I’m headed to LA this afternoon, having moved by flight up seven hours to try to beat this snow. I’ll be there for a week, trying to press our interests there and eating a lot of Taco Bell (it’s really a shame that there aren’t more Taco Bells in NYC, and quite puzzling).

I’m rushing out of work now, but for a little light reading on this lovely Friday, go to TheRumpus.net to check out this interview I did with my former writing teacher (yes, I had a writing teacher) and excellent writer, Steve Almond, who, much to his surprise, ended up providing a lovely blurb for my book. See? It pays to not burn bridges with your old teachers, even if that tell you that, if they could have, they would have given you a nice C-.

[Have a good weekend.]

Dear Neighbor,

I know that we have not yet met, so allow me to introduce myself. My name is Jason Mulgrew, and I, too, am a resident of Ludlow Street. As a matter of fact, I live in the building right next to yours, and we share the same air shaft, that two foot space between buildings that gives some NYC apartments their distinct “view” (read: a brick wall that one can reach out of his or her window and touch).

And though we have yet to actually meet, we know each other. Or at least, we know of each other’s presence. I know you as the girl who sings at the top of her lungs several nights a week, at any time between 7pm and midnight, and really belts it out – very, very poorly. And you know me as the guy who opens his window, several nights a week, at any time between 7pm and midnight, and screams, “SHUT THE FUCK UP!” at you when you’re doing your singing (or what you believe is singing but what most people would call “making noises with your mouth and throat and lungs that sound really fucking awful and annoying”).

Guys, I need a favor.

(Please don’t roll your eyes when I haven’t even asked yet, especially when it’s very simple.)

Friends of mine in Philly, Rose and Carl, are in the running for a free $90,000 wedding. Actually, to say they are in the running is not total complete; they are among the top ten finalists. And to win the grand prize, they need as many votes as they can get.

I know, I know – it’s unbecoming to beg. I normally wouldn’t ask, but there are a few things that make this situation unique:

1) There were 400-something couples that started in this process. There are now, as I said, ten left. So they have a real shot to actually win this thing.

So, I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before, but I have a book coming out.

Yep, it’s there, over there on the right. And yes, that’s me on the cover. I know, I know – I had really great hair. And much better taste in clothes than I do now. So much promise, so very, very long ago.

(It should be noted that as I write this, I’m sitting on my couch in my boxers, staring at the wrapper of a carrot cake cupcake, having just recently beat off to a clip from RedTube entitled, “Sarah becoming mistress of fuck-fighting.” So there’s that. Poor kid.)

(And if you think I’m lying about any of this, come over my apartment right now and check. I’m not going anywhere.)

(And I’m realizing now that my editor’s going to be pissed. When I told him that I was about to introduce the book on the site, he said, “That’s great, Jason. But promise me you won’t use the phrase ‘fuck-fighting’ anywhere in the introduction.” Whoops.)

When I moved back to NYC, I was looking at all sorts of areas in which to live. Because I like to walk to work and because I mostly go out around there (and because I’m a snob who likes to look down on people based on where they live), I wanted something downtown-ish, which, like most New Yorkers, I considered anything below 14th Street. But as for which specific neighborhood, I didn’t really care. First, I had my sights set on Chinatown, because you can get a lot of space for your money there. However, of course, you’re surrounded by Chinese people, ranging in age from 0 to 186, all of whom love to walk slowly, spit in public and eat things that look like little monsters and smell like genitals (of either sex) after a long workout followed by a six hour shift at the grill at Chili’s followed by a bath in recently puked up French onion soup. So that made me less interested in Chinatown.

After being downtown, my second criterion for an apartment was one that I live in one that was owned or operated by a responsive landlord or building manager. You may remember that when I lived in my Little Italy apartment, the apartment I lived in for three years before moving to LA, on eight separate occasions I either awoke in the morning or returned from vacation to find that my toilet had overflowed ... read more