-end is wordpress.org blog. Does anybody know what to do? If so please contact me at pfmadsen@gmail.com

I went to SXSW last week because Thrasher magazine was putting on a “Texas Death Match,” a four-day, two-stage event at the Scoot Inn, replete with a six-foot mini ramp in the back. Having freelanced to them for a few years from afar (they’re stationed in San Francisco), I figured I’d do well to pony up for a plane ticket and meet them out there–my editor said he’d give me enough assignments to make it worth my while. When I saw the playbill (Odd Future, Pentagram, Das Racist, Hunx & His Punx, Pentagram, Danny Brown, etc.) I knew I was making a wise investment.

Photo by John Prolly

Once I got to Austin I knew I’d additionally made the right decision to check my bike and skateboard there, too (despite the oversize fees costing me nearly the price of my front wheel). But just look at those wide open streets! Smooth sloping hills, and normal, right-next-to-the-curb bike lanes aplenty! I went to Austin knowing that it’s great for cycling but I was nonetheless amazed by how courteous motorists were. I don’t think I had to make my usual “Yo! Yip!” sounds or use my bell but a couple times, and that was directed at distracted show-goers instead of the usually impatient, presumably constipated NYC cabdrivers.

I concede it’s kind of a stereotype that late-20-something skateboarders get into track bikes, but that’s fine. These two things are huge sources of enjoyment; the bike anymore, I admit, more frequently so. Sometimes stereotypes are around because they’re true.

A bike friend put me in touch with Drew, an Austinite he met in Puerto Rico during a vacation, who let me crash and showed me around town. I got into town a couple days before Thrasher‘s event started on Wednesday so I could unwind a bit. ”Wanna go to a bike gang party and keep drinking beer?” Why yes, yes I do.

Black Label, a local bike gang, had a bunch of folks out for some beer-drinking relays. I opted out of that and tallbike-jousting and made myself useful by manning beer runs.

I know a lot of people would be thrilled by this sight but I bypassed it several times for more tall cans of Lone Star. Tell me, what is wrong with shitty beer? I know Four Loko is cost-effective, but, what’s the sprint-to-the-finish, snow cone-tasting rush?

$5.52 for Camel Filter Wides? That’s not bad. I quit two years ago but I still find cigarette prices cut in third…interesting. Anybody know the current prices in Missouri? $2.70 last I was there…

Back at the Black Label party, this flame-shooting marching band appeared, cheerfully enough, out of nowhere. The trombonist had a cabled gas canister attached to his waist, which he ran to the rear of his horn. Christ, just don’t inhale.

The party migrated to someone’s house nearby where we found this contraption in the backyard. Drew and I took turns trying to subdue this thing until it swiftly popped my shoulder out of socket. What’s that saying, “You play around, you lay around?” I’d had enough fun for the day.

Photo by John Prolly

The next day I caught up with John Prolly, prolific bicycle blogger, and we rode around as Austin got ready for SXSW. This cyclist knows you gotta time the lights if you want to systematically catch all-greens (nice monstrous leg definition by the way, there, guy!).

Prolly showed me this sick spot by the springs. Don’t doubt the man’s got some hops. I took his Milwaukee Bruiser for a spin and, after nearly wrecking after a couple two-inch airs, I sheepishly set his bike down. My shoulder throbbed with gratitude.

Things started cooking at the Scoot Inn come Wednesday. Above, Das Racist. “All the non-white people please come to the front!” (I interviewed them at two in the morning later in the week in a back room at Emo’s and it went…terribly. After one particular dud of a question my publicist friend nudged me and said, OK, now you’re prodding. Whoops. Das Racist and I apologized to each other about three times and we agreed to redo the interview back in Brooklyn.)

I caught Gavin’s stand-up routine, which elicited a variety of yucks, chuckles, a guffaws. He made a great point about speed boats and cock-blocking, a not so practical tip on consuming cocaine in mild, public environments, and promised we’d all get laid at SXSW (I…didn’t. Weep.) I saw Gavin later at the Thrasher party, and I asked him if he’d checked out the skating on the mini ramp. “I’m 40 years old. I don’t check out skating, just like I don’t check out street hockey.” Yikes. I told him he might be at the wrong party, and though I said it nicely, I think that’s the curtest I’ve ever said to the guy. I doubt he gave a shit, as I saw him there again the next day. He looked good in his new, white cowboy hat. I sincerely mean that.

I, for one, checked out the skating. This flick of Raney Beres I took ended up on the Thrasher website. Beyond this dude, Kenny Anderson, Ethan Fowler, Braydon Szafranski, Justin Strubing, and others put forth some quality shredding.

Photo by Jordan Joseffer

Mr. Andrew W. K. and I hash it out–once again. We very smartly applied (100 spf) sunscreen before we got going.

Photo by Brock Fetch

I interviewed Detroit-based Danny Brown. Not only is his music incredibly fucking funny, but he’s equally so during an interview. He answered my last question, in part, by making a loud, slurping sound. He is my new favorite rapper, and he can be yours, too:

Speaking of rappers…You no doubt heard by know how nuts the Odd Future set was. I was seriously worried for the safety of Tyler and Hodgy Beats (and, gulp, the kid whose nose is about to get smashed when he lands on him).

OK…this one takes a bit of context: Saturday afternoon, I was at the hotel and I had to pee. Even though I was alone I closed the bathroom door. Once I finished, though, it wouldn’t open again; the knob would spin and spin in either direction–and I left my cell phone on the bed! After ten minutes of banging on all and screaming, “SOMEBODY HELP ME! I’M STUCK IN THE BATHROOM! ROOM 215! HELP!!!”, my fate set in–I would miss several assignments, stuck in this 4′x8′ room in an empty hotel, quietly hyperventilating, while the folks at Thrasher wondered why I wasn’t meeting up to interview people. I kicked the door with my heel and was surprised when it went nearly through. This door is made of particle board! I grabbed a wall-mounted clothing iron and started banging away. When that broke in my hands, I grabbed the ironing board itself and, well, shredded a hole in the door. A full size mirror crashed in shards, much to my (regretful!) aural satisfaction. I later evoked that scene in The Shining to describe the damage but, ah, as you see, that’s kinda under-evokes it. Jordan, the staffer I was staying with, was rightly concerned about the damage–he’d put the room on his credit card–but I met with the hotel manager in the morning and he agreed I shouldn’t have to pay for damages. Thank God.

Before SXSW was over I’d interviewed this Josh T. Pearson:

Killer Mike:

Piper Halewell:

And, happily, this guy, one of my favorite interviewers ever:

My buddy Drew and I bookended my week in Austin with another bike gang party, thrown by the Skidmarks.

“Throw” is really the operative word in that sentence, as a variety of heavy objects–including a severed pig’s head, were catapulted at random show-goers.

Charmed! Thanks Austin!

Here’s a great edit of the Death Match highlights:

PETER MADSEN

RAY RILLEY, 56, HELL’S KITCHEN (“Or what’s left of it”)

Did you watch the Olympics? You said you paid attention to the hockey game between Canada and the United States.

Just in the newspaper. I know the US was not given good odds going into the game. They surprised a lot of people.

Somebody said that because Canada has so many NHL veterans and the US has so many relative newcomers, that watching the game was like watching a varsity team scrimmage with the JV. Do you think that is an accurate way to think of it?

No. No, they’re all professional players. Canadians are just inherently better hockey players than Americans. Where are you from?

The USA. Why, do you think I talk funny?

Yes, a little. You sound Canadian.

That’s the Minnesotan in me.  By the way, do you think we could argue that Minnesotans are inherently better hockey players than the rest of Americans?

It seems like hockey is a bigger sport in the East than in the rest of the country. I don’t know about Minnesota, per se. If you tell me it’s big there, I’ll believe what you’re saying. Boston, New York, Philadelphia, The Northeast in general: the farther you get away from there, it’s like nobody cares about hockey.

Did you grow up playing hockey?

No, never did.

Did you ice skate?

No.

How about roller skating?

Um, roller skating: yes.

Did you play roller hockey?

No.

You know, it’s not too late for you. They have city leagues in the summer, or if you want—

—I know. It’s getting very big, especially on Long Island. Street hockey is huge there.

Is that where you’re from?

No, I was born in Philadelphia. I lived in Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and New York. I’m your tri-state guy, here.

Did you hear about the luger who died?

Yeah.

What do you think of figure skating?

I don’t see a sport in that. I understand it’s a competition but I’m a baseball and football fan, primarily. With football, you see the sport in the clicking of the helmets.

Baseball has the crack of the bat.

And the blocking of the base. It’s not entirely a non-contact sport.

What do you think is the most honorable sport for an American man to play?

If I had my choice I would want to be a baseball player. To me they have the most fun life of any of the professional athletes.

What’s up with the weather? Do you think this most recent snowstorm is going to be our last of the season?

No, because we have March now and it’s a very unpredictable month. It could be 90 degrees one day and then 45 degrees the next.

In Iowa we say we’re not in the clear until the high school girls have had their state championship.

The girls’ championship must be after the boys’, then, huh?

Yeah, I suppose so.

…but he don’t like swears. Just recently he publically reprimanded me on Facebook for filling a status update with the f-word (I was bemoaning my work being interrupted by an insultingly loud coffeeshop band–a sentiment he would share had he been there), adding how I should attend anger management classes.

For reals? See, it took precisely 3.7 seconds lurking his facebook page to find the above piece of incrimination–which was once very publically his facebook thumbnail, no less! Yes, that is the noggin of Saddam Hussein my father is resting his sandy L.L. Bean sole on. While the sentiment is funny and a safe one to hold, I will curb my enthusiam as I point out how, in Islamic culture, showing the bottom of one’s shoe is a tremendously filthy thing to do–it is the cultural equivolent of “flipping the bird,” only this gesture packs so much more oomph because you’re literally acquainting them with the dirtiest parts of your day. This convention is so alive and well, certain forms of leg-crossing are strictly no-no’d–a fact mentioned in the Islamic cultural guidebook my dad passed down to me. My father’s facebooked expression is exponentially more offensive than whatever textual virulence I spewed at the shitty band at Cafe Orwell.

I figure my dad and I should just agree that swearing is 1.) fun, 2.) therapeutic, 3.) and something he, I, and everybody else we know enjoy doing every single day. Anyway, what’s a hearty exchange of Fuckin’ A! between father and son but the sweet, swift sound of a hatchet being buried.

Photo by Seth Olenick

I’m excited to report the good folks at Interview were sufficiently interested in Paul they posted the non-penis-related end of the conversation Paul and I had earlier this week for Street Carnage. Do check it out here.

Before the interview I asked a few mutual friends of Paul and I to tell me what they thought about Paul’s work. Danielle Santangelo who ran in the same theater circles as Paul now lives in Melbourne, Australia. She wrote the following about Paul:

Paul and I knew each other fairly well in college. He always did the most tragically gorgeous skits at No Shame…they all had this air of childhood innocense and curiousity juxtaposed with some darkly grotesque materialization of the human condition.

Nudity was a common theme, and I remember many people (jealous types, right?) complaining that it was his cop-out for an “ending” worthy of any value of shock. And yes, there was certainly a level of shock that came with seeing a wagging little penis gyrating onstage as its owner paraded around singing at the top of his lungs (especially to first-time no shamers).

But I think a lot of people saw it as very confronting, and sort of a physical representation of the themes of his skits: Here was this lanky, pale man-boy sort of refusing to grow up, all the while being terrifically aware of his happy little care-free world melting into the grotesqueries of adult reality.

I’d say that most of his skits revolved around a realization by a naive-type that the consequences of growing up are disturbing and agonizing. a heartbreaking descent into incomprehensibility ensues.

So yeah, smart little guy. One of my favorites was called “Naughty Words.” Paul played the little boy, Jeremy, Chris Stangl played his father, and Aprille Clarke played his mother. a copy of the script is here. It’s really my favorite ever. I directed it for one of my final directing projects my last year of school.

I was in a full-length play of his called Bumblegum Brigade in 2004. Again with the themes of childhood innocense metamorphosing into adult-themed grotesqueries. This time a bit more literal. It’s regarded as the greatest workshop production (low-budget) ever put on the UI Theatre Department stage.

I also have fond memories of watching Paul as the frontman of My Business Failed In Three Weeks, a twisted lo-fi garage band with hits like “Givin’ 110%” and “Office Chair.” They were just getting out of conceptual-band territory when all the dudes graduated and had to disband. Paul frequently found a way to make a Mick Jagger impression work in a whine-core version of “Man In the Mirror.”

Another great memory is sitting with him in the audience at the midnight premiere of “Freddy Vs. Jason.” Paul is really into trashy horror, and Freddy Vs. Jason was certainly no exception. The theatre was packed, sold-out, and buzzing with geek-saturated anticipation minutes before the lights dimmed. Suddenly Paul starts clapping and chanting, loud enough for the whole theatre to hear him:

“WHO WANTS FREDDY TO WIN SHOUT YAAAAAYYYYYY!!!!”

(crowd goes wild)

“WHO WANTS JASON TO WIN SHOUT YAAAAAYYYYYYYY!!!”

(crowd goes wild)

Silly it was, but he managed to encapsulate the nonsensical and for-the-fans spirit of the film.

My boss made some funny videos that the WSJ and Gawker have mixed feelings about.

We’re still waiting for this to come out:

Paul Rust and I were acquaintances at Iowa and I was thrilled to see him in the trailer for Quentin Tarantion’s fantastic Inglourious Basterds.

You can see him ever so briefly at the 12-second mark.

I can’t believe I didn’t mention this appearance in the 2009 MTV Movie Awards.

Click here to read the Street Carnage article.

[note: I hope to link to another version of the interview tomorrow. If the publication in question doesn't bite I'll post the second set of questions here.]

Nick and I shared filming duty on this video for his friends’ production company, Screaming Panda. We told the kids at the park we were filming Clark Hassler for the enjoi video and they believed us. Which was cruel and funny at the same time.

This was my first time ever filming, and I made plenty of rookie mistakes. Let’s play I-spy and list them:

I probably should have crouched down and held the camera lower.

I have little concept of angles and placement.

My free arm kept getting in the way, so I made a point of cocking it behind my back. And while this is extraneous to the actual video product, I nonetheless cringe when I watch this video because I appear limper than a drunken politician stumbling out the Giraffe.

Props to Jeff (dressed as the panda) for soldering through the shoot. He did the flip a half dozen times (spraining his ankle in the process). I tried his panda helmet on and seriously, the fact he could do tricks (he was warming up with clean kickflips in full Panda garb), let alone skate, is remarkable. That thing allows for absolutely no periral vision, and the fur suit was coated in an easy-to-clean, horrifically unbreathable plastic lining. Oh, fun note: Jeff was skating in suede Uggs, which he said were not only comfortable but had great board-feel. Who would have thought the ugliest thing to happen to women’s feet might just be the most optimal footwear for New York’s harsh, dry winters.