A Brooklyn Artist's resume for the post apocalypse

2008-08-06T14:12:00.001-07:00

Tucker McCokey

OBJECTIVE: To use my many skills to assist a king, lord, dictator, masiah, king shit or ass wupper in chief in the tri-state area in expanding his territory and fending off the invasions from The Unibrowed Avengers from Over the Hills in The Dark Place.

PREVIOUS APOCALYPSE/ END OF THE WORLD-RELATED EXPERIENCE:

Watched CNN reruns of the towers falling upon waking up at 2 p.m. on September 11, 2001.

Broke a guitar string on stage during this one packed loft party. Couldn’t nail the solo. Disaster.

Once watched hopelessly as bottle of Jim Beam fell from shelf at this one other loft party (or was it the same one?). Either way, bottle broke. Stores were closed. Beer and vodka only all night. Buzzkill.

In high school, didn’t know Wendy Hofflinger wanted to hook up with me, and she went on to do internet porn. Still kicking myself.

OTHER WORK EXPERIENCE:

In conversations with others: musician, artist, filmmaker.

On tax returns: never filed them. But if I had, dog walker, bar back, copyeditor, subsistence pot dealer.

RELEVENT SKILLS:

Went camping a bunch when I was a kid, so I’m totally cool with the migratory, outdoor existence that is your reality over there in Ramapo, just so long as you’ve got flashlights, sleeping bags, air mattresses, a stocked cooler, a Subaru outback we can sleep in in case it’s cold, and lots of pot and apparel made with goretex.

HUNTING: was Proficient at Big Buck Hunter. Would have been excellent, but I’d always shoot the doe and get locked out.

GATHERING: Once found painting just sitting there in the garbage. It was of clowns and it was really ugly, but ugly in an awesome way. Know what I mean?

FARMING: Though unable to sew, harvest or even identify a rice plant by sight, I can tell you the difference between Basmati and Jasmine by scent alone.

TRIBE COMPOUND MAINTENENCE: Once mowed my parent’s lawn in suburban Rhode Island when the landscaper was on vacation. So I could, like, mow your lawn if you have one. Not so good at edging.

COMMUNICATIONS: Can wow emaciated, shivering tribe members with detailed accounts of videos I saw on youtube in The Before Times (Like that one where that whale lands on that kyaker). Will help the group “keep it real” by periodically falling to the ground, shaking and saying, “It wasn’t supposed to be like this! This can’t be happening! I want a lime rickey! How can you tell me we don’t have lime rickies? etc.”

EDUCATION:

MFA in film studies, NYU, 2005

MISCELLANEOUS SKILLS:

Awesome beard.

Can sing 99 Red Balloon in the original German.

Some html experience.

REFERENCES: My buddy Cameron would have vouched for me, but he was devoured just last week by roving pack of Ferrell Italian Greyhounds that stormed north out of the ashed of Park Slope. So no references, I guess.

Portfolio available upon request.

An Brooklyn Artist's coverletter for the post-apocalypse

2008-08-06T14:05:00.000-07:00

From: Tucker McCokey
On your left just after the fetid squirrel carcass on the stick
North Brooklyn Slave Colony, Duchy of Trumpland

TO: His Highness Hrunting Silverback,
Duke of Paramus
Kingdom of New Jersey

DATE: 3rd Moon of the Cold Season
Year 10 of The After Times

RE: Employment in your tribe

Dearest Duke,

Let me begin by saying that news of your kingdom’s bumper crops this winter of beets and possum milk warmed my heart over here in the cold depths of Trumpland, where we’re back to eating stocks of lime-flavored pork rinds and Crystal Clear Pepsi left over from The Before Times.

That you are reading this letter is of great relief to me, as it concerns my very life. Your majesty, I seek asylum in the your humble, drab, unfashionable kingdom.

As you may have heard, times are tough here in what the Before People called New York. Ever since the vile fustigation of Prince Neil Patrick Harris and the ascension of King The Donald, few here have known joy*.

While all are suffering down here at the hands of King The Donald, none are doing so more so than the artists, writers, philosophers and musicians. He’s got us holed up in this one big ghetto and often speaks publicly about “feeding the kingdom’s starving artists to the starving escaped zoo carnivores.”

I’ll grant that many artists aren’t so terribly useful in our new reality. I don’t think the artist folk prepared well for the Napalm Frog storms of The First Day After, nor the Buffalo squall of The Day After That, Nor did we take advantage of Free Bat Day at the stadium The Following Wednesday. And of course there’s that old joke: “those artists should have spent less time painting pop pictures of canned goods and more time stockpiling them under several feet of concrete and asbestos.” I am so sick of that goddamned joke.

While I too am guilty of these oversights, I think I have a unique skill set that could prove useful to you and yours. Therefore, I humbly ask you to review the attached resume.

Regards,

Tucker McCokey, Artist at large

*Well, there are some joys. For, instance, last week I won a cup of rubbing alcohol and a Funyun at the fights when a Water buffalo failed to eat a toddler. The toddler still died, of course, when the water buffalo crushed it underfoot, but the bet was very specific-- ingestion did not take place.

An artist's resume for the post-apocalypse

A Brooklyn Artist's resume for the post apocalypse

An Brooklyn Artist's coverletter for the post-apocalypse