Scott Capurro

GT Magazine
Scott Capurro
February, 2008

Surely we’re not still celebrating Valentine’s Day. Lovers dancing in the streets whilst tossing rose petals over one another is at best gloatingly showy and at worst environmentally unsound; and Hallmark cards that read “I love our kind of love” are as embarrassing as right-wing Zionism.

On February 14th, can’t we just say ‘well done’ after an efficient blowjob, and return to the Guardian? Regular, expedient sex is the most decent gift one partner can give another. So who needs cupid?

There are simply far too many problems to read about, and romance, according to Rachel, the dwarf hooker working outside my building, is a big time waster. Speaking of ‘big’, she’s tiny, or, as Oprah might claim, a person of restrictive growth. Vertically, Rachel is 34 inches, but she’s packed a whole lot of love into that diminutive frame. In fact I’ve seen her in action.

One day in October, while dumping my rubbish, I came almost face to face with a tall man standing behind my buildings’ large, round, metal garbage bin. His eyes were closed, his head tilted back, so he didn’t notice me, and I thought, oh great, another taxi driver with a bladder problem. Then I spotted, peeking out from behind the bin, two small, curled up lady shoes. I thought, ok, either the sky has fallen and we’ve lost another wicked witch, or this dude is getting a hummer from a mini-me. Happily, the witch and the munchkin were one and the same.

When returning late from a gig, I often see Rachel tugging on her denim skirt and readjusting the black wig she wears to make her look less like a little girl, because pedophiles are scary. But cruising for cock on the desolate streets of East London? “I can take care of myself”. She’s from Swansea, and high above from my living room window, I’ve witnessed her doing pushups. She’s 37, has diabetes and Hep C and a child in care. There are two Christian girls that bring her coffee sometimes. “The nice side of Christian”, she tells me, as she checks her phone for messages. Who’d be calling her at 3 am, I have no idea, and I ask if her phone ever rings while she’s fucking any of the dimly lit businessmen into whose cars I’ve watched her crawl.

“No. I don’t fuck. I’m too compact.” It’s true, she is. She can’t clap. Her hands don’t reach each other.

“I use a stick to wipe my bottom.”

What kind of stick? Birch? Walnut?

“I don’t fucking know. It’s made for me. Being the NHS, it’s probably pulp.”

She owns a very long dildo that she’s personalized by engraving her nickname, Bullet, onto the side.

“In the crap place where I live, the other girls steal everything.” She shares a room in a hotel in Hackney. “And really, that dildo…sometimes it’s me only friend.”

I supply her with small, square bars of gourmet chocolate, because she’s the kind of diabetic that needs sugar, and I don’t know what else to do. I always buy from this charming shop in Spitalfields, where they stack the bars, then tie them together with a thin red and black bow. I’m sure the shop girl thinks I have a sweetheart. Or that I’m very sad. I suppose both are true. And whenever there’s a holiday, I stop by with Rachel’s favorite, chocolate with streaks of raspberry.

John, my ex of seven years, was born on February 14th. Thus the holiday was doubly special, or, as our relationship withered, doubly trying. John is short but still normal size – I know what you’re thinking and no, I don’t have that fetish - though he is strong and a dancer and so, yes, I suppose he’s compact. He’s 46 and on stage in the city of Chicago, shaking his money-maker in a musical about naked boys singing, and apparently, the show plays as the tin reads: He’s actually unclothed, every night, singing gay love songs for, mostly, cheering, screaming straight females. The Valentine’s Night show is their most attended.

Over tea in Styrofoam, Rachel wonders why married women love looking at cock.

“I have to see it all the time, and really, once you’ve sucked one…”

“Yeah,” I gobble down some skittles, “but they’ve probably only seen one. Or maybe two.”

“I’ve seen one too many. I’m calling it a night.”

After she’s gone, I take her position, perched on a cement wall. Cars drive by, slowly, and then race off when they see it’s me.

Hey kids, come along to the Throckmorton Theatre on Sunday. Really, it will be fun, I’ll be doing new stuff and torturing middle class whites who dream one day of being financially independent. What could be zanier?

Here’s the rap:
Throckmorton Theatre, Mill Valley, California
Sunday, February 17, 8 pm
Scott Capurro is OUT AND ABOUT (Not my title - it’s lady-like ‘cuz i’m playing Lady-ville)
For tix or some sort of explanation of what you’re in for, or, if you’re lucky, why you’re even alive, go to: http://www.142throckmortontheatre.com/calendar.php

Now remember, if you’re at all sensitive, either environmentally or in any other way, then fuck off. Go for a steak and/or reach for a painkiller. But if you’re a real person with thoughts that don’t consistently include Brittany and your mortgage, then have a big slab of meat, pop a vicadin and come along to my show. Hugs following.
OH, and there’s a hot English guy in Throckmorton’s lobby selling cookies. I don’t just mean ‘hot’ be English standards, which isn’t hot at all. He has teeth and doesn’t smell like a shitty corpse. He’s thus a modern miracle, worth the price of admission.
I might talk about that alcoholic woman on ‘Intervention’ that gets drunk off mouthwash. In front of her kids, who cry every time she gargles. HOT!
Namaste.

Columnist Scott Capurro
Subject Sore Spot

PQ “I was sure that by 45 I’d be a huge international success, loaded with plaudits, wearing tweed blazers and seducing 19-year-olds at book signings”

As a youth, I looked forward to my 40s as my semi-retired, mostly vacationing decade. I was sure then that by 45 I’d be a huge international success, loaded with plaudits and far too recognisable to journey from my mansion in daylight hours. My fame as the world’s greatest novelist would be both a blessing – allowing me to wear tweed blazers and seduce 19-year-olds at book signings – and an albatross, robbing me of Sample Sale shopping. Secretaries and stylists would whisk in and out of my vestibule almost daily, my life a whirling dervish of lecture tours, literary discussion programmes (in French, of course) and dinner parties in my ‘modeste honneur’.
A sophisticated slip-on wearer, my intellect would be both praised and less competitive, having achieved professional goals far beyond my family’s anticipation. Compared to two Pulitzers, an Oscar for ‘Best Screenplay Adaptation’ of my own Man Booker Prize-winning novel would seem rather gauche. I’d be brave for my fans, donning the mantle of a fine sportsman, sliding into a slim, classically-styled black evening suit, revealing my jauntiness and, to only the cleverest of acquaintances, my disapproval, with brightly colored Art Deco cufflinks. Oh, such a cad am I, I’d whisper to myself, holding my statuette high.
However my domestic life, I assumed, would surpass my laureate success. At 25, I’d ended a seven-year long relationship. I was sure, while driving to San Francisco to start my creative career, that only a better, longer relationship would follow. I considered myself a monogamous monologist, and I imagined someday reclining on outdoor furniture, petting a puppy with one hand as I gestured wildly with another, my doctor-lawyer-lover rotating a roasting animal. Many loyal friends would surround me as we’d laugh, lie and lisp our way into a mulled wine-induced dither. Their shoeless children run quietly through the house, while cats hiss, phones ring, singers sing and helicopters hover overhead, trying unsuccessfully to snap lurid shots of my warm, supportive extended family. It’s a scene as kind and affectionate as a modern-day, mildly camper Jimmy Stewart movie – with me in the Lana Turner role, naturally.
So then why, on the eve of my 45th birthday, am I travelling Standard on a lurching train somewhere between Hull and Grimsby? Stoic England rolls by, grimacing passengers resting their tired faces in poorly manicured hands. A cool reception last night in Edinburgh left me feeling abandoned on stage, and I’m wondering, have the sacrifices been worth a two-bedroom flat with wood fiber floors in East London? After 12 years of telling dick jokes in every shithole off the scenic route, I terrify TV people, I make Christians tremble with resentment and, apparently, as I was told by a pale, small Scottish creature in the front row, I’ve ‘denigrated the memory of Anne Frank’. Had I that sort of power, I’d have used it to ascend and fly away. But to where? An empty nest overlooking a few stumbling prostitutes in E2 is not my idea of a safe place.
I’m doing all this alone. I’ve lost so many friends in the last few years. Not to Aids – that was in the early ’90s. Now I’m being discarded. Good friends, some of whom I’ve known my entire adult life, have changed locations or changed their minds. Suddenly, I look around and find my ‘mansion’ devoid of any camaraderie. Not only do I travel too much to have a pet, but apparently having a pet name is too demanding. Everyone refers to me as Mr Capurro, because I only meet hotel clerks.
My ex-best friend Julie, whom I’ve known since I was 13, cut off communication because I’m told I was once dismissive toward her oldest son during a meal. Lee, a bookshop owner I lived with nearly 20 years ago, decided that, offstage, I’m too much of a performer. Richard, an actor, just never returns calls. Never. And lately, Mark seems very angry. That one I halted. The list goes on and bloody on, and I’m isolated, with very few good mates left, and my immediate family, never the easiest companions, 5000 miles away.
I know the New Year is about the metaphoric peeling of skin, refreshing one’s life and discarding what is unnecessarily heavy. Perhaps, like Jesus, in the flurry of youth I made poor character judgments. Maybe I’m inadvertently tripping into a second social life; Spartan in number, but the friendships I do make will be deeper and even longer-lasting. But making new friends? At my age? Prostate cancer seems more likely.

Columnist Scott Capurro
Subject Sore Spot

PQ “I was sure that by 45 I’d be a huge international success, loaded with plaudits, wearing tweed blazers and seducing 19-year-olds at book signings”

As a youth, I looked forward to my 40s as my semi-retired, mostly vacationing decade. I was sure then that by 45 I’d be a huge international success, loaded with plaudits and far too recognisable to journey from my mansion in daylight hours. My fame as the world’s greatest novelist would be both a blessing – allowing me to wear tweed blazers and seduce 19-year-olds at book signings – and an albatross, robbing me of Sample Sale shopping. Secretaries and stylists would whisk in and out of my vestibule almost daily, my life a whirling dervish of lecture tours, literary discussion programmes (in French, of course) and dinner parties in my ‘modeste honneur’.
A sophisticated slip-on wearer, my intellect would be both praised and less competitive, having achieved professional goals far beyond my family’s anticipation. Compared to two Pulitzers, an Oscar for ‘Best Screenplay Adaptation’ of my own Man Booker Prize-winning novel would seem rather gauche. I’d be brave for my fans, donning the mantle of a fine sportsman, sliding into a slim, classically-styled black evening suit, revealing my jauntiness and, to only the cleverest of acquaintances, my disapproval, with brightly colored Art Deco cufflinks. Oh, such a cad am I, I’d whisper to myself, holding my statuette high.
However my domestic life, I assumed, would surpass my laureate success. At 25, I’d ended a seven-year long relationship. I was sure, while driving to San Francisco to start my creative career, that only a better, longer relationship would follow. I considered myself a monogamous monologist, and I imagined someday reclining on outdoor furniture, petting a puppy with one hand as I gestured wildly with another, my doctor-lawyer-lover rotating a roasting animal. Many loyal friends would surround me as we’d laugh, lie and lisp our way into a mulled wine-induced dither. Their shoeless children run quietly through the house, while cats hiss, phones ring, singers sing and helicopters hover overhead, trying unsuccessfully to snap lurid shots of my warm, supportive extended family. It’s a scene as kind and affectionate as a modern-day, mildly camper Jimmy Stewart movie – with me in the Lana Turner role, naturally.
So then why, on the eve of my 45th birthday, am I travelling Standard on a lurching train somewhere between Hull and Grimsby? Stoic England rolls by, grimacing passengers resting their tired faces in poorly manicured hands. A cool reception last night in Edinburgh left me feeling abandoned on stage, and I’m wondering, have the sacrifices been worth a two-bedroom flat with wood fiber floors in East London? After 12 years of telling dick jokes in every shithole off the scenic route, I terrify TV people, I make Christians tremble with resentment and, apparently, as I was told by a pale, small Scottish creature in the front row, I’ve ‘denigrated the memory of Anne Frank’. Had I that sort of power, I’d have used it to ascend and fly away. But to where? An empty nest overlooking a few stumbling prostitutes in E2 is not my idea of a safe place.
I’m doing all this alone. I’ve lost so many friends in the last few years. Not to Aids – that was in the early ’90s. Now I’m being discarded. Good friends, some of whom I’ve known my entire adult life, have changed locations or changed their minds. Suddenly, I look around and find my ‘mansion’ devoid of any camaraderie. Not only do I travel too much to have a pet, but apparently having a pet name is too demanding. Everyone refers to me as Mr Capurro, because I only meet hotel clerks.
My ex-best friend Julie, whom I’ve known since I was 13, cut off communication because I’m told I was once dismissive toward her oldest son during a meal. Lee, a bookshop owner I lived with nearly 20 years ago, decided that, offstage, I’m too much of a performer. Richard, an actor, just never returns calls. Never. And lately, Mark seems very angry. That one I halted. The list goes on and bloody on, and I’m isolated, with very few good mates left, and my immediate family, never the easiest companions, 5000 miles away.
I know the New Year is about the metaphoric peeling of skin, refreshing one’s life and discarding what is unnecessarily heavy. Perhaps, like Jesus, in the flurry of youth I made poor character judgments. Maybe I’m inadvertently tripping into a second social life; Spartan in number, but the friendships I do make will be deeper and even longer-lasting. But making new friends? At my age? Prostate cancer seems more likely.