memories and search terms
Jason posted on July 1, 2009

Earlier today, this site was down. The short answer why is that I didn’t pay the bill. The long answer why is because though the host company had a card on file to charge, that card was no longer active; a few months ago, I left my debit card in an ATM in a supermarket in Redondo Beach because I was in a hurry to beat the rush I saw developing at the Taco Bell across the street from the supermarket. Whoops. So I got a new card, the host company charged the old card, got rejected, and for a few hours, no site.

[This was made worse by the fact that neither I nor Site Guy Brendan had any idea what the hosting site's password is. I had to spent 30 minutes on the phone with a man who called me "Sir Jason" about two hundred times to get it fixed. What's funny is that all the security questions on the account are geared toward Brendan, so when I was asked what city I was born in and I answered Philadelphia, I was wrong (correct answer: Brooklyn, NY). The man then asked me what my mother's (but really Brendan's mother's) maiden name is, and I had to say, "I've got no idea - can I give you my social or address history or something?" The point: if this site every magically disappears for good, it's because I have really, really pissed off Site Guy Brendan.]

This was the first time I’ve been in the host deck of the site in a long, long time. Back in the old days, I was always logging in, in no small part because the host deck contained all the traffic numbers. There was a time in my life that I poured over this traffic numbers, analyzing swings in traffic, where they were coming from, and, ultimately masturbating over site hits until my penis cried “Mercy!” or I thought I hurt myself, whichever came first.

But now, five and a half years and well over a million words later, I don’t care as much about these things. Well, let me clarify: I care that y’all still keeping stopping by (remember, real-live HarperCollins-published book out March 2, 2010!), but I no longer get arousal and/or validation from it. I’m an elder statesman of this blog shit, for reals. Also, I more or less have no sex drive anymore. My previous 30th birthday wish was to have a threesome, but now it’s to be able to drink a beer after 9pm and not have to wake up three times during the night to piss.

(That 30th b-day is July 17, so mark your calendars.)

(And yes, I still have a lot of alcohol, drugs and money to throw around to make the b-day threesome happen.)

Yet being in the host deck also brought back another memory. See, the host deck is also where I find all the search terms entered into Google, Yahoo, etc that have brought people to this site. Years ago, a regular feature of the blog was a post in which I’d list all these strange and wonderful words or terms (a feature that was then stolen/borrowed/used by many, many others - not that I’m bitter). But again, I haven’t been in the host deck in a while, and so haven’t checked out these referrals. Until today, that is.

So before I get on that red-eye back to Philly tonight for fourteen glorious days on the east coast - including “Drink Until You Shit!” in North Wildwood, NJ on 7/13 - let’s take a stroll down memory lane, shall we? Below are real, actual terms entered by users of the web that brought those users to this site in June of 2009. In addition to learning that this site has become the world’s leading resource for getting out of jury duty, here are a few others in need of advice or information:

- cleaning lady sex [several variations, including "how to get brazilian cleaning lady to have sex" - good luck and godspeed, friend]

- sunburn swollen ankles

- indian bitches

- jason mulgrew gay [twelve hits - thanks a lot, guys]

- jason mulgrew cured from homosexuality [seriously, thanks]

- psychology of oral sex

- nervous poop

- kasey and october nude gymnasts [my new band name: "Kasey and the October Nude Gymnasts"]

- medical diaries on blackout drinking

- free sex gay beer [check, check, check, check]

- ways to get out of going to prison

- fat woman from jamaica fucking

- werewolf women

- olive garden get sued over chlamydia

- down with the brown and roethlisberger

- woman that want to fuck in sun city arizona

- how seduce coworker without actually hooking up

- girls fucking deodorant

- mark bulger penis

- roommate stink boxers [and also "smelling my roommate s boxers"]

- what is the best way to dispose of condoms secretly

And from the “You should probably talk to someone” department…

- should i let my friend reach down my pants and play with my penis if were in the locker room alone

- ok to dress like a woman

- third time having sex and still no pleasure is something wrong with me

- how do i calm my body so i can poop

- having an std conversation with your fiance

- my greek aunt masturbates me

- i had a threesome and now am so disgusted

- uncomfort in the genitals

- my bipolar boyfriend asks for handjobs even if i m not in the mood

- penile wounds teeth blowjob

- word keeping my dick in a tube straighten it?

(That last one: no. Trust me. And you’re welcome.)

love in paso robles
Jason posted on June 24, 2009

This past weekend I went up to Paso Robles for my agent/friend Joel’s wedding to his lovely lady, Liz. Great times. I’m just gonna talk at you, dig?
************

I’ll tell you one thing: I know that I knock on living in LA a lot (no, really?), but if there’s anything I’ll miss this place after I’ve moved back east in December, it’s going to be the ability to hop in the car on a Friday afternoon, drive 20 miles in two hours in any direction trying to get out of Los Angeles, then drive 200 miles in two hours and end up in some nearby town or destination.

In short: I love road trips. Love ‘em, love ‘em, love ‘em. I didn’t realize this when I lived in NYC, seeing every weekend morning I woke up at noon, fought off a hangover for a few hours, pigged out and generally passed the time until drinking started again (not that there’s anything wrong with that). But since I’ve been in LA, I’ve taken weekend road trips to San Fran, Vegas, Sonoma, San Diego, Big Bear, Santa Barbara, Temecula, and now, Paso Robles (and I may be missing one or two).

It has been these road trips that have made my time on the west coast (at worst) bearable and (at best) enjoyable. Really, even if the traffic around LA during rush hour is deplorable, it’s quite a lovely thing to pile into the Lincoln, put on the iPod, and head out into the vastness of California, witnessing the city turn into hills and then into mountains or into plains, stopping intermittently before reaching your destination to get gas (and Combos and diet coke) or have a burger in a roadside tavern, before finally arriving and tying on a tremendous load in an unfamiliar bar in a new place. I will miss these adventures.

Paso Robles was no exception. With former roommate/part-time lover/volunteer-but-maybe-not-totally-volunteer date (”C’mon! I can’t not bring a date to my agent’s wedding! Do you know what that will do to my career?!? Think of my career!!!”) Selena in tow, we hit the road Friday afternoon and made it to Paso, a little over 200 miles from LA, in four hours. Thirty minutes after arriving I was eating a burger in a local bar; ninety minutes after arriving I was buzzing pretty good; three hours after arriving I was watching my agent/the groom-to-be sing “Rocket Man” in a local karaoke bar while a bunch of sunburned cowboys slow-danced with their ladies.

Say what you want, but you can’t really do this shit on the east coast (or at least, in the Manhattan part of the east coast.)
************
The wedding was the next day, with a gracious start time of 4:30pm. This meant that everyone could get bombed the night before, sleep in and have plenty of time to get over whatever hangovers before the ceremony. But the “sleeping in” option was ruined for a number of wedding guests by a not-so-tiny seismic event at about 5:30am on Saturday morning.

All I remember is being in a deep, Bud-and-burger induced sleep when the room started shaking. It was still dark and I was a little hungover, but I immediately jumped out of bed to, as I have been taught, seek protection under the nearest door frame (which in this case was the bathroom). The room was still shaking when I looked back to see Selena still asleep - right under a GIANT picture that hung above the bed. Quick goat thinking, I jumped from under the door frame, woke her up by saying, “There’s an earthquake going on, dummy!” and pulled her under the doorframe.

But as much as a rush it was - we later learned that it was a 4.5 and the epicenter was very close by, so it was a mighty good shakin’ - I managed to fall right back asleep once it was over, despite my phone vibrating with text messages from friends at the wedding both texting about the quake and, I discovered later, wanting to get breakfast because they couldn’t get back to sleep.

(And really, God, I’m cool with the earthquakes. The first one was enough, but that was #4, so you can stop now. Thanks.)
************
With nothing to do before the wedding, stylish and classy guy that I am, I decided to get a haircut - at the local Supercuts. My favorite place to get my hair cut is at State Street Barbers in Boston. Even though they cut my hair so short that I look like a balding little boy (with a beard), they give you a free beer and a nice hot shave. However, most of the time, I’d get my hair cut at the Supercuts on St. Marks back in NYC, seeing as, you know, I didn’t live in Boston.

And nearly every time, the Supercuts haircut was horrible. Sure, I guess you get what you pay for, and I shouldn’t have expected much at a chain hair place in the middle of one of the skuzziest streets in the East Village, but many of these haircuts were laughable and required significant damage control when I returned home from them (beard trimmer, scissors, the whole thing). However, they were cheap and convenient and enabled me to get Sea Thai afterward, so for years, that Supercuts was my place.

When I moved to LA, I kept it in the Supercuts family, but the one I would go to in Hermosa Beach was much nicer than the one I went to NYC. And though both were staffed by immigrants and/or people who really, really didn’t want to work there, my haircuts were generally nicer at the HB Supercuts. And then there’s the whole thing that I (kinda obviously) am not into the whole “looking good/taking care of my appearance” thing. I mean, whatever. I learned about 15 years ago that if I was ever going to get laid, it wasn’t because I was good-looking. So spending less time and money on what I look like and more time and money on buying drink after drink after drink for my chosen seductee was and is the better use of my time.

So this weekend when I needed to get a hair cut in Paso Robles, where else would I go but the local Supercuts? In case they were as crappy as the people at the NYC Supercuts, I’d only get a lil’ trim, just a clean-up, really. I found the local SC on my iPhone, called ahead and started the mile walk over to them.

By the time I made it over there, I was sweating and completely frazzled. The SC wasn’t a mile away; the totally fucking gigantic outdoor mall that the SC was hidden in was a mile away. It took me another fifteen minutes and another half mile of wandering aimlessly around before I found the SC. Angry and hot, I walked in.

And, um, wow.

The hostess was about 5′10″, green eyes, jet black hair, slim figure and wearing a lil’ sun dress. When she said “Hi” when I entered the store, I think I may have uttered a small “Ugh” before catching myself and saying “hi” on back. Then I looked around and saw that every single girl cutting hair (there were only women) was striking. I mean this in the most literal sense; I was struck, physically taken aback, by each of these girls - the tall waifish blonde over there; the shorter, bustier brunette to my right; the redhead near the back whose jeans made me want take out my cell phone and shoot a text message to God that said, “Bro, redhead in PR SC - WHOA!!! Seriously, tx.”

The girl who cut my hair was adorable (or, as the Spaniards say, adoRAHble); maybe 23, she had light brown hair, was also tall, and exuded “if your mom met me, she would respect and possibly love you again” vibe. I immediately sat down ram-rod straight, chest puffed out, and when she asked me if I lived around Paso, I told her I was in town for a wedding. When she said, “Oh, that’s nice. Whose wedding?”, it was five…four…three…”Oh, it’s my agent’s. He’s my friend, too. So we’re cool. But he’s my agent. So basically I have an agent. That’s, I guess, what I’m trying to say. Agent.”

We then talked for a little while about how I was from Philly but lived in NYC for seven years, and about how she grew up in Paso Robles and had only been to San Fran once (!) and really wanted to travel more, how she loved watching “Sex in the City” and really wanted to go to NYC. I swear, by the end of her conversation, instead of giving her an outrageous tip (which I eventually did), I wanted to take her by the hand, look her deep in her eyes, and say, “I want to take you away from all this and show you the world and take care of you forever. All I ask in return is that you not ask questions about why I keep my shirt on every time we have sex.”

Alas, I didn’t have the courage. Also, my wedding date was getting her nails done and would probably have been a little bothered by coming back to the hotel room to find a barely conscious girl in the bath tub “resting.” Such is life.

But I will tell you this: central and northern California consistently has the most beautiful women I’ve seen anywhere in the country. Seriously. It seems like every single one of them is tall, has perfect teeth, and a slim figure (personally, I’d like to see a little more boobage from them, but I can’t complain too much). I’m telling you, when I’ve been to San Fran or Sonoma or even Santa Barbara (which I know is more southern Cali), I can’t help being shocked by the beautiful women crawling all over the place. Provided, I grew up in Philly, where a girl was considered hot if her eyes weren’t crossed and she stopped after her third slice, and went to college in Boston, were a girl who didn’t say “fuckah” in every sentence and could only beat you up 30% of the time was considered a keeper, but still. The girls in LA are good-looking, but they’re hot because of their superficiality (fake boobs, fake tans, teeth so over-whitened they can double as nightlights) and they all seem to have that hint of desperation, the need for fame or recognition or validation. I’ll take the natural and effortless beauty of the Central/Northern Cali girls any time, thanks very much.

(I would venture to guess that the above paragraph will piss off between 20-50 women in my life. Whatever. I’m tired.)
************
After the haircut, we were quickly en route to Joel and Liz’s wedding. Let me say a few things here:

- The whole thing was held on a vineyard and, as such, I shouldn’t even have to tell you that it was incredible. Rolling hills of grapes were behind the couple; the temperature was in the upper 70’s, the air perfect and dry; and the sun shone gently overhead, not too brightly, not too strongly, but just sort of saying “hi” and letting you know it was there. If there is such thing “picture-perfect wedding,” I just went to it.

- Liz looked beautiful. Joel looked…clean. Yeah, let’s go with “clean.”

(In seriousness, props to Joel, who wasn’t fat to begin with but lost a bunch of weight and got in great shape for the wedding. I know how much it pained him to give up drinking during the week during his diet. Mad respect for that.)

- I’ve been to so many weddings that it’s impossible to say that any particular thing was “the best wedding ____ I’ve ever had/eaten/experienced,” but I will say that the food at this wedding was TERRIFIC (yes, all caps). It was Spanish-influenced and my main course, the braised short ribs, were so good that they made me pee a little bit but the pee was clear and smelled like bleach and it felt like a sneeze. And I was hitting the wine pretty hard (more on this later) and can’t remember the specifics of the three appetizers, but I’m not ashamed to admit that after eating mine, I made some rounds around different tables to see if anyone happened to be allergic to any of their apps and, “Well, sure - I mean, if you’re not gonna eat it, I’ll have it. Don’t want to waste.”

- I am a beer drinker, but I will say this: I hate Firestone beers. Apparently, Firestone has some monopoly in all the CA bars south of SF and north of LA and must be served everywhere. I don’t care for this or for their beer. Not my least favorite (that would either be Peroni or Moretti, followed by Beck’s, Heineken and Stella), but I’d rather not.

Fortunately, red and white wine was being served and, long story short, I had a torrid affair with the red wine. Again, I’m a beer guy, but the red wine was one of the best I’ve had; as such, I started drinking it like it was the antidote to every ill that has plagued me in the past twenty-nine years. After my third glass in less than thirty minutes (and after Selena suggested I “maybe take it easy, champ”), a thought occurred to me: there was sure to be pictures and dancing, and if I kept going at this rate, my entire mouth - and likely my shirt, jacket, tie and genitals - would be caked in red wine, made purple. So instead of having a glass of water between each glass of red to reduce the purpleness of my mouth - you know, something that a normal person would think of - I decided that I would alternate one glass of red with one glass of white going forward.

At the time, it was a great idea. I got really drunk, had a blast, and didn’t have any purple teeth or lips in the pictures (success!). But the next morning, when I woke up, I had one of the worst hangovers I’ve had in a long, long time. I know that “worst hangover” is probably one of the most used phrases or words on this site, right up there with “lil’ penis” and “cockass” and “…so hard right now.” But this one was a good one. I spent almost two hours in the shower, not even reading but trying to gain strength. We almost missed the brunch, at which I had at least twelve pieces of bacon, and then on the ride home I almost threw up twice because I ate two Wendy’s junior bacon cheeseburgers and then felt like I had been shot in the gut. Not my finest moment, but a rather expected end to a lovely wedding weekend.

- I know that I’m lucky to have had Joel come into my life in the professional sense; he’s an agent at a real-live agency and has opened career doors to me that I never thought possible, and if it wasn’t for him, I’d probably be married to some angry, overweight woman by now, with a two-year old at home who barely recognizes me but recognizes that he hates me, trolling S&M sites after 2am as an outlet for my anger and overcompensation for my impotence. But I am also lucky to have made such a good friend, and to have made so many other good friends through Joel, including his lovely and talented wife, who actually beat Joel and I in our fantasy football league last year (Liz finished first, Joel second and me third - but in my defense, it’s a QB-heavy league with 6 point TDs and my first pick was Tom Brady, so I’ll get them next year).

Anyway, it makes me happy when two people who so obviously belong together allow me to get really drunk when they make it official. Love really is magic.

(And I swear I will crush both of them in fantasy football this year.)

excuses, music
Jason posted on June 19, 2009

Look, I’m sorry I’ve been MIA for a bit, but I have some good excuses:

- I moved to Westwood, the neighborhood in LA near UCLA. It’s lovely. But it’s not “I Don’t Still Desperately Miss the East Coast and I Might Head to LAX Now for My July 1 Red-Eye to Philly Just to Be Safe” lovely. I’ll discuss in detail later.

- My colleague has been out for a long vacation and I’ve been covering for him. I can’t really explain my job, but I will say that there only about eight of us at the company that do it and we each have individual specializations. This is good, because we’re all irreplaceable, but bad, because we’re all irreplaceable.

You can think of it kinda like the Justice League. My colleague, Batman, has been away on vacation for some time. I, Aquaman, have been covering for him. So in addition to my sea-related duties (of which there are several, mind you), I’ve been getting calls all day like:

“Hi, is Batman around?”

“Um, no - he’s on vacation. This I’m Aquaman, I’m covering for him. Can I help you with something?”

“Oh…uh, yeah, I guess. Well, the Joker’s escaped Arkham and he’s already murdered fourteen people, cut all of Gotham’s power, and is threatening to release a poisonous gas into the atmosphere.”

“Wow…that’s, uh, that’s pretty bad.”

“Yeah. Sure is.”

“Let me ask you something: are you having any problems with fish or with dams leaking or anything like that?”

“No, not that we know of.”

“You sure? Nothing about dolphins and the plastic soda rings or that kinda thing?”

“Not really, no.”

“You know, the ones that come on six-packs? Six-packs of cans? The plastic rings?”

“Yeah, yeah, I know them, but we’re ok in that department.”

“Ok. Hmm…because that’s sort of what I do - the whole fish/sea/water thing. Not so strong with murder and all that other stuff you mentioned.”

“Right, right…but do you think you might be able to give it a shot?”

“Oh, totally - I’ll totally give it a shot. But I just wanted to be up-front with you as to where I stand, and my areas of expertise. But no, I mean yeah, I’ll totally give it a shot.”

So the result is that I spend half my days flailing away at something that I have no idea about and with limited success, before turning back to my own duties. I shouldn’t complain, because it works both ways - if someone else at the company could do what I do, I would have been laid off, oh, five to eight years ago. So it’s good that way, but tough when co-workers go on vacation.

- Finally, I’m turning 30 in less than a month (July 17) and it’s freaking me out.

(Not really. Calmer than you are.)

(And I’m currently accepting 30th b-day beer money via the “Make a Donation” button on the right.)

At any rate, I’m off to agent/friend Joel’s wedding in wine country this weekend, but wanted to give you some songs to give a lil’ listen to.

************

Six Songs

“Prison Sex” Tool
Looking back on it, I simply can’t believe that in 1999-2000, my sophomore and junior years of college, I stood on stages in various bars in Boston, pretending to be a bad ass and playing this song (on bass) with my college band. I mean, the song is called “Prison Sex” and is about exactly what you think it’s about (as evinced by the poetry of “I have found some kind of temporary sanity in this/Shit, blood and cum on my hands”). In college, I liked Elvis Costello and W.H. Auden and wanted to be a history professor, yet I rocked a hooded sweatshirt on stage, trying my best to look menacing, while playing this and other songs that I not only didn’t even like, but for the most part made me cry.

Don’t get me wrong - it was a total fucking blast. But when I think about these times now, they are so foreign to me that saying “Remember when I was in that band in college and we played that really hard rock music?” is almost as strange as reminiscing “Remember that time when I was married to a dude for three years?” I mean, it was messed up.

“Fistful of Love” Antony and the Johnsons
When I’m bored, I like to think of possible scenarios involving me performing musically that would kill my father. For years, the leader has been if I were to reprise Tim Curry’s Dr. Frank N. Furter role from “Rocky Horror Picture” show; I am 90% certain that my father would collapse before the second verse of “Sweet Transvestite” even started. Also, for those of you have heard Rockapella’s version of the Gummi Bears Theme Song, I don’t have to tell you that if I were to perform as the lead singer of this song, this would not only cause my father to take his own life, but possibly the lives of his own parents, as he descended from them and I descended from him.

But I have to say that, in terms of “real” songs, affecting Antony’s pattern of speech/singing and eccentricities just might do the job for dear old dad. Don’t get me wrong; I’d really have to vamp it up. But if he didn’t have at least a mild stroke, I’d be surprised.

(To be honest, the funny thing is that my dad is a very, very tolerant person, practically qualified to be a Board Member of the Non-Straight-Irish-Catholic People Alliance, especially by neighborhood standards. Still - and even though he was a big Bowie fan as a young man - I wouldn’t even show him “Rocky Horror,” just to be on the safe side.)

“German Love” Starfucker
Don’t be scared; it’s cool. Pretty, foot-tappy song that I actually played with the windows open while cleaning the apartment before realizing that my neighbors might not think the phrase “German love/I will give it to you” is as awesome as I do.

“Challengers” The New Pornographers
Ppppppuuuuurrrrdddddyyyyyy. Immediate add to the “Let’s Make Out or Something” playlist, and I’m still deciding if it should be included on “Sad as Fuck” (there are several songs that are on both, for reasons we should not get into now). Love the “Whatever the mess you are/You’re mine, ok?” line. I mean, who doesn’t want to help fix a mess? This is pretty much the only reason why I think I get laid. Well, that and the cherished combo of an extremely emotionally-distant father and about $34 worth of Jagermeister.

(As much as I like that line, there is a limit. We’ve all had that female friend who likes the “mess” a little too much. I feel like in just the past few months I’ve had a number of conversations with my female friends that go:

Female Friend: “…Well, Michael got in a little trouble this weekend.”
Me: “Oh yeah? What happened?”
FF: “It’s a long story, but, more or less, he got drunk and probably killed a cop.”
Me: “Wait - ‘probably killed a cop?’”
FF: “Yeah. I mean, the cop or whatever is definitely dead, but he may just have been a security guard or something.”
Me: “Wow.”
FF: “Yeah, he’s so spontaneous, I love him.”)

“I Don’t Believe You’ve Met My Baby” Jerry Douglas (Featuring Alison Krauss)
If there was a draft in which men everywhere had to pick a wife based only on her singing voice, Alison Krauss would go #1. Hands down. And when she walked up on this stage to shake the commissioner’s hand, this would be the song that was played. Hearing her voice, hearing this song, makes me think that love really does exist and is not just some social construct invented by (who else?) the Jews to keep everyone from raping each other.

(Wait, what?)

(PS - for the record, I love the Jews. Love ‘em, love ‘em, love ‘em. For three or so years, I dated Jewish women almost exclusively and it was wonderful.)

(And no, I’m not just saying this because I maintain careers in business, television and publishing. So there.)

“Tessallate” Tokyo Police Club
Off the top of my head, the only band names I hate more are Vampire Weekend, I Love You But I’ve Chosen Darkness, Death Cab for Cutie and The Ladybug Transistor (I’d have to look at my iTunes to compile a more thorough list), but I won’t hold that against them for this one. Another pretty one - they’ve all been kinda slow since “Prison Sex” - that makes me feel nostalgic for something I can’t place. Sometimes under that blanket of non-specific nostalgia is a nice place to be.

[Have a good weekend.]

one for you, nineteen for me
Jason posted on May 27, 2009

On Friday night, I went to dinner with my buddy Griff, in town from Seattle. Griff is an old friend - we lived on the same floor freshman year at BC - and it was good to catch up with him over ribs and beers. When the check came, we decided to split it and threw our cards down (I mean, we weren’t going to have sex later, so a 50/50 split is fair). The waiter took our cards and walked away, but soon can back and asked, “Who’s Jason?” I said that I was, and he said that my card didn’t go through and asked if I had activated it.

I told him that was strange, because it was a debit card, and then I paid my portion in cash. I wasn’t embarrassed, because though I won’t say this is a common occurrence, it happens occasionally. See, at any given time, I only keep about a grand in my bank account. This is divided, with a few hundred in my checking account, but most in my savings account. This means that I often have to transfer money from the savings to the checking when I know I’m going out big time or am about to make a big purchase. The rest of my money I keep in an ING account. The ING account is wonderful, because it takes two full business days to transfer funds between my accounts. The ING account and the $1000 in the bank account (with most in savings) are both efforts to save me from myself, particularly to save me from those $200+ bar tabs and $300+ meals that I so often enjoyed in NYC. When I moved to LA, I said that I looked at it like a stint in rehab - physically, emotionally and financially. Even though I hate it here, at least I’ve learned to be more responsible with my money. Which is nice, I guess, if not a lot more boring.

As Griff and I finished our beers, I pulled out my iPhone to check my bank account and move money from savings to checking. I still thought it was strange that my debit card would be denied - my portion of the bill was around $50, and I was certain I had more than that in my checking account. But after I logged in to the Citibank site, I saw they were having technical difficulties. Whatever. I figured I’d look into it later.

That night, I went home and had to work until 2am (don’t get me started). While waiting for a response on something, I logged back into Citibank’s site again, and again they were down. But still, whatever - I knew I had about a grand sitting in the account and I would just got to an ATM the following day to sort it out. No biggie.

Long Tangent I: I have been occasionally making out with my roommate Selena. The short of it is that I knew her and her roommates Mark and Chris through mutual friends before I moved to LA full-time. I was all set to move to LA and had found a place though Craigslist with a girl I had never met (though I wanted to live alone, knowing LA was temporary, I didn’t want to drop a few grand on couches, TVs, pots, etc and decided I had to live with a roommate while out here), when Chris called me up. He said that he was moving out of the huge, three-bedroom party central house he shared with Mark and Selena and wanted to know I wanted in. I deliberated for a bit: I knew the commute would suck, but I knew and liked Mark and Selena, the rent was balls cheap and they had a yard and BBQs and the largest TV (62″) I’ve ever seen in a home. Living with two people I already knew and got along with was more appealing than living with a stranger, so I moved in.

Now, Selena and I had made out prior to me moving in, but we had a discussion that no funny business should occur if/after I moved in. This worked (for the most part). But as of this weekend, I’m moving out. I found an ideal situation: a gigantic fully-furnished one-bedroom 1.6 miles from my office in Westwood with a lease that runs from June 1 until December 1, which just so happens to be my target return date to NYC. I can’t get into how excited I am to move, because my head would explode (or at least my fingers would be unable to type). But early last week I learned that a buddy and his new lady were going to Big Bear for part of the long weekend, and since I am the Road Trip King and am moving far, far away from the South Bay into the civility that is Westwood, I suggested Selena and I head up as well.

And so we found ourselves at a gas station on Saturday morning, ready to drive up to Big Bear, when I went into the mini-mart to hit the ATM and figure out this bank account nonsense once and for all. I put my card in, entered my PIN, and then immediately got an error message and a receipt that said “Unauthorized User.”

Now I knew something was wrong.

I wanted to get up to Big Bear as soon as possible and figured I would just handle it up there - hey, if someone stole my identity, it was probably too late already - so away we went, two part-time lovers heading into the mountains. The drive was an exciting, up 9000 feet into the sky along a series and narrow and winding roads (I would NOT recommend the drive at night, unless you want a death wish). Finally, when we got to Big Bear, I called Citibank and explained the situation. The woman spent some time looking into my account. She said I had $800-something in the account and that it appeared that when I hit the ATM at the gas station and got “Unauthorized User,” I entered the wrong PIN. When I mentioned that I couldn’t access my information online, she said that Citi’s site was, um, having problems. At any rate, I should be fine to access cash now. Whew.

I left Selena and went out to gather supplies, namely Budweiser, Doritos and assorted cupcakes and related dessert items. I went to the liquor store and before gathering my sundries, hit the ATM there. I swiped the card, carefully entered my PIN and, once again, “Unauthorized User.”

What. the. fuck.

Now I was getting angry. Without returning to the room, I stepped outside the liquor store and called Citi again. I got a different woman and gave her the rundown, perhaps in a not-so-happy tone. She put me on hold for two minutes and when she came back, asked me to hold just a little longer. She then took me off hold and offered up this doozy: “Sir, it appears that there was been a court-ordered restraining order put on your account. You have to call back Tuesday.”

(???)

(I mean, ?!?!?!)

Me: “I’m sorry, did you say ‘court-ordered restraining order?’”

She said that yes, she did. I asked what that meant and why there was a “court-ordered restraining order” on my account in the first place, and she said that she couldn’t tell me and I’d have to call back Tuesday (bear in mind, this conversation was happening at 2pm on the Saturday of Memorial Day weekend). I told her that I’ve been with Citi for years and would call on Tuesday but would also be calling on Tuesday to close my accounts with them and take my banking elsewhere if someone didn’t immediately explain to me what was going on.

She put me on hold for another two minutes, then transferred me to a manager, who did his best to explain the situation. He informed me that the IRS (!) had frozen my assets (!!) and were the ones who put the restraining order on the account (!!!). He said he didn’t know why - all the bank does is get a notice from the IRS providing a name, bank account number and an order to freeze, which Citi got at 4:29pm on Friday. This was something that I needed to address with the IRS itself and he gave me a reference number and a 1-800 number, but told me that they were not open again until Tuesday morning. Until then, “Sorry”, but I was unable to withdraw funds or otherwise use my Citibank account.

I thanked him, completely dazed, unable to complain about the first woman I talked to blatantly lying (wrong PIN? site down?), and hung up. There I was, standing outside the local liquor store in the mountains of California, having just been informed that the IRS was trying to destroy me; I was being treated like an international criminal, a flight risk. I went through the scenarios: I actually got money back this year, and the most recent letter I got from the IRS said that I had overpaid when filing my taxes and would get more back, so that wasn’t it. I wasn’t laundering money or doing anything illegal - I mean, sure, I gamble a little bit, but where are we, Russia? Besides, I am a small beans gambler and mostly bad at it, so it wasn’t like I was not declaring thousands of dollars in gambling winnings. If not owing taxes or being investigating for something illegal, what the hell could it be? My only thought was that it’s a mistake. It has to be a mistake. It has to be a mistake.

But I had more practical concerns. Namely, here I was, one hour into a two-day mini-vacation and I had no access to my bank account. Worse, I don’t carry credit cards on me - I don’t use them (which is good), though I have two stashed in my dresser drawer in my bedroom for “emergency” situations (emergency situations like, you know, when the IRS freezes your assets for three days). But of course, I didn’t have these cards on me for the weekend and would have to live with whatever cash I had on my person.

I looked in my wallet and counted $18.

I had absolutely no means to pay for anything for the next 48 hours. None. Nothing. Nothing at all. Eighteen bucks. That’s it. Standing outside that liquor store, I was faced with the task of going back and telling Selena that she would be treating. All weekend. For everything.

After my unique walk of shame, when I did explain the situation to Selena, god bless her, she was understanding. I told her - and she realized, thankfully - that I was good for it, and then when we got back to LA, I would figure this all out. I told her we’d keep every receipt and I’d pay her back for every last penny and, in the meantime, she could order lobster with every meal. Spare no expense, it was all coming back to her. Promise, promise, promise.

But still, it was humiliating. I don’t have much to offer women, and chief among the things I do have to offer is my whatever-the-opposite-of-frugality-is. I’m old school, baby, and I take pride in being able to take a woman out, to treat her to nice things, and to pick up the check and tip well when the waitress puts the little black wallet on the table (after smacking her on the ass, of course). And now this poor girl was going to pay for absolutely everything for an entire two days. What a nice weekend. What a deadbeat.

(I should mention that on my Friday evening drive home from work, with Griff in the car, I got pulled over and my car was nearly impounded by the po-po because after a year out here I still don’t have CA plates and my PA registration has been expired for two months. The only reason it didn’t get impounded was because I nearly wept in the car, saying, “I’m sorry, officer, I just lived in NYC for eight years and I don’t know anything about cars! And my dad will kill me if anything happens to this car! He’s a mechanic and a real man and he thinks I’m gay! I’m so ashamed!”)

(By the way, I’ll be 30 in seven weeks, have a good job, and, believe it or not, am not a junkie. Friday 6pm - Saturday 3pm was not the best stretch for Uncle Jason. Real “we’re going to talk about this when we get home” moment.)

Anyway, aside from that minor bump in the road, the weekend went off without a hitch. Well, actually, that’s not true - Selena got sick, likely due to being in such close proximity to a financial/life cancer. We did, however, go bowling, which was lovely. My first game: 97. My second game: 157. Then just when I was warming up, Selena said she was going to faint, so we had to go home. There’s your weekend.

(Also the night before, the band at the bar we were at played Styx’s “Too Much Time on My Hands” and I nearly lost my shit. I mean, there are few joys in life like cover-band Styx - and an overly appreciative crowd to go with it. Truly one of the highlights of the past few months. Big Bear really deserves its own post, but suffice it to say, it’s one of the greatest and most interesting places on earth. I would go back this weekend if I could.)

Fast forward to Tuesday morning, back in LA: Before I even sat down at my desk in my office, I was dialing the IRS. I got through quickly and spoke to Mr. White. I explained that there was a misunderstanding and that my assets were frozen and restraining order and mistake and I have no idea what happened and he stopped me half-way through my jumbled story and asked for my social security number. I gave it to him and, after a few seconds, he said, “Nope, nothing here - we actually owe you money.”

You know how after getting laid, you lay there, and you’re smiling, and you take a deep breath, and you think (and in my case, say aloud), “You know what? That was pretty sweet. Pret-tee, pret-tee, pret-tee sweet. Wowza.” Well, I felt the complete opposite of that when Mr. White said, “Nope - nothing here.” All weekend long, all I looked forward to was that Tuesday morning call in which I’d clear my good name. And Mr. White had nothing for me. Meltdown in five…four….three….

Perhaps sensing the distress/imminent explosion in my silence on the other end of the line, Mr. White tried offering help. “Do you owe alimony?” “God, I hope not.” “Have you paid your student loans?” “Yep.” “Maybe it’s a state issue - have you contacted New York State?”

No, I had not contacted New York State. Mr. White gave me the number to the NYS Department of Taxation. In a few minutes, I was on the phone with Marissa, and the mystery was soon solved.

Long Tangent II: I think I have previously mentioned this, but in 2006, I had some tax issues with the IRS. See, when you get a book advance (like the one I got from my first, now-defunct publisher), no tax is taken out. So if someone says, “I got a $100,000 book advance,” they got a check for $100,000 and it was up to them to save for taxes. (Note: I did not get a $100,000 advance.) This is problematic for someone as financially-irresponsible as myself, but that’s not where the problem was. The problem was that H&R Block person who prepared my taxes for 2006 completely forgot to include the portion of this first book advance that I was paid in 2006. The result was that eight months later, I got a letter from the IRS basically saying, “Hi Jason - You owe us $6000. Send that over now. Thanks. PS - Hope you’re well!”

(About an hour after getting this letter, my mom called me and told me, out of the blue, that she was getting remarried. Later that night, while sleeping I dreamed that an intruder had walked into my bedroom. I woke up on my bedroom floor, after I dove out of bed to tackle this “intruder,” my shoulder hurting from jumping through this imaginary intruder and into the side of the closet. Yet another “we’re going to talk about this when we get home” moment.)

After cleaning the poo from my pants after reading the IRS letter, I called H&R Block and a few days later, brought them my prepared 2006 taxes. The book advance was the second item in the folder and the H&R Block person now reviewing the taxes said, “Yep, there it is - we messed up.” And because I paid $29 extra for their “Peace of Mind” guarantee, since they so obviously fucked up, they were going to - and did - pay the entire $6000. A better $29 spent, I can think of none.

But what they also did in this process was re-file my entire 2006 taxes. These were sent out by H&R Block in July 2008, one month after I moved to LA. When they re-filed these taxes, I thought I was in the clear and the long, national nightmare of the 2006 taxes was over. Little did I know that, once these taxes were re-filed, I owed NY State several hundred dollars for 2006. Had I known this, I would have paid it off immediately. But I was not aware of it because, as Marissa and I figured out:

- When I moved out here initially, I was unsure how long I’d stay in Redondo Beach, and so gave my work address as my official address to a number of companies. NY State had this address, but they didn’t have my company’s name in the address, just the street numbers. My office building is over twenty stories and shared with over a dozen other companies, and I am not a named partner in my firm or any other firm in the building. Marissa went through each and every notice that was sent to me, noting the dates and contents of each letter - none of which I received. I asked her if any of these were returned to NY State and she said yes, all of them (!!!) were, likely because my company was not in the address.

Hey, NY State, after getting every letter mailed to me sent back, you didn’t think that I was no longer there? Or that you should probably try to get in touch with me another way? No? Really? Never crossed your mind?

- Well, actually it did cross their mind. I moved out here in June 2008. The taxes were filed in July 2008. In June-July 2008, I had my old NYC/646 cell phone number and never thought I’d have to change it. Then in August 2008, I got an iPhone and was forced to changed my number to an LA/310 area code. The NY State tax people were calling this old 646 number. Over and over and over again. And no dice.

So at least they tried both mailing and calling me. But here’s something else: why not give Google a shot? Facebook? MySpace? Twitter? As a friend who I told this story to said, collection agencies have no trouble tracking people down. And here was NY State, after getting every letter returned and a disconnected signal for every phone call, deciding to not try anything else - and to freeze my bank account at 4:30pm on the Friday of a holiday weekend (!!!).

(Anger rising…must…go for walk to get ice cream…)

******************

As of this writing, my assets are still frozen. The about-$800 in my account is just short of what I owe, so I have to wait for my ING account transfer to kick in at midnight Thursday night before paying (remember: two business days, so even though I requested the transfer on Saturday, that’s really Tuesday because of Memorial Day). Then on Thursday, I will presumably spend all day on the phone with the IRS and at Citibank getting this sorted out. Then I’m immediately cutting Selena a check and paying off the credit card debt I’ve accumulated since returning to LA. After that, I’m changing bank accounts, always carrying $40,000 on my person, getting a fake passport and switching my affiliation to the Republican party. Because never again will the government be able to hold me by the short and curlies again. Word is bond.

suburban livin’ 101: the yard sale
Jason posted on May 20, 2009

This weekend, I experienced my first ever yard sale, held by my roommates Mark and Selena.

Basically a yard sale is when you clean out your house and closets, gather up all the shit you don’t need, and instead of throwing it out, you sell it to strangers. Apparently, yard sales are a staple of suburban life, but I only learned this recently. Growing up in a rowhome in South Philly, we didn’t have yard sales. I’m guessing this was mostly because we didn’t have a yard, but also because in a neighborhood like the one in which I grew up, everyone knows everyone. There is a certain pride in being poor, and I think that my mom, who still works two jobs because I think she thinks they’re fun, would have rather ingested poison than sold a neighbor my old windbreaker for $2. I mean, why not just dress her kids in t-shirts that say, “Please, sir, can I have some more?” Yeesh.

But in the suburbs, I guess it’s different. For some reason, people with homes with lawns and more than one bathroom have no problem selling their (almost) trash to make a few extra bucks. To me, the concept is still a little foreign - why not save yourselves the time and effort involved and just donate the stuff (which you can get a write-off for)? - but whatever. I’m almost 30 and trying to judge less, seeing as I’m getting closer and closer to death, so I’ll just let this one go.

My role in this particular yard sale was limited. I actually wasn’t even supposed to be in LA this weekend, instead defending my title in the Second Annual West Coast Wine Drinking Competition in Seattle. But only a few days before I was scheduled to depart, the WCWDC was postponed because a competitor had a work emergency. So, somewhat reluctantly, I agreed to “help out” (which turned into mostly drinking Guinness, acting as security and getting sunburned). My friends Mark, Selena and Lisa were the ones selling stuff - old clothes for the most part, but also jewelry, DVDs, household trinkets and even some furniture. Knowing that LA was only a temporary move, I don’t own a whole lot out here, just clothes (all of which I wear regularly), my computer, my guitars and some books. I mentioned previously that one of my main sources of pride in my former fun/NYC life was my library, which was really just a huge bookshelf filled with important and challenging books, all of which I had read, understood and could discuss while drinking bourbon and/or eating steak. Then I moved to LA and began to exclusively read books about murders and FBI profilers, and I eat at least two cheeseburgers a week that make me shit immediately. If I was going to sell anything, it would be these books - no need to bring them and their memories back to NYC this winter, thanks.

The yard sale was supposed to start at 8am, but I was laying in bed at 7am when I heard the pumping of diesel engines outside my bedroom window, which drowned out a conversation going on outside. Shortly thereafter, Selena, who was setting up stuff for the sale, asked me to come outside so that she wasn’t “kidnapped and raped”; even though the signs said the sale started at 8am, the customers were starting to drive by in their trucks, seeing what was available.

Throughout the course of the day, I learned a lot. Some thoughts:

- The people who patronize yard sales fall into two categories: 1) Mexicans (or other Mexico-type people) and 2) creepy middle-aged white men who you are certain have secret sexual perversions beyond your wildest dreams.

- Re: the latter - Holy geez. I can’t even imagine what kind of late 80’s camera equipment some of these guys have in their apartments and what exactly the film with it - and I have some seriously deviant tastes.

- I guess there might have been a third category, but really there were only two people the whole seven hours of the sale who didn’t fall into 1 or 2. One was a woman who drove past the yard sale in her Escalade and then screeched to a halt, jumped out, and bought every piece of denim for sale, mentioning something that the private school her daughter goes to gets credit because denim is used as insulation in Africa or blah blah blah (when Lisa asked “Do you want to know the price?” the woman said “I don’t care” and Lisa, savvy businesswoman, sold her five pairs of jeans for $25. Smooth, Lis.) The other was an attractive late 30’s/early 40’s well-to-do woman who showed up with her going-to-come-out-in-fifteen-years kindergartener son and spent most of the time chatting up Lisa and Selena, sending me into paroxysms of ecstasy about the potential of Lisa or Selena (or both!) going back to this woman’s mansion and having some mojitos while the woman talks about how it’s hard, because her husband is always busy or traveling for work, and she’s left in the house with her finook son, and really all she wants is a little attention, and then she makes a possibly inappropriate joke about her vibrator and all three girls laugh and then she says, “Well, would you like to see it?” and then she brings out the vibrator and, before you know it, some serious hardcore lesbo action is going on right there on the veranda, while the nancy son and I watch from the bushes and exchange high-fives.

(Sorry - give me a minute to catch my breath.)

(…)

(OK. I think we can move on.)

- As I said, I basically stood around crushing pints of Guinness and acting as security, so I did a lot of eavesdropping. I witnessed one such negotiation between Selena and a woman who walked up to Selena with an armful of clothing. Selena went through each piece - maybe four in total - saying, “Oh, this is a nice one - it’s [insert brand name]” and such. Selena then said, “Let’s go with $5, please” The woman shook her head and said, “$4.50.” Selena, surprised, stumbled and said, “I don’t know…I…um…I don’t think so” and the woman then put down the clothes down in anger and walked away - not just from Selena, but from the entire yard sale. She up and left the premises in a huff.

This made me furious. Furious. I mean, 50 cents? Really? 50 cents gets you so angry that you slam down what was once over $100 of clothes and storm off, speaking in bitter-sounding Spanish as you walk away? I wanted to walk up to the cash box in front of Selena, take out two quarters, and yell “Hey, lady - want to see what 50 cents means to me?” and either throw the effing two quarters into the street, eat them or rub them all over my balls.

Even as I write this, while I realize that this is an ugly thought - for some less fortunate than myself or my friends, literally every penny counts - I still think it’s ok that this made me mad. I got nothing but love for the poor and am ok with the desire (or I should say, need) to save money, but if 50 cents makes you comport yourself in such a manner that you put some Honduran curse on someone who’s trying to cut you a reasonable deal, I mean, that’s just messed up.

- Two things didn’t sell well: books and things over $3 (shocking, I know). Of all the books I had, only one sold - my hardcover of Gladwell’s “Outliers” for a whopping $2, to one of the sex offenders. I also had a lamp that I bought two months ago for $60, put a $5 “eco-friendly” light bulb in, and turned on maybe a dozen times. I was looking for $15 for this lamp, but when Mexicans asked the price and I told them “Quince,” they were so disgusted that I thought that maybe “Quince” meant “I like to cook and eat genitals, specifically yours, please.” Still have the lamp.

- I got extremely sunburned. I don’t know what the deal is - this is my fourth or fifth fairly horrendous sunburn in the past six weeks. In the past, mainly when I was a kid, I would get two major sunburns and then maintain a nice, pink “I have high blood pressure” look for the rest of the summer. But so far, the California sun is putting a hurtin’ on my pasty Irish skin. It’s not too bad, since at least I look like I spend some time outside. But I now look (even more) ridiculous when I’m naked - the nearly translucent skin on most of my body juxtaposed to my beat red face, neck and arms does not a sexy sight make.

The yard sale dragged on through the day, more friends showed up, and we wound up having an impromptu barbeque during which I consumed approximately 1500 tortilla chips and was president in a spirited game of Asshole for a dozen hands before the game collapsed completely. Sunday, I was a disaster - I actually called in sick on Friday because I didn’t feel well, then had the yard sale and BBQ - and took a three and a half hour nap. Actually, quite a nice lil’ Sunday.

But as my time in LA is coming to a close (NYC 12/1/09!!!), I’m trying to focus on the positive and the new. This yard sale was an example. Yeah, maybe I did get a really bad sunburn, and sure, maybe Lisa and Selena didn’t get it on with the lonely rich woman, but the yard sale was a fun time, an experience I had never had before and will likely not have again for some time.

(That is, unless one of you doesn’t buy my lamp. $15. Like new and a really cool lightbulb. Inquire within.)