I always give money to homeless people.  I rarely give to organizations, but always to people on the street that ask me for money.  I know a lot of people are against this.  Their logic is, “Well, if you give that bum money, he’s just going to get drunk, and that’s not going to help him any.”  On the contrary, I think it will help him a lot.  If you’re homeless and you use the $2 I give you to buy a bottle of Mad Dog, well, then go on with your bad self.  If you have to sleep on the street every night, I’m not gonna judge you for wanting to get a lil’ fucked up.  Whatever gets you through the night, s’alright, s’alright. 

I admit that my willingness to give is not out of the kindness of my heart.  It is rather a selfish gesture.  I give to people less fortunate to cleanse myself of all my sins, which include but are not limited to lying, swearing, wishing death upon enemies and most women, misogyny, one count of manslaughter, twice masturbating to Dakota Fanning, and hatred toward those less fortunate.  My hope is that when I die on September 15, 2008, I will stand before God at the gates of heaven and He’ll say,

God:   “Let’s see here…on January 12, 1998, you punched a dog – in the face AND in his testicles – over a turkey club.  On March 22, 2001, you lit your roommate’s car on fire because he beat you at Trivial Pursuit.  You spent most of April 2004 on a crime spree in Illinois, Indiana, and Ohio.  You have paid for sex on numerous occasions, three times with a man – whether or not it was ‘accidental’, as you claim, is not important to Me.  And you haven’t been to Church regularly since you were 11.  So tell me Jason, why should I let you into heaven?”

Me:     “Well, um, I did give a lot of money to homeless people.”

God:   [giving me a good look over, conferring with St. Peter, taking a deep breath]  “Ok, here’s the deal: 500 years in Purgatory.  If you get enough prayers, I’ll knock it down to 400.  Take it or leave it.”

Me:     “We have a deal!” 

[Me and Gary Shandling, who will die only seconds after me on 9/15/08, exchange high fives.]

But I’m not stupid when I give either.  If I don’t have any change or spare ones at the ready, I’m not about to be stand with a homeless person, routing through my wallet, only to eventually say, “Sorry, I don’t have any change.”  If money is not at the ready, I’ll get change at a nearby store and then give some to the guy.  This wariness was heightened when a few months ago a homeless man in the Lower East Side, right around the corner where I used to live, stabbed a guy my age.  So I’m not about to get shanked while I’m standing there looking for a dollar bill.

Right now, I’m at home in Philly, and (almost) every morning (read: early afternoon) when I wake up, I head down to the Oregon Diner for breakfast.  It’s only a few blocks from where I live, but hey – I’m fat – so I drive.  There I get my usual meal: creamed chipped beef (if you don’t know what creamed chipped beef is, my sadness for you could fill an ocean).  I then take the CCB back to my dad’s house, where I eat it in peace and quiet.

After parking in the lot of the diner, I was approached by a homeless guy, the first of three that would ask me for money (god I miss being home).  A black guy in his late 30′s, he had the bottle of “cleaning fluid” and mess of newspaper and offered to clean my windshield for $1.50.  He offered me this as I was walking from the car to the diner, and I told him I didn’t have any change.  Then he started following me, asking, “What you need change for?  I’m out here tryin’ to hustle!”  I shouted back, “I need to get change.  I’ll hit you when I get out of the diner.”  At this point, he began stomping after me, now yelling, “I said, WHAT YOU NEED CHANGE FOR!  You need it for $5?  $10?  $100?  I got it baby!  I’M A HUSTLER!”  I wasn’t perturbed by this, but rather walked into the diner and went about my business.

I got my creamed chipped beef and my change and left the diner.  I gave one homeless guy standing by the entrance a buck.  Then I gave a homeless woman laying in the handicapped parking spot of the diner a buck too.  As I headed over to my car, I saw the guy who was yelling at me, standing near my car (actually, my mom’s car). 

As I walked toward him and the car, he slowly moved away.  When I got to the car, I learned why.  He had taken it upon himself to “clean” my windshield: there was a disgusting, milky-looking residue smeared all over the windshield, a mix of blue cleaning fluid, newspaper ink, and the windshield’s natural grime.  My reaction?  That mother fucker.  Even though he was yelling and being a dick, I was still going to give him a dollar.  And the jerkoff messes up my windshield. 

What followed was a parking lot shouting match between me and a homeless guy that I’m almost embarrassed to recount here.  When I said, “What the fuck did you do this for?”, he asked for change.  When I said, “Look at my fucking windshield!”, he laughed.  And kept on laughing.  Then I shouted, “Fuck you, dude.  I’m going home – TO MY HOME!”  I was hoping that this would sting him, what with me pointing out that I have a home and he does not – but he was unphased and kept laughing like a goddamn hyena.  I got in the car and drove away, the wiper fluid shooting over the windshield, trying to clean off the mess, cursing the whole way.

There’s no real point to this story, except I admit that in retrospect (since this happened about an hour and a half ago), the homeless guy totally got me.  He got some fat white kid to yell and curse at him after he intentionally dirtied his windshield.  I was the one looking like the crazy person, yelling at this guy, while he laughed.  I only wish that a car full of my friends would have driven by (“Why is Mulgrew getting all red and yelling at that laughing homeless guy?”).  Homeless guy: 1, Me: 0.

…

This is one of several reasons why I love coming home to Philadelphia.     

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

It’s been a crazy few days, but it’ll be worth it when Sunday, my favorite day of the year, rolls around.  Those of you who have been reading a while know that I am a Mummer.  I won’t rehash an explanation of the Mummers Parade here, but you can read all about in a post from last year, which I just reread and found very informative.  Good for me.   

Next week, I’ll do some sort of year in review post or some crap, but just haven’t had the time to give it a proper review this week.  Expect the next post to come either late Tuesday or sometime on Wednesday.

Until then, have a happy and safe New Year’s.  I love you all and would be crushed if something were to happen, so be safe (within reason) on New Year’s Eve.

And I’ll save my mushiness for my week-late “year in review” post next week, but 2005 was a PHEEEEnomenal year, solely because of you jagoffs reading, spreading the word, and continuing to come back.  I’ll leave it at that for now, but know that I am eternally grateful to each of you for everything that has happened for me in 2005 and I wish you nothing but the happiest of years in 2006.

I’ve been bouncing around the Northeast very much the past few days, trying to make it through this awkward week between Christmas and New Year’s. 

Since my schedule is hectic, you get a hectic post.  Hopefully, I’ll be able to write something more coherent now that I’ll be spending more than one night in the same place for the first time in over a week.  But I’m pretty sure I’m losing my mind, so I can’t promise that.

God I love you all.

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

Look, it’s funny.  It really is.  But please stop sending me facts about Chuck Norris.  I’ve gotten a least three emails a day for the past month or so with these Chuck Norris facts.  Yes, I know they exist.  And yes, I know they are funny.  But I’ve known about them for a while.  The original target of these “facts” was Vin Diesel.  The facts were basically the same, sans beard and roundhouse kick jokes.  They were funny.

So I appreciate y’all bringing this to my attention, but I am aware of it.  But what the hell – here are some of my favorite facts:

Chuck Norris raised his IQ by eating gifted children.

Einstein actually had a theory explaining how the roundhouse kick of Chuck Norris broke all laws of physics. He died on the day of the planned release.

A masked man once stabbed Chuck Norris in the alley behind a children’s hospital. The knife bled to death.

Chuck Norris has only celebrated April Fools Day once. The result was homosexuals.

Chuck Norris proposed to his wife by spelling out “Will you marry me?” in semen. Needless to say, she said yes.

When God said, “Let there be light”, Chuck Norris said, “say please.”

Chuck Norris does not hunt because the word hunting infers the probability of failure. Chuck Norris goes killing.

When Chuck Norris sends in his taxes, he sends blank forms and includes only a picture of himself, crouched and ready to attack. Chuck Norris has not had to pay taxes ever.

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

Mark my words: Jake Gyllenhal will come out of the closet sometime after the New Year.  Trust me on this. 

I’m not saying this because I’ve seen “Brokeback Mountain”, because I haven’t seen the movie.  I’m telling you this because I’m “in the industry” and I know shit like this.

Trust me.  I can’t wait to say “I told you so!” in a few months.  Because there’s nothing I love more than being right.  And ejaculating on sleeping people.  Being right and ejaculating on sleeping people are definitely my two favorite things.   

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

I got a lot of responses to the post I wrote about check memos.  Some of you are even sicker than I thought.   Scott from NYC chimes in:

I’m totally with you on the check memo thing. Been doing it for years myself. Then my friends started doing it because of the public shame they would feel when they had to deposit one of my checks. The best one that any of my friends ever pulled was when we sent checks to the winner of our March Madness fantasy pool this year. My buddy Dave wrote on the memo line of the check, “I have a bomb,” and mailed it to our buddy Kevin. Poor Kevin never thought to inspect the memo line before going to the bank a few days later. He handed it to the teller, completely oblivious to the fact that the teller then slowly walked away and summoned security. Two burly guys came over and pulled Kevin aside and asked him what he thought he was doing. Still clueless, they asked him why he wrote “i have a bomb” on his check. Then it hit him that Dave wrote it. Luckily, he got away without any time spent in the clink.

The only thing I can say about this is that I have never heard prison referred to as “the clink” before.  Is this a known expression or did Scott just make this up? 

Jake in Columbia, MO takes advantage of an old rule: mention Dalton in an email and it’s definitely going on the site.

When I was in college, my roommates and I made it a point to try and creep out our landlord each month with something ridiculous on the memo line. We liked to have a lot of parties and it was a great way to keep him out of our hair. The key was to make the message ominous, but keep it short of a threat. It also couldn’t be something so vulger that he could call the police if he wanted. A few examples:

1. No one ever has to know… (The … makes it. I forgot what those are called.)
2. Your doggie is never coming home. (This is much better if you imagine saying it with a clown voice)
3. Soon…
4. I love you.
5. We can still be friends, right?

Well, you get the idea. The plan worked great. He never bothered us, but then again, he also never fixed anything. A fair trade, I’d say. I’ll take a broken garbage disposal over him coming over and seeing everything covered in a fine cocaine residue left by Joey Elimidate.

I actually loved the idea of this so much, that I started writing fake checks made out to real and fake people and hanging them on the walls.(I realize how awesome this sounds) I once wrote out a check to Dalton (Swayze in Roadhouse) for 1 million dollars. I told myself that if I ever have 1 million dollars in my bank account, I would change my name to Dalton, cash the check, and then spend the cash to open up a bar called the Double Deuce in Jasper, Missouri. I would not, however, wear sleeveless guis. Unfortunately, I spend all my money on Natural Light, Rumpleminze, and frozen Jack’s pizzas.

Help me.

I think Jake and I would be very good friends.  Jake, if you’re reading this, please IM me soon.  I can move out there now, but early February would be best.  Let me know.

Finally, we have CarolAnne in Philly.  I would never, ever do this.

Hey Jason….Lets see if you have the brass balls to try this one.

Put this on the memo area of your next check:
“Donation to Al Quida/Al Qaida” (however the hell they spell it.)

Let’s see Bush spy on your phone calls and emails. That should make good blog reading.

No thanks.  Not unless the Bush people want hours of videotaped footage of me masturbating on the bathroom floor and laying in bed eating Tostitos and a lot of phone conversations between Brian and I that go:

Me: “Dude, did you clog the toilet in the middle of the night?”
Brian: “No, dude.”

Me: “Oh, I guess that was me.” 

[eleven seconds of silence]

Me: “I can’t wait to get fucked up this weekend.”

Brian: “I know.  It’s gonna be awesome.  I love getting drunk.”

Me: “Me too.”

[fourteen seconds of silence]

Me: “Alright, later.”

Brian: “Later.” 

But if that makes for a safer America, well, so be it.   

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

I get a lot of really fucked up emails.  This sort of comes with the territory, and I get a kick out of many of them.  Some are annoying.  These include the many emails I get from “hot” girls who talk about how “hot” they are and proceed to tease me about their “hotness”, but fail to include a picture.  In the old days, I used to press these women for pictures, and when I eventually got one, 95% of the time it’d be of a 250-pounder eating a big-ass bowl of chili, looking like Mama Cass on a hot August afternoon.  But now, jaded and disappointed, I don’t even respond to these emails.  So ladies, if you’re only point in emailing me is to tell that you’re hot, please don’t.  However, if you want to email me a picture of you eating a big-ass bowl of chili, that’s totally cool.  I collect those.    

Most emails are fun to read.  These include some of the stories that y’all send me, links to stuff you think is funny, and drunken ramblings (and I have been getting an inordinate amount of drunken ramblings lately – gotta love the holidays).  Really, I could put up one reader email a day instead of a post and it’d be more entertaining than any of the garbage on here. 

I’ve seen a lot of crazy ones, but I think this is the single strangest email I’ve ever gotten.

Hi Jason,
My name is Sarah. I’m 32 years-young, and my husband recently died. I just saw your internet profile and I loved it. You’re very attractive!  I LOVE to travel, and I’ll be visiting the US in January. Also, since my husband died (he died by overdosing on Velotrin – I’m curently sueing them and I hope to get a lot of money – I feel bad he died but I’m glad he died the way he died, he was fuckin’ till the very end!!!!) I’ve become a chronic masturbater. My phsychiatrist tells me that the best way to cut down on jerkin’ is to meet a man. So, I’M REALLY GLAD I FOUND YOUR WEBSITE ;)!!!!!!!!!! Hopefully, we will be able to meet up when I visit. I travel a lot, and I would love to travel with you. Lookin’ forward to hearing from you,
Sarah

…

…

[This is me, being speechless.]

…

…

[So Sarah, where are we going?]

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

If you want to see a picture of me drunk and dressed as Santa, you can do so at my MySpace profile.  Don’t get your hopes up – I’m not doing anything crazy.  I just have a big dopey smile on my face because I’m wasted and I know I’m gonna eat soon.  

God I hate Christmas.

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

Six Songs

“Hope I Don’t Fall In Love With You”  Tom Waits

This song is heartbreaking.  I don’t know what else to say, except for we have a new flagship song on the “Sad As Fuck” playlist.  Best of all, this is before Tom Wait’s voice went to shit, so it actually sounds good. 

(There are two versions of this song.  Be sure to get the slower, longer version.)

[INTERRUPTION: The battery on my laptop is about to die at any moment, so the rest of our Six Songs selections must be abridged.  Thank you for understanding.]

“Love Me Like You”  The Magic Numbers

I’ve pimped them before, and I really, really, really, really like this band.  Get as much of their stuff as you can. 

“Invisible Touch”  Genesis

Did you guys know that this song is really about Hitler?  Swear to God. 

“Romeo and Juliet”  Dire Straits

The line “And all I do is kiss you/Through the bars of a rhyme” used to send me into convulsions of emotion (great band name: Convulsions of Emotion).  Then all my emotions, save for lust and hunger, went away.  Such is life.  

“The Wait”  American Analog Set

A better definition of “mope rock”, I can think of none.

“Symphony of Destruction”  Megadeth

I cannot possibly count the number of people I have punched while listening to this song.  It is easily in the dozens.  

Jason

Just a quick note to wish y’all a Merry Christmas.  I’m not really good at giving holiday wishes since I hate Christmas and all, but have a good one.  And be safe.

(And be sure to really hit the egg nog, since you won’t be able to enjoy it again until next year.  God I fucking love egg nog.)

Posting will resume on Wednesday, 12/28. 

The “memo” area on your average check is a comedy goldmine begging to be spelunked, yet people fail to recognize this.  More often than not, people use this space to describe what the check is being written for: “May 2004 rent”, “John’s birthday”, “Account Number 193883984297″, etc.

But in reality, this is an opportunity for free-form comedy.  I’m telling you this now because the holidays are upon us, and, like many of you, I have no imagination when it comes to giving gifts, so I often give money.  Since we all know that giving cash is too…Italian (read: tacky), I always give checks.  I know that receiving cash is preferable, but my logic is, “Hey – I’m giving you free money.  The least you could do is take your lazy ass to the bank to cash the check.”  Sartre says that the purpose of giving a gift is to enslave the recipient.  I think that giving a gift is just another opportunity to be a dick. 

[Please note: this does not apply only to holidays.  Every check I write has something retarded in the memo.  This is a year-round thing.]

So this holiday season, instead of writing in the memo of the check, “Merry Christmas, Tom!” or “Happy Hanukkah, Chaim!”, have a little fun with it.  Write something ridiculous and/or offensive.  You’ll at least get a laugh out of it and perhaps that person will have to hand that check to a teller to be deposited.  Sweet.

Here are some examples to get you started:

• “Third place prize – Semen Eating Contest”
• “Killing my father”
• “Licking ass on a dare”
• “Your mother tastes like cocaine”
• “Head”
• “I rubbed this on my balls”
• “Are you my brother?”
• “Still tasting you xoxoxo”
• “This is for the drugs you sold me”
• “Sorry about your sister’s uterus and all”

So please, try this at home.  I do it, it’s awesome, so you should do it.    

I had the worst hangover of my life on Saturday.

I know I employ hyperbole a lot on the site, i.e. “It was the best sandwich I ever had” or “There is an International Jewish Conspiracy that is out to destroy me” or “I was so upset that I ran him over and it was the best Sunday ever.” 

But there is not a hint of overstatement when I say that this past Saturday, I had the worst hangover of my life.  Every New Year’s Day, I get so drunk marching in the Mummer’s Parade that I can’t maintain an erection for the next three weeks.  My twenty-first birthday began a month-long drunken orgy that ended with my roommates and I being evicted and sued for $23,000 in damages to our apartment.  I went to Oktoberfest – the real Oktoberfest, in Munich – where I spent an astounding ELEVEN days and nights drinking $7 liters of beer fourteen hours a day, leaving in such a state of withdrawal when I got home that I would sit at my desk at work, shaking and sweating, counting the minutes until I got off from work and could go home, smoke pot, and take a very long shower.

None of those hangovers compared to Saturday.

I’ve had a lot of time to think about it and I think I know why I was so hungover on Saturday, but before I go into these reasons I should provide you with a satisfactory recap of Friday night.

On Friday night, my friends and I got together in Philly for a drinking tour: “Whacked on Foot”.  This was the second year of the tour’s existence.  It was started last year by my buddy David to celebrate his birthday.  I’ve written before about Dave on the site – among other things, I went to London with him and Jimmy the Muppet in February 2004; he and Jimmy were the guys who had me unknowingly passing out counterfeit $20 bills on a night out drinking in April 2004 (under pseudonyms); he was my partner in the 7^th Annual Quasi-Celebrity Drinking Tour (“Drink Until You Shit!”) this summer; and most recently he organized the still-untitled drinking tour on the Wednesday night before Thanksgiving of this year, which involved a bus with a DJ and two girls making out.

Long story short, David has a flair for the dramatic – and I mean this in the most heterosexual way possible.  Simple nights or standard drinking tours do not entertain him.  There always has to be something else, something usually retarded, to make the time mo’ better.  Even if it involves something illegal and could possibly result in your friend serving very real jail time for a federal offense, well then so be it.

(And yes, I’m still bitter about the counterfeit money thing.)

Thankfully, there was nothing illegal about this Friday’s drinking tour, but there was a catch.  There were about 14 guys on the tour – and one Santa suit.  Each guy had to wear the Santa suit to a different bar.  We started at 7pm at a bar on 2^nd & Pine and we worked out way down 2^nd Street, stopping at every bar on the way, back to our South Philly neighborhood.

And let me tell you, things got pretty ugly pretty quickly (of course, I don’t mean “ugly” in the “not good” sense, but rather the “booze soaked and totally and completely fucking awesome” sense).  I should mention that my buddy Mark really upped the ante.  Unbeknownst the rest of the crew, Mark went out and procured a Polaroid camera, film, and (literally) hundreds of candy canes.  This was the perfect compliment to the Santa suit (see below).   

My buddy Doc raised the bar pretty high when he was the first to put on the Santa suit.  There is something wonderfully iconoclastic about Santa buying a round of shots, pounding a beer, and then screaming at the TV, “C’mon!  Santa’s got $200 on the Sixers, so let’s go there Allen or else you’re getting coal, you mother fucker!”

I was determined to get out of wearing the Santa suit in any way, shape, or form.  Don’t get me wrong – I loved the idea – but early on it was apparent that I was too drunk to be very jovial.  This doesn’t mean that I wasn’t having a good time, but it means that I just wanted to drink, sit back, and laugh.  One of the rare moments that I didn’t want to be at the center of attention. 

So we kept drinking and moving on, guys switching in and out of the Santa suit as entered or exited each bar.  Eventually, the idea of being Santa started to appeal to me.  I’m guessing this has something with the fact that we’d go into bars and girls would start lining up for a Polaroid on Santa’s lap (and a candy cane, of course).  As you guys know, there is nothing I advocate or enjoy more than sticking an unsuspecting woman with my thumb-sized boner.  The origins of this go way back to my adolescence, when I would ram my bird into girls that I was slow dancing with at school dances, wondering, “Can she feel this?  Because I sure can and it’s totally sweet.”  The prospect of reliving my early boner-poking days was making me feel more and more jovial. 

But near the end of the night, it didn’t look like it was going to happen.  At the second to last bar, our friend Phil had the Santa suit on.  The plan all along was for David, the birthday boy, to wear the Santa suit at the last bar.  That would mean no Santa for me.  But the good news is that by the time we were at the second to last bar I was so drunk that I was incapable of getting an erection.  Hell, I was nearly incapable of sitting down.  All I could really do at the point was breathe, piss, drink, and lean. 

David, however, was in worse shape.  I don’t remember the specifics, but I went to the bathroom, came out, and he was gone.   When I asked Phil where he had gone, he told me that David had to be taken home by two other guys in the drinking tour because he was too drunk.  It was about 12:15am.  A total pussy performance to be sure (the first of three in a row for him), but this meant the Santa suit would be mine for the last bar!  Victory! 

At about 1am, I got into the suit, and the remaining four of us headed to the last bar.  And that’s when it gets a little fuzzy.

I remember that Mark and I were the last two guys left at the bar.  I remember doing a lot of shots with Mark.  Bars close in Philly at 2am, but we stayed until 3am.  I don’t remember any girls sitting on my lap (by that point, I’m pretty certain that at least two detectives from the Philadelphia Police Sex Crimes Unit were following me around as a precautionary measure), but there some Polaroids of me at the bar, which sadly I don’t have to scan. 

And I do remember leaving.  Or rather, I remember getting home.  Knowing that I would be terribly wasted, I made some preparations: I had a sandwich and some Gatorade waiting for me.  After I housed those, I popped two aspirin and passed out, the room’s delightful spins lulling me to sleep. 

And then – whammo.  When I woke up the next morning, I was in the throes of death.  I never sleep in when I’m hungover and so was up at 9:30 in the morning.  My usual remedy is aspirin, water, and a long shower.  When after my first shower I felt like shit, I took another shower.  And then another.  And another.  All told, I took FOUR showers through the course of the day Saturday, leaving the shower each time only when my I drained the house’s hot water heater and the cold water left me shivering.  Even then I contemplated checking into a hotel, just so I could look myself in the bathroom with my iPod and a bottle of Poland Spring while the bathroom steamed up. I ultimately decided against this because – what am I, made of money?       

I can’t begin to describe the misery.  Obviously, it was bad.  I was bedridden until dinner, when the scent of stromboli got me out of bed.  All day long I couldn’t move, look at anything, or touch anything without something hurting.  I looked the part too: my eyes were red and bloodshot since I slept in my contacts; my hair, which hasn’t been cut in almost two months, was a mess; I had stained the undershirt I was wearing; and my breath, beard, and ‘stache stunk of death and SoCo and lime.  Just nasty.    

At dinner I finally got some strength and was even able to make it out later that night.  However, I had about three beers in five hours before coming home, popping a Xanax, and sleeping the sleep of the dead.  But the damage was done.  My original intention was to return to New York on Saturday afternoon.  I got back Monday evening.  Oops.   

So why was I, such a seasoned drinker, so hungover, even when I was “prepared”?  Two main reasons:

Biological/physiological

First, I was bombed.  Duh.  That isn’t going to make for a good morning any way you cut it.  But on this particular night, two things did me in:

1)     Late binge drinking.  The tour started at 7pm.  By midnight, I was in the bag.  But between 1:30 until the bar closed, I must have had six shots.  Six shots at the end of the night (especially sugary shots like SoCo and lime) are going to ruin you.  If anything, it’s best to drink heavily early and more slowly later or to pace yourself all night.  Of course, I drink like I make love: quickly and without remorse.  And someone usually gets punched in the face.  So no dice. 

2)     When I came home, I ate a chicken caesar wrap and a 32oz (or thereabouts) Gatorade High Endurance.  Gatorade is a TERRIBLE thing to drink before going to bed on a load, since it’s very high in sugar.  Sugar is very bad for hangovers.  This is because sugar takes longer to break down in the body and robs it of hydration.  I just made this up, but trust me, sugar is bad.  One should drink water and only water the night before a hangover.  I know this, and don’t know why I had this lapse on Friday evening.   

Emotional/psychological

I’ve been miserable lately.  Duh.  Alcohol is a drug that induces mood shifts, usually (in me, at least) helping me get from low to high.  But once the alcohol is retreating from your body, so go your good feelings.

So as I lay there on Saturday morning/afternoon/evening, I more readily wallowed in self-pity.  Instead of thinking, “God, you’re so hungover and such a pussy.  But I have to admit that it was pretty awesome when you hit that junkie with the snowball and then blamed it on the other junkie and the two junkies fought each other.”, I was thinking more along the lines of, “Way to go, chubby.  Keep pissing away the opportunity of a lifetime because you can’t stop drinking anything put in front of you.  Now roll over, fat chops – our left arm is going numb.”  This doesn’t help.

***

And so what is my resolve and/or solution?  None and none.  Things are looking decidedly downward: I’m getting older, I can’t drink like I used to, and I’m wasting precious pre-deadline time.  Not only that, but it’s the holidays, which I hate (maybe this is why, but I’m not a therapist).  Maybe that nervous breakdown that I wrote about in Post One is nigh.  At least, I think, that would be very good for site traffic.  In the meantime, I can only do what I do best: sit at my desk and stew.  And of course, keep you updated – whether you want to be or not. 

(And you thought I was kidding about the title)

Someone I know was very, very upset about this.  We will call him “Justin.”  Justin went away recently.  On his first day out of NYC, he got a frantic voicemail message from his roommate, “Bill.”  Bill was very wound up and upset, wailing like Ron Burgundy in his glass case of emotion, unable to even explain what happened before abruptly hanging up.

Justin tracked Bill down and got the scoop.  It was the unthinkable: their “source”, with whom they’ve had an on-again off-again relationship for the past four years, had been arrested, busted by the feds.  So no more of one of the few things that makes Justin’s and Bill’s lives bearable.  This is especially bad, since Justin has recently transformed into the most miserable human being on the planet and derives pleasure only from abuse (particularly from the substance that the source offers, but also from the abuse of booze, other people, and himself). 

Not only that, a list of the source’s clients had been confiscated.  On that list are, presumably, Justin’s and Bill’s names and contact information.

Once Justin got the fully story from Bill, he tried to calm him down.  “I promise you,” he said, “They’re not going to come after us.  Not with athletes and celebrities on that list anyway.”

“Yes,” Bill replied, “But what about [unintelligible screams and sobs, things breaking in the background].”

Bill eventually bought into Justin’s reassurances, but deep down Justin himself was worried.  See, Justin is an almost-celebrity.  I can’t get into the nature of his fame, lest I reveal too much of his persona.  But let’s just say that Justin is kind of a big deal in some circles, especially in New York City.  We’re not talking “Oscar-winner” big deal, but one time he did get recognized on an Amtrak train.  Which totally made his entire year. 

But though initially worried, Justin realized that getting busted by the feds might just be great for his career.  After all, everyone knows there is no such thing as bad publicity and an attention whore like Justin is always willing to take it where he can get it.  Besides, it’s not like he was having drinking parties for 12 year old boys from PS 128 at his apartment every Friday night (there was no drinking, just a lot of group masturbating).   

So soon Justin was no longer worried.  There were two possible scenarios, he figured: either nothing happens or he gets arrested and becomes a political prisoner, using his captivity as an excuse to strike out at the man and the system, with the help of his legions of (completely bored and totally looking for something to do) fans.

But there’s another problem: Justin and Bill need their “goods”.  This, thankfully, is not an issue.  In a city as large as New York, there will always be sources and always be goods.  I *heart* NYC.

I mean, Justin *hearts* NYC.

The end.

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Speaking of breaking the law, Colagero is implicated in a murder. 

I’m tempted to make a racist joke here (you guys know how I turn everything into a racial issue), something akin to, “I wonder if this would have happened if he had found a nice Italian girl instead” (and that’s a really mild one).  But my sister has recently started dating a black man, so I have to start biting my tongue.  A bisexual brother and a sister dating a black guy.  Now all I need is for my mom to somehow get retarded and my dad to convert to Judaism I have license to make any joke I want. 

[Not that I make any jokes about Jews, if any of my friends in the entertainment industry are reading this.  I am totally down with the Tribe, and you guys know this. 

Anyway, I don't really have a joke about Colagero being a criminal, but how does something like this?  One minute you're working with Robert DeNiro, the next you're involved in the death of a NYC police officer.  Fame goes to the unworthy.  I promise you that if I ever get famous I will not, in any way, be involved in the death of a police officer.  The only death I will be involved in will be my own, which I will take like a man, in a closet, smoking a cigarette, listening to Sigur Ros, consciously drawing my heart to a complete stop because my dog died in my pool a few days earlier and I no longer have anything to live for.  Thank you. 

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Speaking of famous people being assholes, has there ever been a more condescending commercial than the Destiny's Child Wal-Mart Christmas commercial?  Perhaps "condescending" is not the right word…hypocritical?  Anger-inducing?  Piss-me-off-ish?  (Can someone help me a word here, please?) 

In the commercial, Beyonce (‘cause Lord knows I haven't seen enough of her) and the other two girls in Destiny's Child are at Beyonce's house on Christmas morning, exchanging gifts.  These gifts include: a giant plasma TV, a laptop, a tricked out digital camera, and other exorbitantly expensive gifts.

Maybe it's because I grew up poor, but I don't want to see really rich celebrities exchanging $60,000 worth of gifts on Christmas morning.  This doesn't make your product more appealing to me.  Instead, it makes me want to punch these rich fucks in the face. 

No surprise that this commercial comes from Wal-Mart.  The median income of the average Wal-Mart employee is $22,400.  Of course, I just made that number up, but it's got to be pretty low.  But then they show Beyonce and the gang throwing presents around that probably 98% of their employees (and probably 90% of their customers) can't afford.  This angers me so much that I can't believe more hasn't been written about it. 

So fuck you, Wal-Mart, and fuck you, Destiny's Child.  Take your $6000 59 inch plasma TVs and your $800 digital cameras and shove them up your asses.  

And Merry Fucking Christmas. 

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Speaking of expensive things, I got the new 60 GB black iPod.  I have no idea why.

Well, that's not true; I saw my brother's and decided to get one.  Simple as that.  I have to admit, it's pretty sick.  I bought my original iPod back in March of 2004 (just after starting this blog, actually) and it was getting pretty beat up.  Worst of all, the battery was completely shot to shit.  I even had the battery replaced, but I was only getting a solid 1.5 hours of use of it before it conked out completely. 

So the real reason I got a new one is that my brother's looked cool.  My fake justification for getting the new one is that my old one was dying.

I don't have a product review or anything, and I don't regret buying it, but I had a moment.  I bought it and raced (in as much as I can "race" anywhere) back to my apartment, and set it up, marveling at its beauty as my songs were copied onto it.  Then, when it was finally ready, I put in the headphones to try out my new $400 toy and I learned that IT IS THE SAME AS MY OLD IPOD.

I don't mean that literally of course, but when this thing is in my pocket and music is coming out of it, I can't tell the difference between this one and my old one.  Sure, more battery life and cooler looking, etc, but really, it's just the same.

(And I know this one holds photos and TV shows and stuff, but I don't take pictures and I don't watch TV.  So there's no way I'm going to do use these functions.)

So I'd like to congratulate myself for an exorbitantly expensive and completely unnecessary purchase that does not alter my life in anyway, except to distract from my bank account.  Guess I'll pay off those credit cards later.  Or I'll just die and let my family take care of it.  Haven't decided yet.    

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Speaking of music, get ready, because I'm going to make your day.

Lauren in NYC introduced to me www.pandora.com.  It's an ingenious idea really.  It's a music site.  You put in an artist or song that you like and based on the artist/song will then build a "radio station" of songs like that artist/song.  For example, if you put in the Beatles, you're going to get a lot of songs that sound like the Beatles, some familiar (the Kinks, David Bowie, Badfinger), some not.

Two complaints:

1)     The library is limited.  For example, if you put in the Beatles, there's a limited number of songs they have for their station.  Meaning, on Tuesday I listened to my Beatles station.  I did the same on Wednesday, and heard a lot of the same songs I did the previous day.

2)     Jackson Browne is linked to every artist I liked.  So far, I've done the Beatles, Elvis Costello, Squeeze, the Grateful Dead, and Jimi Hendrix.  Jackson Browne has been on every station, even Hendrix's.  I wouldn't be surprised if he's behind this whole thing.  And Jackson Browne sucks.

3)     I wonder who exactly is behind this.  Perhaps a computer nerd in some hipster band put this together to get his/her music out there.  Think about it: many, many people are going to make a station around the Beatles.  If you put your song second on that station's playlist, a lot of people are going to listen to it.  Hmm…I wonder.

At any rate, it's a great site if you're just sitting at work and looking for new music.  My Grateful Dead station is my favorite so far, as I sit back and get into heady tunes when I write some of the unfunniest "comedy" the world has ever seen.  It's great. 

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Six Songs

"Something Pretty"  Patrick Park

This dude's voice sometimes gets on my nerves (especially when he starts belting it out in the third verse).  But there is something achingly endearing about saying to a woman, "Now show me something pretty."  If I were high, I could write a 1500 word discourse on the word "pretty" and how, since as children it's the first word that we learn to describe beauty, it carries a more significant weight and therefore (I would argue) is much more poetic than any of its synonyms.  I might also go into how in this particular line the juxtaposition of the harsh command ("Now show me") and its soft object ("something pretty") is particularly, well, pretty.  But my fucking drug dealer got arrested last week, so I ain't high.

"Showdown"  ELO

Never has there been a song that is at once so ridiculous, so overly dramatic, and so totally fucking awesome at the same time ("It's raining all over the world/Tonight, the longest night").  Every time I hear this song, it pumps me up.  It's like my personal Rocky theme. 

(And yes, I know it was used in "Kingpin", a very underrated movie.  I just saved myself from having to read about 50 emails telling me this.  Score for me.)

"Idiot Boyfriend"  Jimmy Fallon

Speaking of ridiculous, when this song came out, I hated it.  This is because it was released at the height of Jimmy Fallon's career, which I would guess was in 2002.  I remember because I lived with a girl at that time, and all she talked about was how hot Jimmy Fallon (it was the same time that everyone thought the Strokes were the second coming of Christ, if Christ were a really great band).

But I heard this song recently, I had no animosity toward it.  I even kind of liked it.  And I realized that the reason why I like it now and not then is not because my musical tastes have changed, but Jimmy Fallon is no longer "hot".  It's not like his career is over, but let's face it, once SNL brought in the post-Will Ferrell shit fest and he left to do the taxi movie with Queen Latifah, well, let's just say I don't think that girl I lived with is talking about him every day anymore.

Still a dumb song, but marginally funny, with a nice hook.  Next. 

"Out To Get You"  James

A must for any make out mix.  Trust me on this, since I make out with chicks all the time.  I just made out with one like five minutes.  And yes, she was hot.  We had lunch together and went for a walk and then she was all like, "When are you gonna kiss me?" and I was all like, "I'm gonna do it now – how does that suit you?" and she was all like, "It suits me just fine" and then we made out for like a minute and a half.  Wicked.    

"Vicky Verky"  Squeeze

I can't tell you what this song is about, since Glenn Tilbrook sings so damn fast.  But it's a really catchy, lovely 80's Brit pop rock tune.  I don't know why more people don't know about or appreciate Squeeze.  They are an incredible band, one of my top five favorites (seriously). 

"I'll Make It Clear"  Teenage Fanclub

While we're at it, another British pop rock band.  This song, all two minutes and thirty-three seconds of it, just may be perfect.  Listen to it once.  Listen to it again.  If you're not at least humming along the second time around, something is seriously wrong with you.   

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Back in Philly now for a buddy's birthday drinking tour tonight.  I don't like to hype things, especially on here (lest I get too pressured to do something ridiculous and write about it here on Monday), but this should be a good one.  I'm not saying something outrageous is going to happen, but I'll make a few predictions:

1)     I'll get too drunk.

2)     I will spend well over $100.

3)     I will have a massive hangover the next day.

4)     I will be miserable.

5)     I will say things like, "I'm retiring from drinking."

6)     Eight hours later, I will be drunk.

I'm pretty sure I can go 6-for-6 here.

[Have a good weekend.]

The web page says it all.  Be there.

RSVP at info@GloriusMustache.com.

First, I apologize for my behavior over the past few months.  Not for generally being a sucky person, but for sounding so “mysterious” with the projects that I’ve been working on.  Let me backtrack: typically, when I’m feeling down, I’ll print out some posts from this here blog and read them aloud to myself.  It never fails to get me up and even a little randy.  Knowing that this past week was going to be a rough one (mood swings, depression, etc), I printed out a few months worth of archives to bring with me on my self-imposed exile.  And though there were parts that brought me near climax, I realized what an incredible douche I sound like when referring so mysteriously to my “projects”.

[Right now you're thinking, "I really hope he's not serious about printing out his old posts and reading.  But I can't say for sure."]

Though I apologize for my doucheness, I still can’t give y’all full disclosure.  I will however, tell you as much as I can:

• Since the end of September, I have only been working one day a week at my normal job.  That day is Tuesday.
• I will continue working one day a week through December.  Then I will take a leave of absence from work until mid-February.  That means I’ll have off from work entirely from Jan 1 until mid-Feb.
• I’ve divided my time between time between two projects: developing a TV show based on the site (I refuse to say “my life”, because that would make it the saddest TV show ever), as mentioned in Variety; and working on another project which can not be named for contractual reasons.
• In about a month or so, I will be able to tell you everything (hopefully).
• Over the next few months, there will be some changes to the site.  Don’t be scared; they will be good and exciting.  One of the upshots of these projects is that I have a little bit of money.  Instead of using this money for rent, credit card debt, student loans, etc, I’m going to make my site prettier (I will also pay off many of my speeding tickets).  For the entire length of his “employment”, Site Guy Brendan has been held captive in an apartment in Dorchester, MA and beaten with bamboo shoots, while he steals stuff from the internet for this site.  I can now give him so money to buy shiny things to make the site nicer, which will happen over time (though I will still continue to beat him with bamboo shoots).  So even though I was on hiatus and I may slack a bit over the next few weeks while I take care of business, I’m more committed to this site than ever.  And I know I’m being vague about these changes, but I want to surprise you (because I love you).

God I missed you sons of bitches.

More to come tomorrow, but I wanted to write to say that I’m alive and (reasonably) well in NYC.  Also, a plug: today I’m quoted in a New York Sun article about the attempted revival of the moustache.  It’s only a little blurb, but hey – it’ll make my mom happy.  I don’t have a hard copy, so I don’t know what page it’s on, but you can view the online version here. 

Now let’s never be apart again.

I will be on hiatus until next Wednesday, December 14.  That means I won’t be posting again until that day.

I have some deadlines approaching for a project and since I can’t get done any work in NYC, I’m going down the shore.  In the summer, North Wildwood, NJ is bumping: seasonal tourists fill the streets, drinking with abandon, speaking in thick South Philly accents, and getting into fights.  In the winter, it’s a ghost town.  There’s only one bar, one liquor store, one restaurant, and a Wawa (Philly’s localized version of 7-11) open, so I will be distraction-free.  Except for the fights, which I think are a year-round thing.  Sounds great, doesn’t it? 

What’s more, I won’t have internet access.  At all.  Well, that’s not true; I’ll have internet through my Treo, but that is very limited to begin with and I can’t imagine how good my reception will be down the shore anyway.  The prospect of no internet is both terrifying and liberating.  I have a feeling that by Day Two of my self-imposed exile I’ll either be in the grips of a complete nervous breakdown (who’s going to check up on my fantasy basketball team to see in Andrei Kirilenko starts actually making shots?) or I’ll be skipping along the beach playing a flute followed by a line of dancing orphan children (an internet icon without his internet is a freedom most men can never know). 

But I ask that during this hiatus you do not email me.  I’ve been very bad with email recently because a) I’ve had to cut back on my time responding to emails to work on my other stuff; b) about three weeks ago, every spammer in the world simultaneously discovered my site, so I’m getting inundated with emails with subjects like “)*&@*)&^#($(!”  So please don’t email during the hiatus unless you have something supremely important to tell me or you just took an especially hot picture of yourself in the shower and want to share it with me.  Dig? 

To be honest, I’ll be worried about some people while I’m on this hiatus.  I’ll worry about my friends, who will have no one to email them at 1 in the afternoon to remind them that he just woke up and has no plans other than to make a giant sandwich and possibly shower.  I’ll worry about my roommate Brian, who will have no one to clean up after him, do his dishes, and buy all the toilet paper for the apartment (but then Brian will probably be glad that someone isn’t sitting in the bathroom playing Monopoly on his cell phone from 7pm until 11pm every night).  And I’ll worry about the people who are paying me for this project, who will be sitting in offices in New York and Los Angeles, unable to get in touch with me, convinced that I’m sitting in a dark room drinking cheap vodka and crying because “I just can’t do it” as they frantically try to stop payment on the checks they’ve given me.

(Oh wait – I haven’t received ANY checks yet and am as poor now as I was in college.  Thanks again guys for really taking care of me.  See you in court.)

But I’m not worried about you guys.  It’s only a week and it’ll go by quickly.  Besides, it’s the holiday season, so you can get over your boredom at work by looking on the internet for gifts – for me.  I take either an XL or and XXL and though my favorite color is green (or blue), my favorite color to wear is black.  It’s slimming. 

Have a good week.  I promise that I will miss you much more than you will miss me.  And wish me luck.  Because lord knows I need it.

(Seriously, I need a lot of luck.  So send it this way.  Thank you.)   

Loyal reader and friend JC from Charlotte was the first to bring to my attention that my post yesterday was similar to an episode of the FX show “It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia.“  In the episode, the main character learns that his old high school teacher was accused of sexual misconduct and he (the character) wonders why he was not a target of this teacher.  So it‘s pretty much the same exact idea that I wrote about yesterday.

Four things about this:

1) I have never seen this show.  Therefore, I did not steal the joke from it.  You might call “bullshit” on this, but it’s true.  You can believe me or not.  I don’t reallly care (I added an extra “l” for emphasis).

2) If we’re being honest, I’ve only consciously lifted one joke from someone else to use on this site without giving credit, and it’s bothered me since.  Back in March of 2005, I wrote about attending my 12-year 8th grade reunion.  For the reunion, I wrote a speech (which I never ended up giving).  In that speech I wrote:

But I look around the room and I’m happy with what we’ve become: good men, upstanding women, and whatever the hell Wick is.  And I feel nothing but respect for you all, nothing but respect.  Not pride.  Not happiness.  Not friendship.  Just respect.

The “I look around the room and feel nothing but respect; not pride, etc” joke is not mine.  Steve Martin said it in a speech about Lorne Michaels in some honorary ceremony.  And I stole it.  So there.  

But in my defense, I stole it for the speech, not for the site.  Sure, I later put the speech on the site, but it’s original intention was for the speech only.  And we all know it’s much more acceptable to steal for the spoken word than the written word (although it was T.S. Eliot who said, “Good writers borrow.  Great writers steal.” and he was writer, not a stand-up).   

3) I’d like to thank the dozens of other people who emailed me after JC, calling me out on the post.  It’s also a good sign for that show, I think, that so many people would know the plot of one of the episodes.

However, for the douchebags who took a nasty tone in their emails, F you guys.  Through November of this year, I’ve written around 475,000 words on the site (the equivalent of 940 singled-spaced pages).  Many of these 475,000 words have been used before, sometimes even in a comedic setting.  So if I accidentally repeat a joke, give me a break.  You don’t need to send me a dickhead email calling me a hack.  No offense to ”Philadelphia”, but it’s not like I wrote a post about some cook in my neighborhood who screams “NO SOUP FOR YOU!” or anything.  Like I said, I’ve never seen the show, but I think I might have to watch it now.   

4) Something that is worth noting: the star and creator of “It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia” went to my high school.  I do not know the extent of his interaction with this teacher, as he was two years ahead of me.  But at the very least he knew him.  Strange then, isn’t it, that he would write a presumably fictional episode about not being the target of his predatory high school teacher’s advances and then later it would be learned that in real life he actually had a predatory high school teacher?

…

I just blew your minds, didn’t I?  That’s why you guys pay me the big bucks.

(Oh no wait, you don’t pay me anything.  You just send emails accusing me of stealing jokes.  Sorry – I got mixed up there for a moment.)

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You may have noticed that we had some technical difficulties recently, but these have been fixed (I think).  Long story short, I did something I shouldn’t have, probably for the sole purpose of giving Site Guy Brendan a headache.  Mission accomplished.  Several emails back and forth between he and I and the problem is solved (I think).  And I’m pretty certain that the next time I see Brendan he’s going to belly punch me.  Can’t wait.

But in the future, please send all tech-related issues to Site Guy Brendan at brendan@jasonmulgrew.com.  For the last time, I am a technical retard.  I don’t know anything about web design, html, RSS feeds, or the intricacies of a woman’s private area.  For help with any of these issues, go to Brendan.  If you want someone to console you because you got wasted and made a sandwich out of processed cheese slices and toilet paper, drop me a line.  Got it?

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I’d like to thank the Philadelphia Eagles for making the past three months (and the next month) miserable for me.  After the Ray show, I walked into a bar just in time to watch a Seahawk taking a fumble into the end zone to make it 41-0 – WITH 14 MINUTES LEFT IN THE THIRD QUARTER.

Typically, when I’m miserable, I want everyone else to be miserable with me.  And fortunately, many of my non-Eagle fans felt that way after last night’s game.  You see, the over/under on the game was 43.  Many of my friends bet the over.  Like I said, with just under 14 minutes left in the third quarter it was 42-0.  Surely someone would score again, since the Seahawks managed 42 points in a little over half the game, right?

Nope.  Neither team scored.  Those betting the over lost.  To make matters worse, the Seahawks missed a field goal that would have put them over.  Sucks for you guys. 

And sucks for me too.  But at least we can commiserate together. 

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My buddy Tim was responsible for two phenomenal quotes this weekend:

1) “Imagine how slutty women would be if they could have orgasms with the same ease that men can.“

2) “The closest I ever came to a threesome was at a Santana concert.“

I think I‘m going to write a whole post about the first and the second is arguably the greatest conversation starter I‘ve ever heard.  Kudos to you, Tim.

[I had a line about how I was going to really "explore the space" with that first point, but I think it's time to officially retire every line from the Christopher Walken/Blue Oyster Cult SNL skit that gave us the line, "I need more cowbell!"  I like to think that it was me and this site that stopped the whole "Best. [Noun]. Ever.” phenomenon that got so brutally overused that I started to tense up every time I saw it written, so let’s all now focus our energies on preventing further quoting from this skit.  Yes, it was awesome, but it had its time and place.  So join with me in chanting: NO ‘MORE COWBELL!’  NO ‘MORE COWBELL!’]

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Since it‘s only a half week (more tomorrow on this) we can’t do Six Songs, so here are Three Songs.

“Angel“  Aerosmith

I hate Aerosmith.  I read an interview in Maxim once (I think I’ve written about this before) with Steven Tyler, in which he was asked where Aerosmith ranks in the rock pantheon.  His response?  “Just below the Stones, but above Led Zeppelin.”  Um, no Steven.  Not even close.  More like…

1) The Rolling Stones

2) Led Zeppelin

3) The Who

…

14) The Edgar Winter Group

15) Aerosmith

16) LA Guns

So I don’t know why I’m pimping this song, except to say that I like it even though it was a precursor to their later Diane Warren co-penned schmaltz.  Eck.

“Unsung“  Helmet

I was in a band in college.  We were terrible and we played scary music, but we had fun.  Though I was more inclined to Elvis Costello and Squeeze, we played a lot of Rage Against the Machine and Tool.  “Unsung” was one of the “hard rock” songs that we played, but I actually really liked this song.  And it’s very easy to play to, so I would rock on stage, pounding away on my bass, looking out onto a sea of women admirers before me.  And by “sea of women admirers” I mean my roommates, three alcoholics, and a Chinese lady selling roses.  But whatever.

“Four Leaf Clover“  Badly Drawn Boy

I have such a strange affair with Badly Drawn Boy; some of his stuff I don’t think I can live without, while other songs of his I find wretched.  This falls into the former category.  I could use more words, but it’s a nice tune.  It makes me all moody and unsure of myself.  And that’s a good thing.  I think. 

When I tell people that I went to an all guys high school, the most common response is, “Eww – that sucks.”  Their logic is that since I was surroundded by 800 guys during my sexual peak, high school must have sucked for me.

But in truth, I have no regrets about going to an all guys high school (and not because I am actually an aggressive homosexual and spent four glorious years in high school giving handjobs to bi-curious classmates in the locker room).  My counter to the no-girls argument is that a) just because I wasn’t with girls in class doesn’t mean I didn’t know any girls in high school; and b) I still wouldn’t have gotten laid in high school even if half of the student body was made up of young ladies.  So the “no girls” argument, the biggest negative to the all guys school, is thus rendered moot. 

And there are a lot of good things about going to high school without girls.  The first is the absence of sexual pressure.  Every day when I went to class, I didn’t have to worry about what I looked like.  Hell, I didn’t even have to worry about whether or not I properly wiped my ass.  No girls around meant a lot less pressure, and that meant that we guys could be total fucking pigs.

This, in turn, led to more male bonding (and I don’t mean that in the circle jerk kind of way).  I’m trying to decide how I can explain this without it sounding gay, and I don’t think I’m going to be able to.  But let me put it this way: if I went to a co-ed school, I would most likely now be living in my dad’s basement, working at the local Costco, and spending my nights drinking cheap beer and masturbating to amateur British pornography (also, I’d have no sense of humor).  Instead, I’m not working at all, living above an Italian restaurant, and spend my nights drinking expensive beer and masturbating to equally expensive pornography (also, not to toot my own horn, but I have a pretty good sense of humor). 

The bottom line about my high school experience, with its 800 guys and all, was that it was fun.  It was more than fun – it was a fucking blast.  When I look back, I can’t imagine going to school with girls and what an awkward mess that would have been for me in those years (or now even). 

But there is one minor drawback to going to an all guys school: the teachers want to fuck you.

A few weeks ago, a much-loved (no pun intended) teacher at my old high school abruptly resigned.  According to a letter sent to parents of current students by the president of the school, “Church officials received inquiries concerning [teacher] and incidents of alleged inappropriate kissing and hugging with three students in the mid-1990s.”  The letter continues, “In 1996, [teacher] denied any inappropriate intent when confronted with these allegations. Nonetheless, at that time, [school] reprimanded [teacher], mandated psychiatric evaluation and counseling for him and restricted his non-class time interaction with students.”  But it wasn’t until now, under threat of official Church inquiry, that the teacher resigned.  The letter doesn’t give any more specifics of the inappropriate conduct.   

Before I continue, you should know that my old high school is a very prestigious and very expensive prep school.  Kids come from all over the region to go there and their parents pay buckets of money for them to do so.  The only reason why I even went to the school was because I got a scholarship (the same reason I went to notorious stingy and very expensive BC).  But what I’m trying to get at is this is a big deal school with some very wealthy alumni and parents.    

There are several possible stances to this that students, parents, or alumni can take, but I think there are two main ones:

a)     “You’ve known about these infractions since 1996 but did nothing until nine years later!  I pay a lot of money for my son to go to this school and I expect nothing less than his well-being to be cared for!  This is a travesty!”

b)     “[Teacher] is a longstanding member of the [high school] community and is very well-respected.  Have you any proof of his inappropriate conduct other than the words of the students?”

Both have merit.  However, I won’t get into either of them, as we all know that we discuss nothing of merit or substance on this site. 

Instead, I will tell you about my reaction, which followed this progression:

• “This guy made out with students in 1996, my junior year.”
• “I wonder who he made out with?”
• “Wait a minute – I was in school at that time!”
• “And I knew [teacher] pretty well!”
• “So why the hell didn’t he make a pass at me?”
• “What, like I’m not good enough for him?”
• “You know what?  Fuck him.”
• “His loss.”
• “Bet those others assholes aren’t famous now.”
• “Loser.”

This may sound like a joke, but it’s really not.  When I first learned about all this, I was a little offended. 

I would have been an ideal target for a pedophile during my high school years.  I was the total package: sexually confused, popular because of a sense of humor that belied my low self-esteem, and desperate for anyone to get my nut off that wasn’t me, in a place that wasn’t the cold tile floor of my bathroom.  Really, all the elements were there.

So when I learned about my teacher making passes at guys I went to school with, after I got over the nastiness of it, I wonder what I did wrong that I was off this guy’s radar.  Maybe I wasn’t his type.  Maybe he preferred the athletic type, though I don’t know many athletes that I went to school with that would like a teacher kiss them on the mouth.  Maybe he preferred nerds.  But who “prefers” nerds?  Why would you take a nerd when you could have the Student Council Vice President (notice the caps)?  I mean, c’mon.

But after much thought and discussion with some of my old classmates, I figured out why this teacher didn’t go for me.  I can’t keep a secret.  I don’t know if you guys know this, but I like talking about myself and things that happen to me – a lot.  This teacher thought to himself, “Well, that Mulgrew kid is ripe for some doing.  But he’ll probably tell just about everyone under the sun if I invite him back to my office and slip him the old mamba.”  Perhaps he even knew that years later I would start a website which explicitly details my masturbatory habits, one that makes me highly undateable and completely unemployable.  So though you may be against using a position of authority to sexually molest young men, you have to at least give the guy credit for doing his homework.  Mostly.

But ultimately, I don’t know how I feel about the whole situation.  Part of me agrees with the first camp (though not for money reasons): why, if the school knew about the infractions in 1996, did it not dismiss him then?  But part of me aligns with the second camp.  These are allegations only, and school officials have no concrete proof that any misconduct actually occurred.

So my bitterness about not being a target and my ambivalence about the issue leads me to apathy.  I really don’t care.  I don’t think touching up on kids is right (unless she’s really hot and looks much older than her 15 years), but I’m not entirely sure if it really happened.  So instead of taking a stand, I’ll lean back in my chair, think about it for a second, and then say, “Eh.” 

(But that doesn’t mean I won’t think about what could have been.  Man, that teacher really missed out.  Again, his loss.  I’m going to read your emails and masturbate, because I need a self-esteem boost over here.)

And I’ve been true to my word since.  Like many New Yorkers, I take my laundry every week to an Asian laundromat.  I don’t understand why everyone doesn’t do this.  Though it’s more expensive than doing one’s own laundry, it’s not that much more expensive.  And when you factor in the ease of it – I drop my laundry off in the morning and pick it up after work, rather than sitting in a laundry room for two hours a week – it’s a real no-brainer.    

But there are times when I feel guilty about dropping my laundry off to be done by immigrants (Jason Mulgrew: Always Culturally Sensitive).  Not necessarily because they’re immigrants or anything, but because of the nastiness of my laundry (the squeamish might want to skip this next part).  You see, I beat off into my dirty laundry.  Before your mind starts wandering, no, I do not ejaculate from a standing position directly into the laundry basket.  Not because that’s gross, but because at the moment of orgasm my knees buckle and are unable to support weight for fifteen to twenty minutes after spooging.  Instead, I have three pairs of old boxers that serve as ejaculate receptacles when I’m roughing up the suspect.  But fear not – these three pairs of boxers are never worn, but serve only to catch my man juice.  And every week, some poor Chinese lady washes these semen draws.  Nasty. 

But in sooth – I’m mostly over it.  I justify my general apathy with a perverted cost-benefit analysis.  To wit, it would be devastating if I were to stop beating off into my laundry.  I’d have to start using paper towels or something and the whole mood of the moment would be ruined.  So to stop doing this would be very bad for me.  Meanwhile, I do not think the Asian laundry people really care or are grossed out by my nasty boxers.  They do laundry for a living, all day long, so I’m sure they just grab my gizz undies and throw them right in the washer without even thinking.  Therefore, I continue to use the boxers as beat rags.  I have grown immune to the guilt or embarrassment of doing so.

But last night, I had a horribly embarrassing moment at the laundromat.  I walked in to pick up my laundry and noticed an Asian guy working there.  If I had to guess, I’d say he was about 18-22, but we all knows it’s very hard to guess the age of Asian people, so in truth he could have been 35.  But what was unique about this young guy working in the laundromat was that a) I had never seen him before; and b) he was wearing a Boston College sweatshirt (my alma mater). 

This really blew my mind.  Before I could process any information (i.e. why would a kid who goes/went to BC work in a laundromat), I blurted out, “Hey, did you go to BC?  I went to BC.”  He was surprised by my question and looked at me funny, and then looked away.  I then said, “I graduated in 2001.”  He got embarrassed by my pressing, looked at me strangely again, and then walked to the back of the laundromat without answering me.

I’m not sure exactly what happened, but I know that I was very embarrassed.  I hope that the kid didn’t speak English and so walked away from the strange dude asking him strange questions, but any way you slice it, it was pretty clear that this guy did NOT go to Boston College.  If he did, why would he be working in a laundromat and why would he react so uncomfortably to my question?

(And the dude definitely worked at the laundromat.  You can tell who is a customer just doing their laundry and who is a staff member.  This guy was definitely a staff member.)

So then how did he get the BC sweatshirt?  It’s not like BC is a popular school like Notre Dame, which has easily accessible merchandise.  And like I said, he didn’t seem to go there.  My only hope is that he had a relative who goes or went there, but still, why wouldn’t he just say that to me?  I mean, I went there too!

My conclusion: perhaps he took the sweatshirt from some lost laundry pile and started rocking it.  I realize that this sounds terribly elitist or arrogant or some word that means both but escapes me because I only got a 520 on the verbal portion of the SAT, but I can’t think of another scenario.  And I feel bad about it.

Well, I felt bad about it.  I’m not really into the whole guilt thing, so I’ve gone from feeling guilty/embarrassed to wondering how exactly he got that sweatshirt.  But unless I get drunk enough to ask him before 8pm (when the place closes), I guess I’ll never know.    

(Not that getting drunk before 8pm is a problem, but getting drunk and LEAVING a bar before 8pm is.)

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

The Mustache March from Wednesday night was a resounding success.  I had no idea what to expect with the whole thing, as I’m not really into arts or marches or anything like that.  Bad facial hair, sure, but pseudo-activism?  Nope.

But I was pleasantly surprised.  There were about 50 people in all, starting at Union Square and then marching down through NYU into the West Village, chanting, hooting, and hollering.  It was a real freak out, and I think we blew some people’s minds with our ardent pro-moustache stance.  Good stuff.

To those of you who read this site who came to the March, thank you and I apologize.  Thank you for showing up and saying hello, but I apologize for being so awkward.  Although it’s not like I didn’t warn you; I said when I announced the March that you could show up to have an awkward five minute conversation with me, and I was true to my word.

As a side note, the most popular question asked (and one about which I’ve received some emails), is whatever happened to Cara, the girl from my Eight Levels of Dating post.  Alas, though I shan’t get into too much detail, Cara and I are no longer on a shared adventure through the Eight Levels.  Because of the recentness (not a word) of everything, I won’t say anything more.  However, give me a few months and I’ll recount everything.  So don’t worry. 

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

Celebrity sighting of the week: I saw none other than Jessie Spano herself, Elizabeth Berkley, at Prince and Broadway on Tuesday night (I think).  But I’m kind of embarrassed about how I recognized her. 

I was walking along rocking out to my iPod when I say an attractive couple.  Being mostly straight, I looked at the girl first.  She seemed good-looking, but not great.  Then I looked at the guy and, though I have a nearly unblemished record of heterosexuality, I thought he was a pretty good-looking guy, and much too good-looking for the girl he was with.  So I looked at the girl again to give her a second chance and there she was: Jessie Spano.  That’s why she’s dating a guy out of her league.

Jason Mulgrew: Semi-Gay Celebrity Spotter.  Stay tuned for next week’s episode when Jason runs into Lindsay Lohan at Dean & DeLuca but is distracted by the beauty of Jared Leto’s steel blue eyes!

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

I put up this post on Craigslist this week but it was removed for inappropriate content.  So no fucking holiday cards this year 
(unless one of you can help). 

Don’t forget: tonight is the Mustache March.  We’re meeting at the south end of Union Square (across from the Whole Foods) at 7:45/8 and then marching down Broadway to The Bitter End (147 Bleecker) were Della Valle will perform at 10pm. 

I hope many of you can make it.  It’s a good cause and it should be an interesting scene, especially if you are high, which I certainly will be.  Provided that we still have some stuff left.  Let me go check on that now.

…

Ok, we still have some left, but not much.  Still, it will have to do.

But anyway, come on down if you can.

[For more information, see Monday's post or the Official Glorius Mustache Challenge website.]

1) Spontaneity is great.

Last Tuesday, I got a call from my buddy David while I was at work: “Dude, tomorrow night, I have a great idea.  We’re getting a bus.”

For those of you not in the know, the Wednesday night before Thanksgiving is widely considered the biggest drinking night of the year.  This makes sense; everyone has off the next day and their only obligation (unless they’re cooking) is to lie around and overeat, something that is entirely not a problem for me.

I didn’t think that I had any big plans for Wednesday night.  I assumed me and my buddies from home would hit up the neighborhood bars, I’d get drunk and try to seem important, then I’d go home, take my dad’s truck, and go looking at the hookers (both the higher-end ones around 12th & Race and the nasty junkies at 7th & Ritner).  Then I’d go to the diner, get a bowl on French Onion Soup and a sandwich, drive back to my dad’s and do an awful job parking the car, so that when he wakes up the next day he asks, “Did you take the truck last night?”, and I say, “No”, and he says, “Well, it’s not parked where I left it.  It’s parked in front of a fire plug with half of it hanging off the curb and a $40 ticket on the windshield.”  Then I’ll mumble something about “joyriding teens” and duck into the bathroom.

But my buddy David had a better idea.  For legal and personal security reasons, I can’t get into too much detail, but suffice it to say that David is a “successful gambler.”  This means that he has more disposable income than me and most of my friends.  So when he called me on Tuesday afternoon to tell me that he was getting a bus for the following night, I was only marginally surprised, though still very pumped.

But I don’t want to give the impression that this was a glamorous party bus, with leather seats and a disco ball and a high-quality sound system.  The bus was more like a glorified school bus, complete with tattered leather seats and a smell vaguely reminiscent of high school boys’ urine.  Translation: the perfect environment to get drunk in.  Also, I was turned on.  But let’s not go there. 

Not only that, but we set the bus up so that our buddy Doc could DJ while we drove around.  This required quite a bit of technical know-how, but fortunately we were all pretty high so this wasn’t a problem.  We had our two turntables and a microphone set up in the back of the bus, and before long the cooler was stacked and we were rolling around the streets of Philly.

(Even better is that there were only six of us on this bus.  Six guys in a giant bus getting bombed.  Awesome.  And I mean that in the most heterosexual way possible.)

And it was everything we hoped it would be and more.  We hit the road at 8pm.  By 10pm, two girls who we had randomly picked up were making out in the bus while I took pictures and we all cheered and high-fived.  Awesome.

Seriously, awesome.

But sadly, most of the night is a blur (actually, that’s a good sign).  We hopped from bar to bar, all the while pounding beers, rocking out, and picking up strangers along the way.  I don’t remember much after midnight, although I do remember keeping up a now-familiar tradition: puking all over my dad’s bathroom every time I return home to Philly.  Sweet.

So if it wasn’t for David’s last-minute idea, my Wednesday night wouldn’t have been nearly as much fun.  And yes, I know it doesn’t sound like a lot of fun, but that’s only because I can’t really remember anything.  Besides, any night you can watch two strange girls make out for a solid twenty minutes while you take pictures, well, I don’t know what more you can ask for.

2) I am never having a daughter.  Seriously.

This is sort of moot, since I know that God is going to punish me for a lifetime of scumbaggery with four gorgeous daughters.  My only hope is that I’m dead before they start menstruating, but let’s not get into that.

[I can't believe I just wrote something about my daughters menstruating.  I think I might throw up.]

One of the girls from Wednesday night was a perfect example as to why I do NOT want to have a daughter.  It wasn’t the making out with another girl that bothered me; that was ok.  Nor were her ill-fated attempts at doing strip teases for us on the bus troublesome, which were interrupted by bumps and sudden stops and starts from our party mobile.  Hey, at least she tried.

To me, this was the epitome of class: we met her and her friend at the first bar we were at, which was a nice, wood-paneled bar that is also a restaurant.  Our group was standing off to the side, but some of us were on bar stools, bellied up at the bar.  I was not among those on the stools, standing instead a few feet away watching my friends play darts and wondering why anyone would want to play such a dumb game.  But this girl was one of our group that was sitting on the bar stools.  I watched her, checking her out (she had one of those lower back tattoos that have become the female equivalent of barbed-wire around bicep), but then I watched her get off the bar stool and crouch under the stool to go into her bag.  She then pulled out a bag of pills, reached up to the bar for her beer (still crouching), popped a pill or two and washed it down with her Miller Lite.  This was at 8:15pm in a nice bar on a Wednesday night.  Class.  

Now I’m not one to judge others for drug use.  I love pills as much as the next guy.  But to take some pills by crouching under a bar?  I mean, what the hell is that?  I felt like going over and saying, “That’s what bathrooms are for, sister.”  But instead I just gave her a $1 when fifteen minutes later she was on the bus grinding her heinie on my crotch, asking “Is that your dick or your thumb?”  The first step is to help them help themselves.  After that, it’s all up to God.

3) My family is made up of degenerate gamblers and entrepreneurs.

Somewhere along the line – I’m not sure when – it became common practice on holidays for my extended family to play poker.  This is a fairly recent development, beginning maybe sometime in the past three or four years.  And it started innocently enough: after Thanksgiving or Christmas dinner, my family would gather along a long table and have a simple little game.  I’d sit back and watch for a few hands and then buy in.  Then over the next few hours I would absolutely destroy them in poker, permanently changing their lives for the worse.  It would be kinda sad, as I bullied them, took their money, and laughed, laughed, laughed.  That’s what family is for, after all.

But each year, the games kept getting bigger and my aunts, uncles, and cousins kept getting better.  I still won my fair share, but it wasn’t like it was before, where all I had to do was show up, pretend like I really, really knew what I was doing, and take their money.  The games would last longer – well into the morning – and it would be seriously tense at times. 

This past Thanksgiving, the games reached a new level.  Not only did I wind up losing $10 (only a $20 buy in), but a full-service economy developed around the game.  My cousin Brigid took it upon herself to act as waitress for the players.  She wrote up a detailed menu, wherein sandwiches cost $2, sides (mashed potatoes, stuffing, etc) were $1, and beers and other drinks were 50¢.  She even wrote up specials: a turkey sandwich with one side and a beer was $3, whereas a turkey platter (that’s turkey plus three sides) and a beer was $4.50.

And it worked.  She got so busy getting food and beers for my family and me that she hired my younger cousin Conor to help her, at a share of 25% of the profits.  I think she walked away with something like $40, all for getting her drunk and hungry family food.  

And I am damn proud of her.  It was a tremendous idea and it showed a legitimate capitalistic spark.  And even though I lost, I’m proud of my other family members for committing themselves to a vice and really getting serious about poker.  They say poker can be a gateway vice, so maybe next year at Thanksgiving my cousin Kyle and I will be holding up the Amoco on Cottman Ave.  Let’s keep our fingers crossed. 

4) My mom hates my wardrobe.

I’m not a big clothes guy, and I’m fine with that.  I don’t trust and most likely cannot befriend any guy who’s really into clothes, but that’s because of my own insecurities and low self-esteem.  It’s because of my poor fashion sense and relative low maintenance that I’m personally not into clothes.  Nice clothes cost a lot of money and require a lot of effort, two things I’m not very interested in.  I keeps it real, son.

Simply put, my mom hates my clothes.  I don’t necessarily blame her for this, since I do dress like a homeless person.  My standard winter outfit is based around a fleece I’ve had for two years but have never washed and a winter coats that’s on year five and has been left at and trampled on at bars all over NYC, Philly, and Boston.  Add the fact that I have a moustache and haven’t had a haircut in well over a month, and, well, I think she’s getting concerned that she’s never going to see any grandchildren. 

To this end, I know that my mom is going to get me some clothes for Christmas, and I’m pretty sure they’re going to come from Old Navy.  And then I’ll have to pretend that I like this sweater and whatever the hell this is while the rest of my family snickers.  

So Mom, if you’re reading this, just stick to the cash.  I’m having a really rough gambling season and would really prefer the $40 to any sweater.  Thank you. 

5) Heaven is just one long pub crawl.

On Friday, I joined some highly-esteemed drinkers for the 2nd Annual Blackout Friday pub crawl through Center City Philadelphia.  Much like Wednesday’s night drinking tour, it was a major success.  Also much like Wednesday’s tour, I don’t remember much, thanks two joints provided by some friends who have chosen to remain nameless on this space for professional reasons (cowards). 

This one started at 2pm on Friday afternoon, but fortunately, because of Wednesday night’s hangover, I didn’t drink on Thanksgiving.  So when I woke up Friday morning, I was ready to go. 

And really, though I don’t mean to cop out here, but I don’t remember much.  When you’re start drinking in the early afternoon and hit up eight bars, everything has a tendency to blend together.  I had a blast, but I couldn’t tell you much about what actually happened.  And again, this is not a bad thing.

But I got sobered up when we left the drinking tour to head to a strip club where I learned…

6) It’s one thing to go to a strip club after you’ve been drinking for ten hours.  It’s another thing to go to a strip club after you’ve been drinking for ten hours and you have a moustache.

I’ve been rocking the moustache for almost a month now and though I realize I look like a moron, I don’t really mind it.  Even more, I’ve found that the more it’s grown in and the nastier people think it is, the more proud I grow of it.  After all, it’s only upper lip hair.  Not a big deal.  

But this Friday night at the strip club was the first time I was acutely aware of how strange I look with a moustache – AND I had been drinking for about ten hours before we even entered the building.  I prefer to go to strip clubs in Philly, because a) it’s at least 1/3 less expensive than in NYC; and b) girls are not as classy and therefore more prone to parking lot rendezvous for a small price (i.e. fifteen .50 milligram tabs of Xanax, some fancy fake jewelry, the promise of not punching her in the face, etc).  So whenever I’m home in Philly and out drunk and I feel like I’ve accomplished everything I can accomplish at the bar, I raise the strip club battle cry.  Fortunately (or unfortunately), it is not often resisted.

So my two friends and I sauntered on down to a lovely lil’ club on Delaware Ave in Philly where I reached a new low: trying to convince the stripper that had just given me three consecutive lap dances that I was (seriously) in People as one of the “Hottest 50 Bachelors.”

Now remember, I’m not hot to begin with.  I’m not fishing for compliments here, but let’s just say that there’s no way I should have even been in the issue to begin with.  Also, at this point in the night, I was very drunk.  Also, I have a fucking moustache.  And here I am:

Me:              [as stripper puts clothes back on] “You know, I was in People magazine as one of the 50 Hottest Bachelors.”

Stripper:        [completely uninterested] “Really?  That’s great.”

Me:              [handing her $10 tip] “No, I’m sure guys say crazy stuff like that all the time to you, but I really was.”     

Stripper:        [taking $10 tip, looking right past me] “No, I believe you.”

Me:              “No, I know you’re just saying that, but seriously, I was.  I can show you a copy – I have a bunch at home right next to my desk.  I got a full page too, one of only eight of the 50 to get one.”

Stripper:        [getting uncomfortable] “Well, it was nice to meet you, honey.”

Unsatisfied, I rejoined my friends and relayed the story to them.  Of course, they took great delight in my awkwardness and broke my stones something fierce, so that I had the same conversation with the next stripper who gave me a lap dance, with the same results.

After that second series of lappers, I retreated to my friends to wolf down the Doritos on the strip club bar.  I could imagine the two strippers who had just given me lap dances looking at me from across the room:

Stripper #1:   “Hey, see that fat guy over there?  The one with the moustache putting back all the Cool Ranch Doritos?  Would you believe he told me he was in People?”

Stripper #2:   “I know!  He told me that too!  What a pathetic, obese, lonely man!”

Stripper #1:   “I’ve heard some doozies in my day, but that’s one for the ages!”

Stripper #2:   “Ooh ooh – look at him!  He just bit off the tip of his finger and he’s bleeding all over the place!  I feel so bad for him.  I don’t know if I should go over and give him his money back or buy him a decent meal, because he looks hungry.”

Stripper #1:   “If you do anything for him, you should get him some cologne for his undercarriage.  Christ, I could smell his balls through his jeans!  It was kinda like a cross between lunchmeat and wet dog.”

Stripper #2:   “Really?  I thought it was more like old man and garbage fire.”

Stripper #1:   “Well, to each her own, I guess.  Hey, do you wanna do some coke and then dyke it out?”

Stripper #2:   “You know it!” 

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

And that was my holiday weekend.  I returned to NYC on Saturday to beat the traffic and have been wasting away in my room ever since.  My only consolation is the Christmas is only a few weeks away, so I’ll be back in Philly soon enough, being a total fucking disgrace.  I can’t wait.  And I’m sure my family and friends can’t either.

No wait, they definitely can wait.  Oh well.  Whatever. 

As I have mentioned before, I am growing a moustache for art.  The incomparable Jay Della Valle has asked me to take part in an interesting social experiment, namely growing a ‘stache and taking pictures of it for his documentary.  Since I don’t have much else to do and am always willing to embarrass myself and/or make myself less attractive to women, I agreed.

The results have been spectacular.  I had a moustache once before, for a few days in the beginning of 2005.  But when I had that ‘stache, I was rocking the beard.  So I shaved off my beard, leaving the ‘stache, and voila – I looked like a molester (I later used my moustache picture in the Metro and Gelf Magazine articles). 

But this time, the moustache had to be grown sans any other facial hair for 28 days.  I am currently on Day 26 and it has been an odyssey to say the least.  Below is a brief chart that delineates the progress of my moustache:

• Days 1 though 3: Nothing.  Smooth as a baby’s behind. 
• Days 4 though 7: Light dirt appears on upper lip; friends start to notice and are creeped out, but go back to smoking bowls and forget about it. 
• Days 8 though 13:  Co-workers and acquaintances do double takes upon seeing the shady ‘stache, but are too afraid to ask what the hell I’m doing.  I start to feel strangely proud of the ‘stache.
• Days 14 through 17: The “16 Year-Old Puerto Rican” Phase – strangers give double takes, friends say things like “Dude, you still have that moustache?  Nasty.” and women refuse to make contact for fear of being assaulted.
• Days 18 through 23: Family members and small children are frightened.  Strangers feel uncomfortable in my presence (i.e. in elevators, standing next to me at bars, when I appear from the subway tracks and follow them home, etc).
• Days 24 though 28: Full-fledged ‘stache.  I look like a criminal, and I’m totally ok with that.          

The film, The Glorius Mustache Challenge, will premiere December 15.  But this Wednesday, there is a Mustache March in New York City.  And I want you all to come.  Here is an excerpt from the email that Jay sent to his moustache compadres:

Here is the MUSTACHE MARCH GAME PLAN:  On Wednesday night–we will congregate (that means assemble) at Union Square (across from Whole Foods)- at 7:45/8:00 PM.  I will be giving out “Glorius Mustache T-Shirts” and we will have all sorts of “Rally Signs” to make this look good.  We will march (proudly and courageously) down Broadway to 147 Bleecker Street, otherwise known to Rock N’ Roll history, as the Bitter End. There, at precisely 10pm, the March will end.  All those interested in more fun can come inside, where we will celebrate December, drink to the mustache, and sing and dance to the songs of “Della Valle,”  If that doesn’t sound like a good night….

Please encourage all men to NOT shave their upper lips. Bring just your mustaches!! At this point–I don’t care if it’s real or fake–or if you draw it on with a sharpie. Even dirt staches are welcome.  Just help us make the news!!! We will reward your efforts!!! :)

Please forward this email to anyone you think may be interested in coming. We look forward to seeing you soon.

Mustache March
Wednesday November 30-
Time:  7:45/8pm at UNION SQUARE (South End)

To clear a few things up:

1)     I support this because I like the idea of dozens (maybe even hundreds) of people with moustaches coming together.  Also, this has already gotten considerable media attention.  So my motivation is actually selfish as I’m going to try to get on the news.  More specifically, I’m going to try to get one of my testicles on the news.  I’m pretty confident that I can do this.

2)     Women are more than welcome to attend.  Any sort of support for the ‘stache is appreciated by both Jay and I, even though he spells it “mustache” and I prefer “moustache”.  If you can throw on a fake moustache or already have one, bring it and wear it with pride.   

3)     I’ll be there.  I don’t usually like to tell y’all where I’m going to be when I go out, because I am very disappointing in real life and don’t want to hurt you.  But if you want to have a few minutes of awkward and regrettable conversation, then come on down.  I promise you will leave completely unsatisfied.  And if you can’t find me, I’m the guy crying in the bathroom.

So this Wednesday, be at the south end of Union Square.  Bring your moustache and/or moustache pride and walk with us down to the Bitter End.  And yes, I’m being paid per head as to how many people I can bring.  And no, you can’t have a cut.

It‘s really funny how hard it is to write these things after I take only a few days off.  Good lord.  You’d think that it’s like riding a bike or swimming or something, but it’s not.  And you’d think that I’m all doing is stringing together a bunch of run-on sentences with the same fat/drinking/get no ass jokes like I’ve always done, and, well, that part is true.  But still, I take a few days off and it takes me three times as long to write a stupid post.  I know, I know – you don’t care.

I’ve been slacking lately and I know this.  I have many deadlines approaching with my other projects: the Variety Project (which can not be discussed further) and The Project That Can Not Be Named (which can not be discussed further at this time).  However, you’ll be happy to know that I’m essentially squandering the opportunity of a lifetime because I’m unable to deal with pressure and completely addicted to the Tetris that I’ve downloaded to my cell phone.  Oh well.  So much for everything I’ve ever wanted and realizing my only lifelong dream.

In the future when I’m slacking, I’ll tell you and perhaps take a few days off, rather than leave you hanging.  I know that it is frustrating to keep refreshing this page for updates and to not find any.  I know this because many of you have no problem telling me this.  There’s nothing quite like spending all day trying to write something funny (for the other projects and for the blog) but being unable to because of tremendous writer’s block and then checking your inbox to find an anonymous email saying:

Dude,

Your posts this week SUCKED!!!!  Do something!!!!  I am bored over here!!!  BE FUNNY!!!!

or

God you suck anymore!  What happened???  And enough with the sports!  Just stick to the funny!!! 

I don’t like to harp on this (though I seemingly always do), but remember, this is a free service.  And really, I’m trying very hard for y’all, but I gots a lot of other stuff going on right now.  I apologize for slacking, but in the future, please keep it to yourself.  It comes in ebbs and flows, so if you give me some time, I promise it will be good again.

(But not today.  Today’s post stinks.  Just warning you.)

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I saw “Walk the Line“ yesterday.  You should too.

Now hear me out: I am no great Johnny Cash fan.  I could probably pretend to be, as I am adept at lying (remember, this whole thing is fake anyway; my wife just gave birth to our 3rd child, a girl named Sarah Michelle, after the Vampire Slayer), but I don‘t have the energy. 

In sooth, I only own three Johnny Cash albums: Folsom, San Quentin, and America, and I only like the prison albums.  I bought these a few years back with a gift certificate at Amazon.com (they came as a three-pack).  I have since tried to get into some of this other stuff, since everyone knows its cool to like Johnny Cash, but aside from a random track here and there (“I Hardly Ever Sing Beer Drinking Songs”, “You’re The Nearest Thing To Heaven”, etc), I haven’t been able to.

But I certainly do like the prison albums.  And to prove that I liked them way before both Johnny Cash died and this movie came out, a quick story: they used to be my make-out music.  I was hooking up with this girl rather steadily and when it came time to do the dance of love, I would put on Folsom or San Quentin.  And for awhile, she didn’t say anything.  Eventually it dawned on her that we were listening to a concert in a prison during our intimate moments and she made me put on David Gray or something instead.  I think it’s because she didn’t feel sexy with “Dirty Old Egg-Sucking Dog” playing in the background.  Not surprisingly, our relationship didn’t last long.  And now I’m kinda famous.  And I’m sure she couldn’t care less.  Edge: draw.   

Back to the movie…I would recommend it.  My roommate Brian and I joked when we first saw previews for it that you really have it “bring it” when you play a role like Johnny Cash, and Joaquin Phoenix certainly brought it.  Reese Witherspoon more than held her own with Phoenix as June Carter, and looked downright sexy in a wholesome-but-I-wonder-what-happens-after-enough-booze-when-the-lights-go-off kinda way.

But while it was an entertaining way to spend an afternoon, it was exactly what I expected.  Not that this is a bad thing, but it’s just kinda eh.  I thought it was going to be a good movie, and it was.  I thought it was going to portray Johnny’s difficult life, and it did.  I thought it was going to focus on the love story between Johnny and June, and it did.  So while highly enjoyable and watchable, I wasn’t blown away. 

Final rating: 7.5 out of 10

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Friday night I was checking out this chick across the bar – putting out the vibe, telling her “I’m available and I’m down for anything (including assplay)” with my eyes - for a solid hour before I noticed that she was wearing an engagement ring.

That a guy checking out a girl now has to look for an engagement ring is a sad fact of mid-twenties life.  I just don’t understand how people my age are getting married.  Wait a minute – maybe it’s because they’re happy and in love.  But since the only things that make me feel happy or in love are butter-based or made from barley, I guess I won’t be able to understand marriage for a long, long time.

But when I saw her ring, I actually felt bad for her.  Not because she’s getting married and thus missing out on the opportunity to spend a night with me in my bedroom watching me eat goat cheese and read extremely violent pornographic magazines, but because the diamond on the ring was tiny.  Like, very small.  Barely noticeable even.  Poor chick (literally).

And so I had a crisis of conscience: is this what I have become?  Someone so obsessed with material things that I pass judgment on those around me and their possessions?  Now that I am a professional writer and supposedly fabulously wealthy, is this what my life is now?  Looking down on the poor and less fortunate, the very class that I was born into and raised in (hear those violins)?

I have always thought that there are few things in life that you should really splurge on, and an engagement ring is number one on that list.  This is precisely because people look at rings as if the size of the diamond is directly proportional to the couple’s love and happiness.  I know that when the time comes, I’m going to have take a second mortgage and sell most of my possessions on eBay because I’m set on buying a ridiculous ring for my lover.  I’ll do this not only because any girl/guy who puts up with me deserves it but also because I don’t want her/him to develop a complex about the ring.  But though I’m pro “breaking the bank” when it comes to engagement rings, never before have I looked at one with such disdain and thought, “Well, sucks for your sister.  Maybe I can loan your man a couple of bucks so he can buy the rest of that diamond for you.”

But as I thought more about it, I wasn’t having this reaction because of my materialism.  I didn’t really care about her tiny diamond or how much her ring cost or what her man does for a living.  I cared that she was engaged and thus unattainable to/for/by me.  Frustrated by this, I needed a) an excuse as to why a girl who I’m obviously interested in and sending vibes to isn’t sending them back; and b) to lash out.  I was just pissed off because I wasn’t going to get her!  See?

So I’m not materialistic.  I’m just emotionally shallow, bitter, and jealous.  Whew!  Thank god.  That was a close one.

[But seriously ladies, I'll buy you a big engagement ring.  This mini-post was all a front just to get that message across.  Don't be like that girl with the tiny ring.  I can go to the bank and take out a loan and in no time you'll have your big ring, and I'll spend the rest of my life working two jobs until my untimely death at the age of 31, when while delivering a Steak Fanatic pizza I'm gunned down for eating a slice one a customer's stoop.  It'll be just like the life you dreamed about when you were a little girl.]

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Speaking of Friday night, I want to get this down on paper because my friends seem to have so much trouble with it.

On the surface, I don’t have much to offer.  I’m not especially handsome, not in good shape, I don’t dress well, and I don’t have a lot of money.  I also have a terrible speaking voice, spit when I talk, have poor posture and bad hair, and currently have a moustache.  So when I’m out at the bars, needless to say, it’s an uphill battle.

But I do have some things going for me, mostly involving this blog.  I was one of People’s ”50 Hottest Bachelors” for 2005, which may sound like a joke, but is not.  I am an actual writer now, in that a third party is paying me to, well, write something.  A few thousand people come to see what I have to say every day (because it is because they have run out of ways to kill time at work is not important).  I am surprisingly strong.  I have long, tentacle-like fingers that are good for grabbing and holding things.  And I can drink a lot of fucking beer.  I’m not stroking my ego here, but rather laying all my cards out on the table to give both sides of the story.   

So when I go out, I “ask” my friends to help me get across some of my good points (the first half of that previous paragraph only).  Yeah, I know it’s lame, but let’s face it: I have to use what I can here since I can’t rely on my abs or my fancy watch to attract the women.  Women like artsy guys, so the writer thing could work.  The People thing, though they won’t believe it, will give me an opportunity to make a joke out of it.  And the blog angle, well, blogs are hot right now.  I think.  The problem is that I can’t just come out and say these things.  My friends need to do that. 

And this would not take much for my friends to do.  A simple, “This is my friend Jason” is fine.  Then later, while not in front of me, maybe my friend could say to his friend (the girl or girls), “You know, Jason’s actually a writer.  He’s got this blog that got him [Variety project] and [The Project That Can Not Be Named] and he was actually in People as one of the hottest 50 bachelors.  He’s actually like a little bit famous.”  And that’s it.  That’s all I ask.  If they’re not interested, that’s fine.  But if it facilitates a conversation between a woman and I, then I am happy.  Even if that conversation ends with me pulling out clumps of my own hair and screaming, “This is how much I love you!  This is how much I fucking love you!  Love me back!  YOU HAVE NO HEART, YOU HARPIE!” that’s ok, because that part’s on me.  And her, because she won’t love me back.

I’m not sure if my friends are “simpletons” or “assholes” or most likely a mixture of both, but they can NOT pull this off.  It usually winds up that when meeting or being introduced to a group of girls, one of my friends will say something like, “This is Jason.  He thinks he’s famous because he has an internet diary” or “This is my friend Jason.  He asked me before we came out to tell you that he’s a writer because he thinks that’ll impress you” while I force a grin and fake a pleasant greeting like when Lloyd Christmas finally meets Mary Swanson’s fiancée in “Dumb & Dumber.”  That leaves me frustrated (sexually and generally) so the night usually deteriorates into me standing by the bathroom of the bar so that I can say “I’m a writer” in an obnoxiously loud voice when women walk by.  Because I think this will attract them.  Because I am a moron.

So anyway, thanks again to my friends for really helping me out on this.  I appreciate it.  I have no hope that they’ll actually start helping me now that I’ve written this, but rather I just wanted to excoriate them in public. 

Assholes.     

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My roommate Brian and I are thinking about sending out Christmas cards.  No, we are not a couple.  But the Christmas card is an easy medium for humor.  We were thinking about doing this last year but were too lazy too.  But I recently came up with an excellent idea for a card and, since I’m not working/writing, I’m ready, willing, and able to dedicate a lot of time and effort to this idea.

One thing I’m not prepared to offer?  Money.  I haven’t gotten a real work check since the end of September.  And I still haven’t been paid for either of my projects.  So I’ve been living off credit cards and pocket change (I really wish I was joking here).  Right now, I’m the poorest I’ve been since my junior year abroad in London, when I ran out of money in April (I was there through the end of May), and so had to stop eating and lost 40 pounds.   

So my question: would you pay a small sum – a few dollars - to get a humorous holiday card from me and Brian?  Please, don’t email me with your answer though.  I’m thinking about getting Site Guy Brendan (who I haven’t bothered in quite some time) to put some sort of multiple choice quiz on here or something that would record answers, but I think it could be a good idea.  And I really want to get the cards, but they’re way more expensive than I thought.  So I guess right now you should just think about it and expect something soon. 

And this is some delusional moment of self-aggrandizing, well, then, I’m ok with that. 

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Six Songs

“I Only Want You“  Eagles of Death Metal
A catchy little ditty by a band not nearly as scary as their name implies.  I don’t really know what else to say about it, except I often sing this song at random times throughout the day and it’s a great song to drink beers to.

“Kiss Me“  Sixpence None The Richer

Is it weird that I like this song?  That sometimes when I’m walking around town and it comes on my iPod I just want to spread my arms wide and spin around in the middle of Soho, as I think about Elisha Cuthbert and I holding hands, giggling, and kissing?  And then we go back to her place where I tie her up, keep her locked up in a room for eight days, and feed her nothing but peaches and Snapple ice tea as I have my way with her?  Is that sentence enough to warrant a restraining order?  

Maybe I should stop reading all those extremely violent pornographic magazines.

“Ain’t Nobody Home“  B.B. King

Good old blues.  Actually, it’s blues with a bit of a pop sensibility.  And yes, I’m pretending to be a music critic.  And no, I don’t get that joke either.  I’m not even sure that it’s a joke, so let’s just move on… 

“In Your Room”  The Bangles

Sexy, sexy, sexy.  This song gets me all hot and bothered and I’m not ashamed to admit it. 

“By The Light Of The Cash Machine“  Glenn Tilbrook

A sickeningly sweet love song.  So of course I love it and listen to it constantly.  I would say more, but we’re over 3000 words for this post and I’m running out of gas fast. 

“Dinner Bells“  Wolf Parade

At the end of the night on Friday night (Friday night getting a lot of press today), my friends Jeremy and Lauren and I cut out of the bar a little early to beat the rush for pizza and go to my place to get high.  Some pot, named “The Crippler”, has recently been introduced into my life and I can think of no better name for this marijuana.  I can’t express this enough.  It’s like getting a temporary labotomy.  And it’s awesome.   

So Jeremy, Lauren and I ate and got very, very high.  When they got up to leave after awhile, I was surprised, since at that point I couldn’t feel my body and certainly couldn’t get my legs to work properly. 

After they left this song came on my iPod, which we were listening to through speakers during our session.  I was very, very messed up.  I put this song on repeat and listened to it an indetermine number of times as I sat there, dying.  I could feel myself slowly expiring and am convinced that sitting on that couch, high as fuck, I got my heartrate down to about 15 beats per minute, listening to this song over and over again.  “There will be no dinner bells/Dinner bells to ring” - I have no idea what the fuck this means, but I was convinced that it would be the last thing I ever heard.  And I was totally fine with this.

Fortunately, I lived.  I passed out on the couch, woke up when it was daylight, went to bed, and slept some more.  But this song and I really had a moment there, and I will treasure that forever.  Or until I get high and listen to the next song that comes on my iPod. 

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Go vote for Ray.  I like Ryan Adams, but there’s no way Ray should lose to the surf rock/college girl rock of Jack Johnson.  Vote several times if you want.  Because he’s totally fucking awesome, and we all know it.

[When I first had the idea to include this on the post, Ray was down to Jack Johnson 39% to 38%.  But by the time this post was published, Ray took the lead 46% to 34%.  So you can see how long it took me to write this post.]

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This will be the last post until after the Thanksgiving holiday.  I’m off to Philly tonight where I will be through the weekend.  Wednesday night I’ll be drinking my face off in the local bars, Thursday I’ll be stuffing my face and answering my family’s questions about my moustache, and Friday I have a glorious pub crawl starting at 2pm with some highly-regarded drinkers.  Should be a fun time.

So have a Happy (and safe) Thanksgiving and see you next week.

First, read this article.

Next, listen to this song (NOT SAFE FOR WORK, unless you have your own office or headphones).

Last, get up out of your chair and dance around your mutha fuckin’ office to the greatest rap song since “The Humpty Dance.”

My second favorite line:

I done fucked her from the back

And I done fucked her from the front

I even fucked her outside on my T-Bird trunk

But at about six minutes into the song, someone called G-Reg (at least I think that’s his name) takes it to another level:

What’s your name?

G-Reg

What you do?

Get head

How you do it?
Drop my draws and let her see my third leg

Chillin’ on the 7^th floor I gotta let these chicas know

G-Reg is in the house and I’m fitting to make these ho’s choke

On my balls, on my dick, then I bust a nut quick

On her face, on her chest, stick my dick between her breasts

C’mon fellas let’s get weird

Stick your dick up in her ear

While I’m laughing at these guys

I’ll second nut all in her eyes

I’m speechless.  Just without speech.

It’s official: the Miami Hurricanes is now my favorite college football team. 

(Sent to me by Kyle in Philly)

Like many fat guys, I have been frustrated in the past with hipster-type t-shirts.  Urban outfitters started with fad with those state t-shirts (“Idaho – No, You Da Ho!” and “New Jersey: Only The Strong Survive”).  Though I thought that some were funny, I was disappointed when I bought them, since a XL at Urban Outfitters is like a medium Hanes t-shirt, made for someone who’s 6’0″ and 170 pounds.

But then, a buddy sent along a link to this site.  Not only does the model on the home page have the most gigantic and wonderful mambas I’ve ever seen, but the shirt are actually funny.  When I saw the “Sex Panther” one (as in the “Sex Panther” cologne from “Anchorman”), I knew it had to be mine.  So I took a risk and ordered an XXL.

And – goodness gracious – it fits.  Typically, I fall somewhere between XXL and XL, but I usually get XL because that second “X” can really do damage to the self-esteem.  But with these types of shirts you have to get a little bigger, because they run small.  I am ok with that in this case.  Especially because now I have a “Sex Panther” t-shirt that many of my friends have complimented me (because we all know that I need lots of encouragement).

I also like the “Magnum”, “Ramirez”, and “Freshmen” shirts.  So go buy some stuff and tell ‘em Jason sent you and maybe they’ll send me the whole collection.   

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New Year’s Eve parties always suck.  There’s too much pressure involved as people scramble around trying to pick a lame bar at which to ring in the New Year.  It’s usually a lot of stress, a lot of hype, and very little fun. 

Well, some friends of mine have sorted out this dilemma and really up’ed the ante for New Year’s Eve, renting a 210 foot yacht with four levels, three dance floors, and ten bars for a New Year’s Eve booze cruise (and a staff of 60).

I’m putting this link up for you guys because:

1)     NYC New Year’s Eve usually sucks.  I know these guys and they are not cheesedicks and do NOT fuck around when it comes to partying.

2)     Many of you have emailed both this year and in the past about what to do in NYC for New Year’s Eve (both out-of-towners and NYCers alikes). 

3)     My friend Terry has his number on here.  Feel free to call him and ask him about me and my genitals.

I don’t know how many tickets are left, but I know it sold out very quickly last year.  So if you’re looking for something to do in NYC on New Year’s Eve, in my professional (boozehound) opinion, you’re not going to get any better than $150 for 4.5 free hours of booze and appetizers on a giant yacht cruising around Manhattan.

(And to answer your question, no, I will not be there.  I spend every New Year’s Eve in Philly because of the Mummer’s Parade on New Year’s Day.  But if I were here, this is what I’d do.)

(And really, call Terry.  I’m sure he’d love to hear from you with any questions about the booze cruise or otherwise.)

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Two moustache-related items (one for charity, one for art). 

The first is “Moustaches for Kids.”  Basically, you get a sponsor, you grow a moustache, and all proceeds go to charities for kids.  Every week they get together at a bar to check on progress, get drunk, and talk about what a good idea this is (and I mean that in a sincere way – it’s a very good idea).  If you’re in NYC and interested, Shaving Day is tomorrow (Thursday).  Check the website for details.

I would be all about this, but I’m already growing a moustache for the sake of art.  A friend is making a documentary about guys under 30 growing moustaches called “The Glorius Mustache Challenge.”  If you dig around the website, you’ll see what it’s about: trying to make the moustache cool once again for people our age (or my age, depending how old you are).  Currently, I am on Day 15 (of 28) of my moustache and I’d say the length right now could be best described as “Black High School Kid Who Hasn’t Shaved in Five Days.”  Needless to say, I look ridiculous.  As it continues to grow, I will keep you abreast of its progress.  Which will hopefully be quick.  Because I really look very silly.  But, as I said before, we all suffer for our art, don’t we? 

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I promise this is all the pimping I’ll do for a while (for this week at least).  Although if the right product comes along, I’m willing to align myself with it.  Pretty soon you’re going to see me on television at 3:30am doing an information for “The BEST Pet Euthanizer on the Market: Doggie Die 3000.”  But hey, those things pay like $60 an hour and have free catering.  A man’s gotta eat, you know?

• The season is over
• No one can tackle anymore
• The three all-pros in our secondary have been replaced by much slower and less talented players
• The team (offensively) displayed no killer instinct, getting lazy with a lead
• Terrell Owens is vindicated, as he certainly would have made the catch that Reggie Brown dropped
• Opposing offenses are on to the whole “we’re going to blitz a lot” thing
• The playcalling was atrocious
• The clock management was atrocious
• The season is over
• I hate myself
• Something smells like shit in my office, and I’m pretty sure it’s me

Another Email of the Week.  Susannah from Melbourne writes in:

Dear Jason,

I have been reading your site pretty much every day for a while now and today I was looking at some of your old posts (…actually I was trying to find the post which relays the story of your ‘friend’ who was trying to hook up with a girl from work and spectacularly failed due to an unfortunate reference to a coathanger cos a friend and I were chatting about it last night and couldn’t remember the details of the story – ever considered a search this site function??)

Anyway, as I was reading the posts I was reminded that on a couple of occasions you have mentioned a long-distance girlfriend you had during college. It seems that you were still trying to pick up other girls while dating this long-distance girlfriend.

I have been a “long-distance” girlfriend in the past and my ex wasn’t big on the whole monogomy thing either – it’s from this perspective that I’m wondering whether you think guys have an “out of sight out of mind” gene that precludes fidelity when your girl is temporarily away. I guess I’m wondering whether this long-distance thing ever works (not that I would try it ever ever again). Any thoughts??

Sus

p.s. I’m not being all judge-y – I don’t know what arrangement with this girl, I’m just curious.

Before I get into the email, I want to say that I don’t know a single person who was in a long distance relationship in the past and would be involved in one again.  Of course, I know that I wouldn’t even hear someone say, “Well, what I’m really looking for is a long distance relationship,” because people just don’t say that.  But it seems that those previously in long distance relationship are entirely averse to one ever happening again.  I know that I felt this way after mine eventually ended, and so if faced with a girlfriend that was forced to move away, I’d rather cut ties with her and carry on than do long distance.  Of course, this would never work; if I had a girlfriend who moved away, I’d most likely follow her and sleep in my car outside her place until the authorities got involved.  But let’s not get sidetracked.

I’m answering this email because a few people who read this site have asked me about this in the past, saying something to the effect that, “You mentioned cheating on your long distance girlfriend in college.  This is surprising, both because you seem like a nice guy but also someone not capable of getting much action.  Please explain.”  So I’ll explain and then I’ll answer Susannah’s question.

I had two long distance girlfriends in college.  The first was during my sophomore and junior years, the second during junior/senior years (no overlap).  With the first, I was faithful.  I’m not sure if this was out of the goodness of my heart or because I didn’t have many other options.  I like to think it was the former, but if I know myself, it’s gotta be the latter.

I’m pretty sure that the second girlfriend and I had an unspoken “Don’t ask/Don’t tell” policy when it came to hooking up.  This was never expressly stated, but it’s certainly what I operated under (and I’m fairly certain she did too).  We did this because we were both in our final year of college and didn’t want to be held back by the other person, 500 miles away.  But again, this was never stated; just strongly implied. 

We never talked about this, because we learned how destructive it could be.  She asked me once if I had kissed anyone else.  I said yes.  The next day, she called me to brag about making out with two guys at the bar the previous night.  Sweet.  Not as sweet as the time I got a call from my buddy who went to the same college as her, telling me (“friend to friend”) that my girlfriend had hooked up on several occasions with his roommate.  That was TOTALLY awesome.  To be fair, I was hooking up with others as well.  I was just better at hiding it.   

I don’t want to give the impression that I’m airing dirty laundry here; our relationship ended many years ago and we haven’t spoken much since.  I suppose that I’m writing all this to clear my good name and illustrate that I wasn’t “cheating” per se but rather playing the hand I was dealt (see? I’m totally a nice guy – mostly).  Of course, like I said, the relationship ultimately ended.  She and I dated for a few years long distance but last less than two months in the same city.  I think this was because we had never actually been a “couple” and so struggled with this once we were in the same city.  It’s easy to be nice and get along one weekend a month.  Hell, I think I could get along with pretty much anybody for a weekend if we were having sex.  But when you have to do be nice every day…well, that’s a different story.           

Now onto Susannah’s query as to whether guys have an “out of sight/out of mind” mentality with girlfriends. 

Here’s the general rule when it comes to guys and cheating: it is impossible to tell which guys cheat and which guys don’t.  In my time I’ve come across guys who are entirely faithful and those who fuck everything that moves.  You can know a guy who seems devoted to his girlfriend, commits public displays of affection and talks baby talk, and then you get five beers in him and he’s banging the 52 year-old waitress in the bar bathroom.  Conversely, you can know a guy who goes to strip clubs three times a month and spends $10,000 a year on lap dances but doesn’t even consider cheating on his girlfriend.

What I’m trying to say that it’s impossible to generalize and make a sweeping statement like “All guys believe in ‘out of sight/out of mind.’”  Cheating is an individual choice that takes into account a number of variables (most importantly, having the option to cheat – like Chris Rock jokes, “Man is only as faithful as his options.”)   

Long distance is not an exception to this, as long as it’s still an exclusive relationship.  If a guy wants to cheat (and he can), he’s going to.  If he doesn’t, he’s not.

I know this may sound like a cop out and you’re probably thinking, “Thank you Captain Obvious”, but what I said is important and true: you can’t generalize with guys and cheating.  It’s an individual choice.  And that’s really it. 

[And now I have to answer phone calls/emails from my buddies saying, "Dude, any time you write a post about cheating, don't even HINT about me in the post.  You know [girlfriend] reads your crap, and now for the next month I’m going to have to answer her questions about cheating.  So thanks for that.  Asshole.”]

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I don’t know if Jesus watches “Trading Spouses”, but I certainly hope He didn’t catch this week’s episode.

If you’re not familiar with “Trading Spouses”, well, it sounds like what it is.  One family sends their mom to another family in exchange for that family’s mom for a week (or weekend or whatever).  Hilarity ensues as the new mom tries to adjust to living with the new family.  Naturally, the moms are polar opposites: sweet Chinese American Mom swapping with Punk Rock Mom, Poor Mom switching with Rich Mom, Handicapped Mom switching with Fitness Instructor Mom, etc.  In this week’s episode they had an Ultra-Christian Mom trading places with a New Age Mom. 

I don’t normally watch this show, but I saw the previews during the week and Tivo’ed it.  These previews showed the Ultra-Christian Mom in a living room screaming at the top of her lungs about “Jesus” and “sweet name of Jesus” and telling the camera crew to get out of her house.  As an added bonus, this woman was about 500 pounds.  So it was a no-brainer for the Tivo.

I finally watched it last night and was not disappointed.  The Ultra-Christian Mom (UCM from here on out) spent the week with her adopted family complaining about just about everything, refusing to even talk to her “husband” about his beliefs, reading the Bible, and trying to convert everyone to Christianity.  I don’t know what the record was for using the word “Jesus” on primetime television, but she easily shattered it.  The climax of the show occurred when she returned to her real family and essentially had a nervous breakdown in front of the cameras.  She started screaming about Jesus and how she’s a warrior of god and about the “dark side” that her adopted family represented (the husband was an astrologist, the mother a hypnotherapist, and the kids didn’t believe in god).  I regret that I can’t do it justice here, but trust me, it was spectacular.  Nothing like seeing a gigantic Southern woman invoking the name of Jesus with a fervor that would give most people her size a heart attack.    

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’ve got nothing against Jesus.  I was raised Irish Catholic, so I’m down with JC.  Sure, we’ve had some problems in the past, but it’s been smooth sailing for the most part.  But I wonder what Jesus would think about this woman using his name all over national television while carrying on like a total lunatic.  I can just imagine Jesus, sitting in His chair up in heaven, eating a sandwich, watching “Trading Spouses” and screaming, “Oh – come on!  Come on! [stands up] Stop it! [throwing His Pepsi can at television] Damn it!”     

All I can say is that this woman set Christianity back many, many years.  I wasn’t sure if she was from the 21^st century or one of the participants in the Salem Witch Trials.  Like many big city liberals, I’m not into the whole evangelical thing.  And the way that this woman acted (or perhaps how Fox sought to portray this woman) was very damaging to her beliefs.  Again, she acted like a stone cold crazy person.  I really wish I had a video of her breakdown, but that would require going to Google and typing and that’s a lot of extra work (especially since I’m not at home and stealing wireless right now and my connection is crap).    

Don’t really know where I’m going with this and thinking that I’m going to have to chalk it up to “I guess you had to be there”, so I think I’ll stop.  But I know that at least a handful of you saw the show and are thinking, “You know what – he’s totally right.  I just want to do him.”  So my job is done.

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Thank you for all the pictures of the Panthers cheerleaders.  I guess I should be more careful in the future what I wish for in the future because I got a LOT of emails with at least two of the following words in the title: sex, cheerleaders, Panthers, pics, bathroom.  The best part is that just about every email from y’all started off with “I bet about 1000 other people sent you this…”  In the future, if you think 1000 other people have sent me something, please refrain from sending it. 

(Is anyone interested in being my assistant?  All you’d have to do is sort through the emails/booby pictures and let me know which are good.  The job pays nothing, but you and I can sit around getting high all day.  Also, if you’re cute, we can have tickle fights.  Please send resume and three references.) 

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I don’t know what I can say about the Terrell Owens situation that hasn’t already been said.  For a personal standpoint, it makes me sad.  Sad because TO is a tremendous athlete and really could have helped the Eagles.  It’s more of a shame though.  After his performance in the Super Bowl, TO could have run for mayor in Philly.  The city was devoted to him.  And in less than nine months, he has completely squandered all that affection and the city is universally turned against him.  I would make a TO:post-Super Bowl::George Bush:post 9-11 analogy, but I don’t have the energy to read all the emails from the conservatives reading this now.    

But the Eagles were 100% right to suspend him for the season.  Philly loves someone who plays hard, but Philly hates bitches.  So as a Philadelphia fan, speaking for Philadelphia fans, fuck you, TO.  You’re 32.  You’ll get about 1/3 your current salary next year.  And since we know you’re all about money, that’s gotta hurt.  So again, fuck you, and don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out. 

But hey, at least it’s been interesting.

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Well, I asked for it, and you guys brought it.  Last week, I complained that I had only a few MySpace friends.  I think I had under 20 when I mentioned this, now I have around 350.  So thank you.  I feel loved.

And not only that (and I don’t mean to get all gay on you here), it’s weird for me to see your pictures.  It’s hard to explain, especially because I am pretty messed up right now, but until last week the idea of my “readership” was abstract.  Sure, I’ve talked to people in bars who I don’t know who read the site yada yada yada, but seeing all your pictures really freaked me out.  For the first time, I realized that people actually read this.  Like, actual, real people (some of them pretty good looking, too). 

…

Ok, I just read that last paragraph over and it’s obvious that I am too messed up to articulate anything properly right now.  Let’s talk about music before I start writing poetry or some shit.

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Six Songs (get them at id1g1t)

This week’s Six Songs has a theme: “Songs I Want to Fucking Shoot Myself to Because You Broke My Heart You Fucking Crazy Harpy Bitch.”  Enjoy!

(Note: this is in no way related to Wednesday’s post, but rather a result of my mood swings.  Seriously.  I would tell you if it was.  Thank you.)

“Red Red Red”  Fiona Apple

I should note that it’s impossible for me to give an unbiased review of this song, since I am so desperately in love with Fiona Apple that my stomach hurts whenever I think about her.  But if you listen to this song and do not feel considerably worse after listening to it than you did before listening to it, then you either a) are deaf; or b) have no soul.  This is the only song I’ve listened to on the album because I’m afraid of what might happen to me if I listen to the others.  Crazy, but 100% true. 

(And yes, I realize that being involved with someone as crazy as Fiona Apple is an invitation to be destroyed emotionally.  But c’mon – we all know there’s nothing more attractive than aloofness and self-destructiveness.)

(God I’m so turned on right now.)

(And so, so sad.)     

“Love Is Just A Game”  The Magic Numbers

This song (and this band) is amazing.  This is now one of my top ten favorite songs of all-time.  This is a remarkable achievement whose remarkableness I can not express on paper, but rather only through dancing.  You must MUST MUST listen to this song.  I can’t explain it; sort of like this weird British funk, but a ballad of sadness.  A good song to get high to in the tub when depressed.  Um, not that I know from experience or anything…

(I think this is also titled “Love’s A Game”, but not 100% on that)

“Just Like Me”  that dog

I think I am the only person in America who has heard of this band (and likes them).  They broke up only in 1997, but I have not come across anyone else who’s ever even heard of them, aside from the guy who introduced me to them (but he’s in India now, hence the “America” reference).  Two chicks, some guitars, a violin, and a cello is always a recipe for sadness, especially when you rip off a line from the Beatles’ “Something” but change it to “Something in the way you move/Distracts me like no other.”  Distracting, indeed.     

“Magnolia Mountain“  Ryan Adams

I know, I know – you’re probably surprised that Ryan Adams wrote a sad song.  I was shocked too, but believe it or not, it’s pretty good.  Over the chorus, he begs “Lie to me/Like I lie to you/Hold me down until the morning comes.”  Pretty, pretty heavy.  I don’t really know what the song is about, but it makes me sad.  So that’s all I’ll say about it.

“Goodbye My Lover”  James Blunt

Part of me, when I hear this song, wants to grab this guy, shake him, slap him in the face, and say, “Dude – fucking pull it together!”  It’s a song about lost love, but it’s way too emotional (“You touched my heart you touched my soul/You changed my life and all my goals/And love is blind and that I knew when/My heart was blinded by you” – ugh.  Sounds like something a sixteen year-old scribbled to his ex-girlfriend in History class). 

That being said, if I were ever heartbroken enough and high enough, I think I could sit in a hotel room and cry to this song for about a week and a half straight.  But this is probably less because of the song and more because I have the emotional depth, experience, and control of a thirteen year-old fat girl.  Yep.  Pretty much. 

“33″  Smashing Pumpkins

I mean, this is a really pretty song, right?  Billy Corgan extolls over dreamy flanged-up guitars, “I’ll make the effort/Love can last forever” and “Graceful swans of never/Topple to the earth/Tomorrow’s just an excuse/You can make it last forever.”  And it makes me want to throw up.

Chuck Klosterman, in his seminal work “Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs”, espouses a theory that (roughly) states that certain elements of popular culture (movies, music, etc), by creating the myth of perfect love, are ruining countless relationships.  Since I’m pretty high right now and could start crying at any moment, maybe I should defer to Dave Attell to further illustrate this point:

I think it’s hard for you ladies, you know, because you go see these movies and think these Brad Pitt’s and Will Smith’s and Leonardo DiCapricock’s are gonna come waltzing off the screen into your life, taking you out all fancy to like an Olive Garden or Pizzeria Uno or something, and make love to you with a condom without fingering your asshole, and then call you within a week – well wake up!  They don’t have the time.  I do. 

People our age are constantly seeking perfection from a mate when it isn’t going to happen.  I’m not saying that everyone should just settle for whomever, but I’m saying we need to work less on finding “The One” and more on finding “The One Pretty Close To The One Who’s Better Than The Others.”  Then we can spend the rest of our lives adjusting this person to fit our ideal.  I mean, relationships are work people!  Love isn’t a vacation, it’s a vocation!  Damn it!

Anyway, this song makes me pukey because it’s so happy/lovey/rosey because nothing lasts forever.  Or something.      

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Off to Boston to get drunk at a BC football game (read: get so drunk I don’t realize that there is even a football game going on).  Have a good weekend. 

At 3pm on Saturday afternoon, just as I was walking back to my apartment with my take-out breakfast in hand, I got a call from my buddy Hal. Hal is the brother of my old college roommate, Bill, he of Baldwin Brothers fame. Since Bill is from an NJ town just outside of NYC, I have gotten to know many of Bill’s hometown friends, including his brother Hal, as they often venture into the city.

The situation was this: Hal was in from NJ and Bill was flying down from Boston. Every year, these guys, their dad, and their dad’s friends get together to a touristy tour of NYC, chugging beers the whole way. Hal ostensibly asked me to join him and Bill on a drinking odyssey. The best part? It would be in a party bus.

Like most young men who enjoy sitting, drinking, leather, and shiny things, I love party buses. There is no better way to travel for a night on the town, really. It’s a totally self-contained unit, a true party on wheels, complete with cooler full of beers, comfy chairs that seat over a dozen, good tunes, and up close views of the vibrant nightlife and streets of NYC. If I had the money, I would rent a party bus every time I went out in the city. I can’t think of much that would make me happier that doesn’t involve narcotics and sexy bisexual ladies. And I guess the hope is that the party bus WOULD involve narcotics and sexy bisexual ladies, but you get it.

So Hal and Bill called me to join them in this party bus. They would not be partaking in the touristy activities (The Rockette’s Christmas Show, the Empire State Building, etc), but instead would be either drinking in bars near these places or driving around the bus drinking, before finally heading back to their NJ town to drink the night away.

I can’t express how much I was for this impromptu Saturday afternoon drinking tour. But my plan was to only stay for a little while, because I had (gasp!) a date that night. I was meeting my date for dinner later on that night and figured I shouldn’t get too bombed before the date (seeing as I’m a romantic and all). However, when after eight or so beers Hal suggested that I join them the rest of the evening, going all the way back to NJ with them in the bus, I knew that the date must be postponed. I was see-sawing until Bill put it best: "Dude, you’re in NYC with this girl all the time. How often are we in town and how often are we in town with a party bus?" Done deal.

So I called the lovely and wonderful Cara to explain the situation. Cara and I met a few weeks back, so she’s familiar with me and my steez (read: getting drunk and messing up). I rang her up at 6pm, three hours before we were supposed to meet.

Me: "Cara, listen, I’m sorry but I think I have to postpone the date."
Cara: [genuinely ok with this, but surprised] "Um, ok. That’s cool."
Me: "Oh, great. I’m really sorry, but it’s just that something came up last minute."
Cara: [concerned] "Is everything ok?"
Me: "Yeah, yeah. It’s just that, and I didn’t realize this when I asked you out tonight, my buddies Bill and Hal are in from out of town and they have this awesome party bus and we’ve been drinking for a while, so I think I’m gonna go back to Jersey with them tonight."
Cara: [confused] "What? Party bus?"
Me: "Yeah, you know, like a big ass limo-type bus filled with beer and booze. I had no idea they were doing this."
Cara: [putting it all together, growing agitated] "So you’re going to get drunk in this bus with them tonight?"
Me: "I know it sounds stupid, but it’s an awesome bus. And really, you and I are in NYC like 300 nights a year, so we can reschedule anytime. But how often do you get to ride in a party bus, you know?

Wrong answer.

Since those words left my mouth, I have regretted them. Not only because I didn’t get to spend any time with Cara that night, and instead woke up on a couch with a vicious hangover, but also because Cara and I were at a very delicate point in our relationship: about to enter the vaunted 4^th Level of Dating.

Modern dating can be divided into eight levels, which cover everything from the first time you see your love interest all the way up to when she’s helping your mom serve the deviled eggs on Christmas. These Eight Levels of Dating are below, with examples for those of you who are slow.

Level 1: Pre-Dating
This isn’t really dating per se, but rather the initiation of contact. For example: you’re at a friend’s party and see an attractive girl across the room. You ask the host, a mutual friend, who the girl is and once you get the word that she isn’t crazy and hasn’t had sex with any former or current NBA players, you approach. You try to make witty conversation but are limited because you took one too many Xanax before the party and are convinced that every time you speak to this girl you’re spitting on her face and in her hair.

In the days after the party, you spend most of your energy emailing the mutual friend to ensure that sometime in the near future you seemingly coincidentally hang out with this girl in a large group and in a casual and secure environment (with alcohol). She obliges, mostly because she feels sorry for you, but also because you threatened to hurt her family if she didn’t.

When you see the girl next, you are in tip-top shape: you have put on cologne, trimmed your pubes, made sure not too drink too much or take too many pills, and have done enough cocaine to cripple most teenagers (therefore you are the most fascinating person on the planet). You see the girl and are on fire - joking, laughing, making fun of others, hiding your incredible racism - and at the end of the party, you say something like "We should hang out sometime." Lulled into a false sense of security, she gives you her number (though you secretly would have preferred her email address, because you are eons better in print than in person/over the phone). Congratulations, you may now move on to Level 2.

Level 2: The Explicit Invite Period
Level 2 is merely an extension of Level 1. But in Level 2, everything is more explicit, deliberate, and intentional. You call the girl after a few days to invite her (and her friends) to a bar where you (and your friends) will be hanging out. She agrees to come (and to bring friends).

Prior to her arrival, you share with your friends the battle plan: divide and conquer. You will talk to your girl and you expect your friends to at least partially entertain her friends. Knowing that they are drunks and incapable of actually doing this properly, you either a) bribe them with drinks at a later date or b) threaten them, reminding them that you haven’t been with a women in a while and have a lot of pent up sexual aggression, which, coupled with your astounding fat boy strength, can be devastating to the faces and/or genitals of said friends.

The girl arrives at the party. The good news is that you’re more confident, having secured her presence at the bar without your mutual friend, and she’s more comfortable, assuming that despite what her friends have said, you will more than likely not take her into the alley and make her whip your bare ass with your belt while you sing Boy George songs. More talking, laughing, and drinking. Things are going well.

Two variables about this period: 1) you may or may not get a kiss (or more); and 2) it may take more than one Explicit Invite to advance to Level 3. But fortunately, the gods are smiling upon you. When at the end of the night you suggest meeting for dinner sometime during the week, she accepts. You spend the next few days wondering what the hell happened to her in her childhood for her to consent to spending time with you alone. Probably some terrible, terrible things.

Level 3: The Weekday Date Period
Dinner or some other date variation on a non-prime night (Sunday through Wednesday; if you can get a Thursday, it’s a good sign). Also, in Level 3, what may have been obvious before is now official: you are courting this girl.

Level 3 is the make or break period. Studies have shown that around 70% of dates do not get past Level 3. The reason for this two-fold. First, it’s very hard to hide behind alcohol at 8pm on a Tuesday evening. You’re pretty much on your own here - for the first time in the courtship. Of course, you could hit the booze, but getting drunk or drinking too quickly will only prove that you are not a man unless you are intoxicated (which is of course true, but should not be known to the girl until month three of the relationship) and will invariably lead to you sticking your hand down your pants halfway through the entree.

Second, a dinner requires around two hours of one-on-one time (as mentioned above, with little alcohol). During these two hours, you must prove to the girl not only that you are not into strangling during sex, but also that you are intelligent, well-liked/respected by your peers, witty, and generally a great person for genital-to-genital contact. Quite a tall order.

But again, the stars are aligned. Perhaps it’s because the margaritas are just strong enough to make everything a tad easier or perhaps it’s because her hair is so astoundingly pretty that you just want to choke on it, it matters not. The date goes well. You get home and recount the date to your roommate, who, because he is high, can not appreciate the significance of the evening. So you retreat to your bedroom with a bottle of wine to feel warm and listen to Elvis Costello. In the parlance of our times, "It’s on like Donkey Kong." Congrats, old man - it’s on to Level 4. Welcome to the big leagues.

Level 4: The Weekend Date Period
If you’ve made it to Level 4, you’re doing something right. Level 4 means that you are hanging out on a prime night: Friday or Saturday (and possibly Thursday).

Also, it means that the pressure is (mostly) off. To secure a weekend night of a woman in New York City is a substantial accomplishment which only means that she may like you in return. I know, I know - I can’t believe it either, but all signs point to yes.

This is the most formal date yet. Moderately-but-not-too romantic dinner date followed by drinks at a bar that doesn’t host English dart league matches (think less "pub" or "tavern" and more "lounge" or something with a one word name). You do reasonably well, except when during dinner the waitress gives you the wine cork to check the wine’s aroma, instead of smelling it, you put it in your mouth to suck on it, unsure of how that whole process works. However, the girl finds this endearing, which is good. You only hope that four months from now, when you come home covered in piss, blood, and gin, she will find that endearing too.

This one of the longer periods. This doesn’t mean that once you graduate to Level 4 you’re only hanging out only on weekend nights, but rather that if you get two or more Level 4 dates under your belt, intersperse those with some weekday dates and group things, and voila - you’re dating someone. She’s not technically you’re girlfriend (and won’t be until Level 6), but you’re kinda/sorta/somewhat dating her. You’re still single, but those days may be numbered.

Also, making love, if it has already not happened, becomes a realistic goal. And considering my personal circumstances, there is absolutely no way I should have written this. But, I am high. So let’s just move on.

Level 5a: The "Yeah, She’s Kinda My Girlfriend" Period
Level 5b: The Weekday Evening Sex Period
Once you successfully get past Level 4, you’re onto Level 5, which is divided into two parts.

This is arguably the best Level, because, well, you pretty much have a girlfriend. It’s still not official yet, but you both know it’s true. There is near daily contact and you’re hanging out with her three nights a week, one of which is a weekend night. You will even stay over her place during the week, which is a monumental step in any relationship. You’re introduced to her wider circle of friends, who grill you with questions about everything from your musical tastes to what you do for a living to "I read something on your site about how you jerked off with an uncooked chicken breast - is that true?"

That’s the social aspect of Level 5 (5a). Concurrently with 5a, there is 5b: you are entering a realm of sensual delights. The sex is abundant and free. You are comfortable enough to call the girl at work at 5pm on Wednesday to say, "Hey, listen - I just found out that my roommate is going to be working late. Do you wanna come over after work to have sex in the kitchen? Because I don’t think we’ve done that yet." And she agrees. Finally, everything is right with the world.

Level 6: The Love Period
Love. Sex. Girlfriend. And at this Level, the notion of having a girlfriend is a great and wonderful thing. You will tell your mom about her, who will sigh in relief, secreting thank the Lord above that you are telling her about your love for Bruce or Tad. You will take weekend trips where you will lay in bed naked, watching pay-per-view movies, eating pizza, and drinking wine. You will laugh and wonder how this feeling could ever end, because you are stupid with love.

Sadly, it does end. Sooner than you think, too. This level is an inherent dilemma. On the one hand, it is great because you feel better than you ever have. On the other, it’s bad because it’s all downhill from here. You’re only hope is to stay in this Level for as long as possible, although you have no control over these things. And since you’re not a good person, God and Fate are going to gang up on you and usher this period out the doors as soon as possible. I guess you shouldn’t have committed all those hate crimes back in the late 80′s.

Level 7: The Cracks in the Facade Period
You’re still in love, of course. You worked hard for this relationship and things are still very good between you and the girl. But you wonder – why does she have to talk to her mother every day, even when you’re on vacation? Is that really necessary? And she really takes a very long time to order at restaurants, even though you both know what she’s going to get. And why does it matter that you spend more time talking with your buddy John about the potential assist numbers for Rafer Alston than about your relationship? I mean, what’s there to talk about about the relationship? And why does she get all huffy when she calls you and you’re so high you think you’re talking to King Arthur? I mean, a man’s gotta have his fun.

Level 7: the beginning of the end. Also, the beginning of the rest of your life.

Level 8: Malaise
Routine has taken over. Sex in the kitchen on a Wednesday evening has been replaced by ok take-out food and "The Notebook." Spontaneous weekend trips whose sole purpose was to get it on in another state are replaced by going to weddings of extended family members and more than likely not having sex (too tired "after such a big dinner and long drive"). Blowjobs are something you see every day on your computer and but in real life only on your birthday, Christmas, and anniversary. Going out with the guys, which was once a common occurrence, is now arranged and orchestrated with a diligence usually reserved for the Rose Bowl Parade. The idea of having a girlfriend, which once made you blush with delight, has lost its luster. The idea of having a mistress, however, sounds pretty good right about now. But you know you could never do this. You are in love. Right?

And this, folks, is how you get married. She might bring marriage up and though you’re averse to it initially, you start warming to the idea. You think, "Well, maybe getting married is just the change of pace we need. Maybe it’ll give us the spark that has been missing for some time." And so you get married. And that’s all she wrote.

…

A loving relationship is like a pair of jeans. When you first see the jeans in the store, you decide you need to have them and so buy them immediately. It takes a while for you to break them in and for you to feel comfortable in them, but in a matter of time you’re strutting around town looking and feeling great. You wear them all the time, get compliments, and they slowly become a part of you.

But as time passes, the jeans slowly begin to break down. The cuffs get frayed, there may be a tear or two in them, and they start to smell funny. But you keep on the wearing them, mostly because they’re your number one jeans and you’re attached to them. But also because you remember how long it took you to break in these jeans and you’re not ready to do that again to a new pair, which will more than likely not be as good as this pair anyway. So you keep wearing them. Forever. Or until they fall to pieces. Either way, it ain’t pretty.

…

And so just as Cara and I were about to enter that oh-so-important Level 4, I informed her that spending time in a bus getting drunk was more important than spending time with her. Smooth move. She politely said, "Well call me next week" and - god bless her - has agreed to see me again. So this time, I’m going to do something special for her. I’ve been doing push-ups every morning in preparation for the date and I have prepared a short dance number which will express my regret. I stayed up until 4:30 in the morning last night banging it out, and I think it’s going to be pretty good. If I had to describe it, I would say it has the moves of Prince in the "Bat Dance" video but with George Michael’s look from the "Faith" era set to AC/DC’s "You Shook Me All Night Long".

So wish me luck. I don’t often get past Level 3, so I am willing to go the extra mile for Level 4. Even if it means dancing. Or arson. Or murder. Whatever really. Now back to the dancing.

It’s official: the Carolina Panthers have the best cheerleaders in the NFL.  According to an ESPN.com report:

Two Carolina Panthers cheerleaders who allegedly were having sex with each other in a bathroom stall at a Tampa, Fla., nightclub were arrested and charged early Sunday following a run-in with patrons and police.

According to a police report obtained by the CBS TV affiliate in Tampa and the Charlotte Observer, Angela Ellen Keathley and Renee Thomas were arrested following an incident at Banana Joe’s, in Tampa’s Channelside district, at 2:10 a.m. ET.

In the police report, witnesses claimed Thomas and Keathley were having sex with each other in a stall when other patrons grew angry that the two were taking so long in the bathroom.

Another woman waiting to use the bathroom got into an argument with the two, and Thomas hit that person in the face, according to details of the report posted on TampaBay10.com, the CBS TV affiliate’s Web site.

Keathley, who was escorted from the nightclub, was so drunk she could barely stand, the report said. Police described Keathley as rude and belligerent with police.

When Thomas was arrested, she gave police the name of another Panthers cheerleader — Kristen Lanier Owen, the Observer and TampaBay10.com reported. Thomas, who was charged with one count of battery, might face additional charges for lying to police, once they confirm her identity.

Keathley was charged with disorderly conduct and obstructing or opposing an officer.

Other Panthers cheerleaders bailed Thomas and Keathley out of Hillsborough County jail later Sunday morning, TampaBay10.com reported.

The cheerleaders made the trip to Tampa on their own — the squad performs on the sideline only at home games. Panthers officials at Sunday afternoon’s game said they were aware of the report, but declined further comment when contacted by the Observer.

According to the Panthers’ official team Web site on NFL.com, Keathley is a registered nurse and second-year member of the TopCats. Thomas is listed as a student at the University of North Carolina-Charlotte and first-year member of the cheerleading squad.

OK, that’s pretty much made my week.  Two cheerleaders having sex in a nightclub bathroom.  Good LORD.  Two things:

1)     I really should have focused more energy on playing football in high school.  Instead, I spent too much time being the Gay Best Friend to about fifteen girls, all of whom were out of my league, listening to them tell me about their problems with their boyfriends as I quietly wept and masturbated on the other end of the telephone.  Had I put half as much time into a football career, I could now be at least a marginal NFL player.  Which means that I would at least know cheerleaders.  Which means that I could then offer them drugs/cash to do stuff like this in my own bathroom (while I quietly wept and masturbated on the other side of the bathroom door).    

2)     I am never, ever having daughters.  Of course, having written this, I’m sure I’ll have six extremely hot daughters.  At least I’ll be dead by the time they’re getting breast implants and appearing on “Real World: Omaha” having orgies with visiting college basketball teams, whole precincts of police officers, middle-aged businessmen at conferences, Indian chiefs, carnies, etc.

I have been feverishly trying to get pictures of these two girls, but I’m currently away from home and stealing someone’s wireless and the site keeps getting timed out (since I imagine about 100,000 other perverts like myself are trying to do the exact same thing and are crashing the site).  But if you want to see for yourself, the Panthers’ cheerleaders’ site is here.  Good luck, godspeed, and yay for Panther Pride!   

(Thanks to Stuart in Pittsburgh for bringing my attention to this)

We no longer have an “Email of the Week” because I am just too lazy to keep up with my email.  But this week we’re going to pretend that we do as I help out Sonja from Winnipeg (that’s in Canada).

Dear Jason Mulgrew,

I know you’re not Ann Landers, but I was hoping you could give me some advice as to how to “snag” a certain dude into actually taking me out on a date. I can’t figure out why he keeps on playing me. I’m asking you because he seems a lot like you in that he’s a big fat party animal, he works in an office and tries to hide the fact that he’s a big fat party animal, he loves to eat really gross foods in quantity because he’s a big fat party animal, and everyone thinks he’s gay, (but he’s not because he sometimes gets lucky and goes home with a girl and consistently turns dudes down). On many occasions over the past year, “Mr. Playa” has asked me to call him or give him my number so he can buy me some lunch or something. I finally dumped my girlfriend two months ago and called him, because I do have a crush on him, and now that I’m single, why not?

Wait – “girlfriend?”  What?

He promised to take me out about four weeks ago. Since then, we have stuck our hands down each other’s pants once (I blew him a little, too) and he has cancelled and rescheduled like three times and has not taken me out for shit, yet says he’s super-interested. I am losing patience, but have suddenly become INTENSELY attracted to the bastard because he’s acting so exclusive. What’s the deal? Trust me, I’m pretty hot, and what I don’t have in the hotness department, I make up for in nastiness (the sexy kind).

OK, I’m listening…

Also, I wanted to mention that Winnipeg is an actual city (small) and there is more than one dude and/or chick here I can hook up with. I just kind of am stuck on Mr. Playa because I rarely get played and this is new. (Admittedly, I’ve played a few girls, myself, and I’m recognizing the situation for what it is. What gives?!! I’m cute!!).

Anyway, I hope you will buy a bucket of chicken to eat for supper tonight.

Sonja

This is easy. 

This is what I know about Sonja from only this email:

1)     She is cute – and not because she tells me she is cute.  I get I would say about 30 emails a week from women saying that they’re cute and/or they have nice boobs (I’m not bragging; bear with me).  They usually go something like:

Jason,

I love your blog.  You should know that I’m hot – and I have great breasts!  You would love me.  Anyway, just thought you should know.

Love,

Candy

Toledo, OH

PS – You are not that fat.  And I would know, because I am hot (and have nice boobies)

These women, of course, do this to torment me, expecting me to curse the computer and say “Damn it!  I wish I was in Toledo!”  But of these 30 emailers, only one will actually include a picture (if that), and many times, she ain’t as cute or boobilicious as she claims to be.  So I don’t really care for or get excited about these emails anymore.  However, Sonja sent a picture.  She is cute.  Her boobiliciousness can not be determined, but she is cute.    

2)     Sonja is bisexual.  Comment vous dites “awesome”?  (Wait, I don’t think they speak French in Winnipeg, which is good because I’m not 100% sure that’s how you say “How do you say…” in French.  Whatever.  It’s still awesome).

3)     Sonja writes: “[W]hat I don’t have in the hotness department, I make up for in nastiness (the sexy kind).”  Again, awesome. 

My conclusion: something is seriously wrong with this guy.  Unless Sonja is withholding information, like forgetting to mention the part about how after they made out she set his garage on fire or when she saw him with another girl she beat her with a camera, something isn’t right with this man, because no guy in his right mind would turn down an attractive bisexual girl who likes him.

Unless…

Sonja is coming on too strong.  Remember, there is very much truth to that horrible movie quote, “We pursue that which retreats from us.”  Sonja herself admits that she likes this guy because he’s playing so hard to get.  Making yourself too available and too easy lowers your value in the eyes of the opposite sex.  Therefore, at all times it’s important to look in demand.  Because in love, as with all of life, perception is reality. 

My recommendation: Give him a taste of his own medicine and cool off a bit.  Appear less interested and see how that works out.  Remember that courtship is a game involving both manipulation and risk AND luck and fate.  “True love” is dead and has been replaced by “cold, calculated planning.”  Call his bluff by lessening your own interest and see how he responds.  If he gets more interested, which I think he will, then you win.  If he gets less interested, to hell with it – it wasn’t meant to be (and, like I said, it sounds like this guy has major judgment problems anyway). 

That’s my call.  But again, asking me for relationship/sex advice is like asking a Sudanese villager for to give you a quick recap of the basic theories of Econometrics or asking Nicole Ritchie who makes the best cheesecake in LA (zing! That that, Nicole Ritchie!  And who says I can’t do celebrity gossip?).        

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Tammy from Wisconsin was the first to figure out the Catullus poem that I wrote about last Friday.  It is Number 45 (apparently, Catullus wasn’t good at the whole “titles” thing and just went with numbers). 

On the left is how the text appears in its original Latin, and on the right is my English translation.  I took four years of Latin in high school (in addition to two years of Greek AND three years of Spanish), winning silver medals each year in the National Latin Exam, and I scored a 4 on the AP Latin exam.  So I assure you this translation is completely accurate, though for sake of artful poetry of the Latin text, it is an idiomatic translation, not a literal one.  Enjoy, and be moved!

Gorgeous.  Just gorgeous.  Kudos to Catullus and to myself.  TEAMWORK!

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If you’d like to see some pics of Halloween, you can view them on my MySpace profile.  I think you have to join to view them, but it only takes a second or two.  You can also see some general pictures of me, as well as some Frosting techniques.    

And for those already on MySpace, be my friend.  Only a handful of you all have discovered me on there, and my lack of popularity has made me sad.  God, I have terrible self-esteem.   

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Lindsey from Iowa City passed on this video of two Chinese kids doing their best Backstreet impression.  I can’t even make a joke about it.   

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If you like my Six Songs segment, you should really buy this book.  It contains pages and pages of playlists collected by ubiquitous blogger, Ultragrrrl, broken neatly into four categories: Essential Artists, Essential Genres, Celebrity Playlists, and Other Playlists.  My favorite is the Other Playlists section, which has such playlist gems as “Car Sex Songs”, “Entrance Music”, “Pooping Songs”, and “Sorry Your Dad Is Gay.”  It’s been next to my computer since I bought it and I refer to it often whenever I’m looking for some new music to steal.  So go buy it (and it’s only $10, too).

[And if you think I'm sucking up/pimping out another blogger, you are mistaken, as I'm pretty sure Sarah doesn't even like me in real life.  But we all suffer for our art, right?]

[Man, I should write a book.  I wonder, if I did get a book deal, how long it would take for the paperwork to finish.  Probably a long, long, long time.  Just a guess though.]

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Six Songs

(Listen to these songs at id1g1t) 

“Voices That Care”  Various

Does anyone remember this song besides me?  Every one of my friends draws a blank when I mention this song, which was recorded for the troops in the first Gulf War (or is it “The First Gulf War?”).  The talent here is immense: singing lead on the track was an eclectic mix of country music stars (Garth Brooks, Randy Travis), hip-hop artists (Bobby Brown, Will Smith, Ralph Tresvant), easy listening snoozers (Kenny G, Michael Bolton, Peter Cetera, Celine Dion) and “What the fuck?” people (The Nelsons, The Pointer Sisters, Warrant). 

Some celebrities/choir members were also a strange mix of personalities, including crazy people (Gary Busey, Mike Tyson), athletes who I’m guessing can’t really sing (Orel Hershiser, Wayne Gretzky, Brian Bosworth), weird actors who are no longer successful and/or alive (Alan Thicke, Dudley Moore, Fred Savage), and people with severe sexually transmitted diseases (Magic Johnson, Downtown Julie Brown, Ted Danson).  Incredible!

Also, even though I’m pretty sure I’m going to hell for this, but when I entered “Voices That Care” into Google Images, this is what I got.  I mean, these people are retarded, right?  Or is it that they’re just Welsh?  (Zing again!  I am on fire today!)  

“Queen Jane Approximately”  Bob Dylan

“Hey, when you’re sick of everything else, then come and talk to me, baby.”  Not a bad philosophy to have toward women.  Also, could you be “When you’ve fucked everything else up, then come and talk to me, baby.”  Either way is still better than my philosophy when it comes to courting women, which is “IF YOU SCREAM I SWEAR I WILL FUCKING KILL YOU!  NOW TAKE OFF YOUR SHIRT AND LET ME WATCH YOU MAKE SOME FUCKING LASAGNE!  AND DON’T BE SHY ON THE MEAT SAUCE!  NOW ADD THE RICOTTA!  JUST DO IT!”  Anyway, probably my fourth favorite Dylan song.  And no, I’m not going to tell you the top three.

“It Must Be Love”  Madness

I admit: I’d never heard this song until it was on that jeans commercial.  But I downloaded it and I like it.  Please don’t judge.

“Brown Skin”  India.Arie

A reader emailed this to me, suggesting it could go on my make-out mix.  One problem: it’s about two people with brown skin making out.  My skin is somewhere “printer paper white” and “clear”.  So of course I put it immediately on the list, hoping that if I do bring a girl home, she’ll be so moved by how non-racist I am she’ll volunteer to help me do the rainbow.  [sigh] A guy can dream. 

“Come To My Window (Acoustic)”  Melissa Etheridge

You have not experienced music until you’ve heard Melissa Etheridge do this song live with only an acoustic guitar.  Sadly, I don’t think I’m kidding. 

[Shhhh – hear that sound?  That's the sound of 1000 frat boys clicking off this site, never to return again.  As long as I have my CTMW, I'll be ok.]

[Seriously though, I'm not a Melissa Etheridge fan, but I think this song acoustic is pretty cool.  Let's just move on…]

“Off The Record”  My Morning Jacket

Here’s you for the past month: “Dude, you have got to listen to the new My Morning Jacket album.”

Here’s me: “Yeah, yeah, yeah – I’ll get around to it.”

You: “No, seriously bro, it’s really good.  You HAVE to listen to it.”

Me: “Alright, I said.  I’ll check it out when I get a chance.”

Well, I’ve had the chance.  And it’s really good.  This song goes from near-pop-ish rock to space/sex jam in the span of five and a half minutes.  And it’s not even one of the best songs on the album.  So check it out.

[And that's all.  Have a good weekend]

Boys and girls, I got a new toy. May I present to you, the Treo 650.

Now before ye pass judgment, hear me out. I am not a materialistic person. My wardrobe consists of clothes I buy at the same stores that every 26 year-old fat white dude with no fashion sense shops. But I don’t buy clothes very often. When I go out, I routinely hear from friends, "Dude, didn’t you wear that shirt last weekend?" To which I reply, "Dude, take it easy � my parents are divorced." You’d be surprised how much this works. On top of that (or more appropriately, below that), I own only two pairs of jeans. I wear both constantly. The shoes that I wear to work and when I go out to bars etc have holes in their soles, so that when I step in a puddle my feet are soaked for many hours (seriously). I own one pair of sneakers, which I’ve owned for over a year. So I guess what I’m saying is that I don’t have a lot of clothes.

As for other material things, I don’t collect anything. Baseball cards, art, cookware, dvds; I have none of these (or very few in the case of dvds). I play guitar, but haven’t bought a new guitar since 2001. One could argue that my iPod is materialistic and unnecessarily expensive, but I actually think that the iPod saved me money. Before going digital, I would buy countless cds for one or two songs. Now I just steal those songs off the internet! I’d even say that prior to owning the iPod, I’d buy about 30 cds a year. Since then, it’s more like three cds a year. So take that, sucka.

But I have longed for some time for a mobile device that will give me a) optimal service; b) primo text messaging; c) the ability to email; and d) web browsing capabilities. Also, I wanted something that would make me look cool in front of women, like a real high roller or some shit. This is not a joke, either. It makes me kind of sad to admit it, but part of the reason that I wanted a pimped-out cell phone was so that I could look hip. Please, kick my ass now.

A few posts back, I asked what you all thought of T-Mobile’s Sidekick. I didn’t know much about the Sidekick, but I knew that lots of celebrities used them. And as I get farther and farther away from "Internet Quasi-Celebrity" and closer and closer to "Poorly Respected Writer Who Gets Very Drunk at Parties in New York and Los Angeles and Spends All Night in the Bathroom", the Sidekick seemed like a reasonable option. But alas, you all said otherwise, panning the Sidekick for, well, just about everything.

So I did a little research on my own to see not only what was out there, but also what was feasible given my current cell phone status. I had Sprint and I wanted out (I have bemoaned the horrible service of my carrier Sprint very often here, so I need not rehash it here, even though I rehash the same fat/drunk/getting no ass jokes every week). But I am still under contract with Sprint until next May. To break that contract would cost $150, money that could be spent on better things, namely my two favorite seasonal winter habits: gambling and vodka. I have also been picked up phone sex as an interest of mine, presumably because the cold weather is keeping me in. At least that’s what I tell myself. But I digress�

So one day last week while ambling around Manhattan, I wandered into my local Sprint and saw it: the Treo 650. As soon as I saw I laid eyes on it, I knew it had to be mine. And so I grilled the guy at the store about my contract, the cost, etc, and told him I’d think about it and left the store. Of course, I did this only to seem like a smart consumer. When I left the store, I knew only one thing for certain: if I didn’t get that Treo, I would surely die.

This past weekend, I returned to the Sprint store with my posse in effect. It was the same crew that joined me as the Baldwin Brothers for Halloween � my roommate Brian and my buddies Bill and Joe in from Boston. I wanted them to come with me for moral support as I made such a rash and impetuous decision. They wanted to come with me so that after I made said decision (specifically, after my credit card was charged), they could say, "Dude � why did you do that? You don’t have that kind of money!" That’s what friends are for.

One of the requirements of the purchase was that I had to get a new number. I’d rather not get into the details of this, which involves a complicate mathematical formula taking into considering rebates, new activation discounts, and new contractual minutes. The bottom line is that it would be much cheaper for me if I got a new number, dig?

Before going to the Sprint store, my buddies and I had breakfast/lunch at LoSide, a nice lil’ hipsterish diner that opened on Houston Street a few months back. There, we discussed the possibilities of picking my own number and what I should choose if I were allowed to do this. I originally thought that 646-MULGREW would be best, because it’s easiest to remember (646 is one of the NYC cell phone area codes). Then, Joe suggested something like 646-RAPE-ASS. Brian had a slightly scary but unfortunately funny idea of 646-I-EAT-PEE, but then Bill put it all together with something stunning in its simplicity: 646-FUCK-YOU.

646-FUCK-YOU was going to be my new number. Undoubtedly so. I called the number (which translates to 646.382.5968) and � mother of pearl! � it was out of service. I presumed that this meant no one was using it, so I further presumed that it then must be available. I was so excited to get to the Sprint store that I couldn’t even finish my eggs benedict (well, ok, I could finish my eggs benedict � and most of Brian’s "Urban Cowboy Hash" � but you get it).

(Also I got a cookie to go. As a reward for such a good idea.)

I wasn’t entirely sure how the whole picking your own number process worked, but I knew it could be done. I mean, businesses have custom numbers all the time, so why couldn’t an individual chose one for his/her private line? I assumed that I’d have to pay a fee in order to get a custom number, and after mulling it over I decided that I was willing to pay around $1500 for 646-FUCK-YOU. Surely, the joy of telling my friends, my family, and women I met in bars that my number was FUCK-YOU was worth any price. And yes, I know that women don’t customarily ask me for my number in bars unless its part of an insurance claim report, but FUCK-YOU is still awesome.

I practically ran to the store. Well, I did my best impression of running, which looks like a cross between humping the air and "I’ve been shot in both hamstrings." When we arrived, I ran right up to the phone when the girl asked, "Can I help you?" I blurted out, "I want this phone!" with the intensity of a retard asking for more pudding.

And so it began. If you’re not familiar, getting a new cell phone is a long process. I was in the chair opposite the sales girl for maybe 30 minutes, as she asked for information and clicked things on her computer. We learned a lot about each other in that time. She was a 19 year-old from Brooklyn in her sophomore year at the College of Staten Island. She was studying sociology, but wanted to be a lawyer. She hadn’t decided which kind of law, though; she had a real estate license, so could probably do real estate law, but she wanted to "change the system." When I asked what she meant by that, she said, "Like, you know, cops? The cops are, like, supposed to protect you, but they don’t, you know? That’s just wrong." This leads me to believe that her boyfriend/brother/cousin must have gotten caught dealing and so now she hates cops. At least she was kind of cute, with dark hair and light eyes, but she had one of my pet peeves: some chunk, no chest.

Look, I like girls with some meat on their bones. This is mostly for health reasons, as I don’t want to crush my lady or bruise any of her ribs during one of our vigorous bouts of lovemaking. Also because since I’m a big guy myself, so I don’t want to date a girl that going to make us look like the number 10 when we stand next to each other. That just ain’t cool. But it’s mainly because I like boobies (have I mentioned this before on the site? No?). Typically, "healthy" girl equals big boobies. However, some girls have the "some chunk/no chest" syndrome, which is exactly what it sounds like: though they do have some meat to them, they have small boobies. This makes me sad, seeing as (I would imagine) one of the best thing about being a lil’ chubby to very chubby girl is massive mambas. It’s kinda like the equivalent to how guys who are big and fat don’t usually get messed with or picked on because even if they secretly are pussies, others are intimidated by their size. But healthier women without boobs = sadness. Mostly for me.

Having said this, I still would have married this girl in a heartbeat and spent the rest of my life making her moderately happy because was most helpful when I told her that I wanted a custom number. I told her that I would pay whatever it costs and whatnot, but she said that she couldn’t give me a custom number, saying that when a new number is activated, she gets a list of possible numbers to choose from. And that’s it.

I was crushed. I wanted 646-FUCK-YOU so bad that when I heard it wasn’t going to happen, I think I blacked out for a few minutes. Horrible, horrible, horrible. Not yet ready to throw in the towel, I instead sat in the chair and sulked, saying things like, "Man, I was really hoping to get that custom number" and "That sucks � I’m pretty bummed about not being able to pick my number" and sighing heavily. Finally, she broke down and asked, "Well, what is the number? I can check to see if it’s here." Realized that this was the point of no return, I told her, "I really want it to be 646-FUCK-YOU."

To my surprise and delight, she laughed. I was in love. She cross-checked her available numbers, but FUCK-YOU wasn’t available. I was sad. But then the floodgates opened.

Me: "Ok, what about 646-PISS-ASS? I would also take 646-COCK-ASS, 646-I-LUV-ASS, or 646-GIMME-ASS."
Her: [typing away] "Nope. What else? And �GIMME-ASS’ is eight numbers."

Me: "I know, I’m trying here. Um, 646-CHICKEN?"

Her: [typing away] "No. Next?"

Me: "Ok, ok. 646-EAT-SHIT? 646-BIG-POOP? �Poop’ and �shit’ are interchangeable, really."

This went on for a solid fifteen minutes. When my dad was 26, he had been working full-time for eight years, had a two year old son, and a wife of three years. I’m 26, and I’m spending my Sunday afternoon hungover in a cell phone store trying to customize my number around vulgarities so that I can buy a phone that represents 5% of the cost of my dad’s first home. God bless America.

Eventually, we couldn’t find anything suitable (sad, I know), so I went with something "easy", though I’m not quite sure how easy my new number is. I said goodbye to Sprint store girl and left. It was sad. More for me, less for her.

But the good news is that I got the Treo and I absolutely love it. I love texting and making calls and most importantly, I love walking around New York City using it in front of people. Of course, I haven’t figured out how to email or use the internet on it and I more than likely never will, but that’s not important. What’s important is that I got a self-esteem boost because of a purchase. And anything that ups my self-esteem, no matter what the economic, physical, or emotional cost, is a good thing.

Amen.

(But I really would have liked to have gotten 646-FUCK-YOU. I’m sorry, but it’s going to take me a while to get over this. We’re just going to have to work through it together.)

No post today, as I try to make sense of a strange weekend, but I wanted to send my love.  So, um, Happy Halloween and whatnot.  Back tomorrow. 

For those of you not in the area, it’s been cold – like, really cold – in NYC for about a week.  Once again, we had no temperate season.  It was hot, then warm, then it rained for like two weeks straight, and now it’s just fucking cold.

And my heat hadn’t been turned on yet.  It’s been consistently in the low 40′s at night, which means that I’ve been laying in bed wrapped up in blankets, both hands down my pants, trying to keep warm (although both hands would have most likely been down my pants regardless of temperature).

Since it got cold, I’ve been vacillating about when I should go talk to my landlord about turning on the heat.  I know that there’s some sort of law wherein a landlord must have the heat on from October 1 to May 1 of every year (or something), so I wasn’t worried about being in the wrong by asking him to turn it on.  But the problem is that my landlord is a very macho Italian guy (remember, I live in Little Italy above an Italian restaurant, which he runs and owns).  He’s a nice guy and all, but he definitely exudes that alpha male/Italiano b.s. that frightens a mezzofinook like me.  I didn’t want to go down to the restaurant to interrupt him to complain about being cold at night, since he most likely would then slap me and say something about me being a sissy.

But – hallelujah – in the middle of the night last night, the radiator in my room kicked on with a squeal and the heat was on.  At first I wasn’t concerned about the loud squealing, since every time a radiator kicks on for the first time there’s bound to be some noise.  Even though the noise woke me from my sleep, I was just glad to be warm.       

That was about twelve hours ago, and this radiator is still squealing like a puppy being stepped on.  Good lord.  I’ve been looking at it a lot, turning the knob and such, trying to figure out what the hell is wrong with it, but it still keeps screaming.  Great.

So if this keeps up, I’m going to have to talk to my Ital landlord and meekly ask him why the radiator in my room is hissing and crying.  Why not ask the super, you ask?  Because the super is not really a super in the traditional sense (i.e. an immigrant who lives in the building and fixes stuff when it needs fixing).  True, our super is an immigrant, but he doesn’t live in the building.  Hell, I don’t know where he lives.  From what I can tell, all he does is sit in the Italian restaurant below my apartment, drinking wine and verbally sexually assaulting women in Italian.  So I’m not sure I feel so comfortable approaching him, as at least my landlord speaks English and most likely wouldn’t try to kiss me in my hallway with his nasty wine breath.

[I know I just wrote about an old Italian guy trying to kiss me with his wine breath, but I like getting kissed – by women – with wine breath.  Something about tasteful drunk making out is really nice (by "tasteful" l mean not trying to eat each other's faces).  If you like poems or are gay, there is a poem by Catullus (or maybe it's Horace) about drunk making out that has the line "To kiss your inebriated eyes".  I couldn't find it from a quick Google search, but if you know it, email it to me.] 

[And yes, I know – I really have to stop smoking pot before writing these posts.  I'm working on it.]

So let’s all collectively hope that my radiator shuts the fuck up.  Not turns off, but shuts up.  Is this too much to ask?  Probably. 

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It’s official: more people emailed me about this than anything else I’ve ever discussed or written about before.

I don’t know what to say, other than if you get one upped by Tom Sizemore or make Tom Sizemore look good, you’re in trouble.  It’s getting to the point that Paris Hilton is just a complete fucking joke (um, more so than before).  And I saw an ad for her new perfume, “Paris Hilton for Men”, in my latest issue of Men’s Health.  I can’t imagine what this smells like, but I’d imagine it’d be a delicate mix of cigarettes, dick, and cosmopolitans.  If so, sign me up.      

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Instant feedback from Mark in Boston about yesterday’s post:

You have just described the perfect situation. You answered your own problem but just don’t realize it because either you are too wrapped up in the fact that you are fat and can’t get laid or you can’t see the forest through the trees.

You still have the “cool older brother” factor going for you. These kids looked up to you, I know it is a scary thought, but they did. And in a way they still do. This is evident from the fact that your sibling’s friend came up to you. When was the last time an attractive girl apporached you. Never!! Forget the fact that she is hot and doesn’t want to be seen conversing with some fat middle aged guy. But it isn’t some middle aged guy, this is “Jay, remember [insert little brothers name]‘s older brother.” Then the “Oh my God I remember when” stories start to fly, as long as they aren’t “When I woke up and you were standing over me naked” type of stories, you’re all set.

Then comes the kicker which you already discovered, you live in NYC. You just say to the girls and play it ultra smooth, “Hey, if you guys ever want to come to the city and need a place to stay, by all means here is my cell phone number you could totally stay at my place.” Or if they are in need of a place to stay when interviewing for your bosses’ job they can stay at Palace de Mulgrew. That is when the magic happens. You can take them to any bar you want – as long as there are people there you can tell them it is coolest place in NYC and they will think you are God. Then the best part is when they get hammered they have to go home with you. It is there that they thank you for being such a wonderful host and tell you about the crush they had on you when they kids. Then you are money.

If the “cool older brother” thing doesn’t work for you, i don’t know what will. And if the whole thing blows up in your face, who cares.  They aren’t your friends, they are your brother’s, and he will just tell them what a dick you are and no big deal.

Some valid points here, but:

1)     No girls, even if they were younger than I, had a crush on me when I was younger.  None.  There is not a hint of exaggeration in that sentence.  I’m not looking for pity, but rather stating a fact.  So I would never here that “I had a crush on you when I was younger” story.  Maybe the “I remember when you lost the Geography Bee and started crying on stage” story, but not the “I had a crush on you” story.

2)     No girls, knowing my reputation, would ever agree to stay at my place in NYC without some sort of weapon or personal bodyguard.  Hell, my guy friends are sometimes reluctant to crash at my place, knowing full well that odds are I’m going to have too much to drink and crawl onto the couch with them.  So that ain’t happening.

3)     If any girls did come up to NYC to stay in my apartment, I don’t think we’d make it out to any bars.  I’m sure that as soon as they got to my place, they’d think something was up, as I’d have all sorts of penis-shaped candles lit and porno magazines lying around.  So it would be a very short visit.

But thank you, Mark, for the email.  It helped by self-esteem, albeit briefly.

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Speaking of emails, the following email exchange is floating around the internet.  To date, I have received it from six different people, one friend and five readers, each one claiming a connection to “Brad”.  I’m not saying this isn’t real or didn’t happen, but it’s funny that six people from across the country are somehow connected to Brad (“my co-worker’s cousin’s buddy” or “some dude of my girlfriend’s brother’s softball team knows him”).  Either way, it’s funny, so enjoy.

Brad,

It would be difficult for me to be any more miserable right now, I feel like the worst person ever. First, let me start by saying that I am truly truly sorry, and I hate myself for hurting you. Of all the people in the whole entire world, you were honestly the last person that I would ever want to wrong in any way. There is no excuse at all for anything that happened, so I won’t even try other than to say that all of us had WAY too much to drink, and I did a stupid thing.

I can handle you being pissed at me, I absolutely deserve it, I can even handle the ugly words that were exchanged between us, what I can’t handle is thinking that you see me as a different person. It is weird, I feel like I just went through a horrible break up or something. The world looked funny yesterday, I couldn’t crack a smile if you paid me, there are songs I can’t listen to, and I just feel beyond crushed. I

don’t know if you meant everything you said to me, and I am hoping that you didn’t.

I know that I was wrong on many levels, but I am also hoping that this is something that we can deal with. I know it sounds totally crazy and stupid, but you have come to play such a significant role in my life, I can’t imagine my days without you. It is totally strange and weird to say that, and you could say that my behavior didn’t reflect that, and you would be correct. I hate feeling like you

hate me, and I hate feeling like all of your friends think I am a terrible person, because I am not.

I know there is nothing I can say or do to take back what happened, but I just want you to know that fighting with you was just about the worst thing I could have ever imagined. It was right up there with one of the ugliest nights of my life, and I would give anything in the world to rewind and fix it.

I am not sure if you will respond to this, part of me thinks that you won’t. If not today, then maybe some other time. Also, thanks for getting my stuff together, although I think my sunglasses are still at your house, if you could keep your eyes peeled for them that would be great. I can’t even focus or work today, I can’t eat, I seriously feel like it was an ugly break up, and I am hoping against hopes that it

was not that and you are not done with me. Please don’t cut me off, I really don’t think I can handle that.

I am so sorry.

Elizabeth

And now the reply…

Dear Elizabeth,

Thank you for your concern. I’ll be sure to file it away under “L” for “Long-winded diatribes from drunken whores I couldn’t care less about”.

You did a stupid thing huh? No…doing long division and forgetting to carry the one is “a stupid thing”; Mixing in a red sock with a load of whites is “a stupid thing”; Blowing some guy in a bathroom for 45 minutes while I sit at the bar wondering if you’re taking so long because you ate too much bran that morning isn’t as much a “Stupid thing” as it is grounds for permanent removal from my social calendar.

To be honest, I’m not sure if it was more amusing that you went and degraded yourself in a public toilet not once but twice in a 2 hour span, or that you seemed to think that by saying “Well, I didn’t Fuck

him” somehow gave you a clean slate.

So forgive me if I couldn’t care less if the world “looked funny” to you yesterday. Since your world revolves around blow dryers, golden retrievers, Prada Bags and Jelly Beans, I’m sure it must have been

most unsettling to actually have to consider someone else’s feelings for 24 hours straight. The good news for you is that my friends don’t think you’re a terrible person, they just think you’re the average run

of the mill cum-guzzling blond who commands about as much respect as your average child porn collector. I could be wrong but, it’s pretty hard to respect some B&T chick who comes out to spend the night at my place even though she’s seeing someone else in New jersey and winds up tongue-bathing the taint of anyone who decides 30 minutes of droning commentary on Colin Farrell’s new haircut is worth putting up with for a hand and b-job in the men’s room. The good thing about being a guy is

that when I eventually bump into the young lad who finger-blasted you on top of a towel dispenser last Saturday, we’ll have a shot and laugh our heads off about the time it happened.

By the way, for the amount of time you claim to spend in spin class you really must be doing something wrong to sport the thunder thighs you do. Watching you parade around my bedroom in a thong was a little like watching sea lions mate. Thought you might like to know.

PS. I BCC’d about 100 people on this email.

Talk to you never,

Brad

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Six Songs:

(To listen to these songs, go to iD1G1T.com)

“Pretending”  Eric Clapton

This song, as cheesy as it is, makes me cry a little bit.  It reminds me of a line in “The Misanthrope” that goes “Pretend, pretend that you are just and true/And I will make myself believe in you”.  When I first read that line, I was very under the influence and I nearly had an emotional breakdown.  I won’t allow myself to read the play or the line anymore, so this Clapton song is the closest I can come to it.

“Memo From Turner”  Rolling Stones

Another dirty rock song.  They just don’t make ‘em like this one anymore.

“Gett Off”  Prince

So I’ve pretty much spent all day getting high, drinking hot chocolate, and listening to Prince so loudly that I’m certain the tourist and Chinese people below can hear it.  Not to brag here, but not working is HIGHLY underrated.  The good news is that though you may be jealous of me now, in a matter of months I will be sued by a major network for failure to deliver, up to my neck in legal fees, and possibly in debtor’s prison (if debtor’s prisons still exist).  So for now, let me relax and listen to my Prince.  What time is “Cops” on again? 

“Freedom”  Wham

Just because it’s Halloween.

“Ain’t No Problem”  Snoop Dog

“Guess who’s back in the mother fucking house/With a fat dick for your mother fucking mouth”.   A better epitaph, I can think of none.  Should I just order my gravestone with that on it now, just to save time later?

“Belle”  Al Greene

Two questions: 1) Who is the “he” that Al Greene is singing to?  Is it the Lord?  I hope so.  2) Is it “Greene” or “Green”?  I always add the extra “e”, but have no idea if this is correct or not. 

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Happy Halloween weekend everyone.  My buddies Bill and Joe are coming down from Boston and they and Brian and I are going out as a group.  I won’t reveal our costume (I’ll tell you about it on Monday), but it will either be a fabulous success or a spectacular failure. 

And just in time for Halloween, this might be the funniest thing you’ll ever see (safe for work and listen with sound).

(Thanks to my buddy Chris for passing it on)

For the most part, I have made it a practice not to lust after my younger siblings’ friends.

This may not sound like such a grand resolution, but you all know that I lust after everything and anything: boobies (and flesh in general), four-day old lunchmeat, used tennis balls, wires, tubing, worn hair pieces, etc.  So for me to throw down the gauntlet like this, well, it’s pretty fucking impressive. 

But, like they always do, things done changed.  I left my hometown of Philly in 1997, at the age of 18.  When I left, my little brother (and his friends) was 14.  My little sister (and her friends) was only 11. 

Since then, I have returned to Philly on breaks and vacations and watched these friends grow into, ahem, women.  I don’t mean this in the pervy “I’m waiting in a trash can in your backyard” sense, but just that I see them when I go out. 

(Ok, and one time I hid in one girl’s trash can for four days before I realized she was on vacation.  What, and you’re perfect?)

But on each visit back home, I have managed to successfully restrain myself.  It’s one thing for me to go up to an unfamiliar girl in Boston or New York and say, “Hey, I’ll give you $46 to come home with me and let me take pictures of you in my clothes”, but it’s another entirely to make such an offer to a woman and have her say, “You’re Dennis’ older brother, right?  God, you are as creepy as I’ve heard.”

So I’ve done pretty well with this over the years.  When I now go out in the bars in Philly, I’ll see my siblings’ friends, say a cordial and polite hello, and move on.  Of course, I’ll spend the rest of the night with a mild erection thinking, “My god – look at her!  The last time I saw her she was making her first communion, and now she looks like she’s been in at least a half dozen Vivid films!”

[Editor's note: I realize that joke alienates the non-Catholics and the non-porn people, but get over it.]

But last week I spent a few days in Philly, hanging out, going out, and getting drunk and it was hard (no pun intended).  Worse yet, it was (nearly) uncontrollable.  I have to face the fact that my younger siblings’ friends are entirely lustworthy.  Damn.

Firstly because, when I was 22 and 19, girls simply did not look like they do now.  I know I sound like an old fuddy-duddy, but I know that every guy in America (and possibly Europe and Africa, but not Asia) who read that sentence is thinking, “Yeah, that’s true.”  I don’t know what’s happened over the last decade or so, but I’m desperately trying to find out.  When I was 18 (I’m 26 now), sure, there were some very attractive girls I was friends with (read: cranked called in the middle of the night to hear their breathing).  But they were different…they were certainly good-looking and attractive, but, as referenced above, the didn’t look like they were coming off a shoot of “Island Fever 2″ or “Where The Boys Aren’t, Volume 12″ (of course, this isn’t to say that this new breed of girls is slutty, but that they just have a certain look about them – although if they were slutty, that is something I totally support). 

Secondly, there is the element of the shock factor.  For example, one night I saw a girl who I hadn’t seen since she was about 11 (maybe eight or nine years ago) and when she said hello I didn’t recognize her.  When in mid-conversation I finally did recognize her, I actually blushed because she had really, um, blossomed.  It’s kinda like that SNL skit I love so much: the one in which Lindsay Lohan plays a newly-busty Hermione, shocking Harry Potter and the other characters (sorry, I don’t know any other Harry Potter character names because I’m a grown-ass man).     

Thirdly, young girls are HOT.  Maybe it’s because they don’t have the baggage/history that women my age come with, baggage that renders them bitter, distrustful, and incapable of any emotions aside from “need” and “want” and “infliction of distress” (again ladies, that email address is jason@jasonmulgrew.com).  Maybe because it’s unorthodox or even taboo to date someone much younger than yourself.  Or maybe it’s just because we men want to do them first, before they’re collecting sexual partners like tubes of lipstick or scrunchies or whatever the hell else it is that women collect. 

Fourthly, I’m no Denzel, but when learning of many of the guys these girls are sleeping with (most of them time, secretly sleeping with), it is easy to lust after them more, putting all your faith into “if he can get her, why can’t I?” that I have struggled many a night with.  This conversation happened a lot:

Me: “My god – is that [some girl I haven't seen since she was 13 and now looks like a Hooters trainee]?”

Buddy: “Yeah, that’s her.  She really grew up, didn’t she?” 

Me: “Good lord!  Is she with anyone?”

Buddy: “Yeah, she’s messing around with Tommy C.”

Me: “Tommy C?  Isn’t that the guy that pushed him mom down a flight of stairs?  The really bad gambler, right?  And isn’t he like 36?”

Buddy: “That’s him.  But don’t tell anybody.  He’s getting married next month to some hot-ass Rican broad from Fairmount, so it’s secret.”

Me: [stabs penis with fork]

So it’s over for me.  I have tried very hard over the years to do my best and shrug off these sex kitten friends of my siblings, but I can no longer do it.  And to be honest, I’m not concerned.  I probably should have known this day would come eventually.  But perhaps I’m worried that this is an après ceci, le deluge-type thing.  Now that I am ok with lusting after them, maybe I’m going to start approaching them in bars asking them if they’d like to see my dad’s basement or if they know that I live in New York City (“In Manhattan, actually.  Have you heard of Manhattan?  Do you know the show Friends?”).  Maybe I’ll start talking at length about the luxurious trips I take to faraway places, hoping that my stories about the African plains and the fjords of Scandinavia (all lies of course) will lead to a shared cigarette and a smooch.  Or maybe I’ll just get very drunk and yell inappropriate things at them from the bar stool.  Probably that last one.

The good news is that I’m not planning on returning to Philly for a while, so maybe I’ll cool off before then.  Let’s just hope that happens, or else I am going to have some big problems.  And by “I” I mean “These girls”.  I’ll be just fine, only because I always am.

…

God I’m so fucking high right now.  Time for a nap. 

1)     Do black people go to Astros games, or is that not allowed?  Was it “White Night” at Minute Maid last night?  I think I saw maybe a half dozen black people in the stands at the game last night, although most of the time it was only a quick glimpse so they could have been really tan Italian or Greek guys.  Did anyone else notice this, or am I just sensitive because I’m been secretly dating a hot black chick?

2)     Why do so many players have trouble being called off pop ups?  Why do easy pop ups so often end in collisions or near-collisions between players?  Do the players not hear each other saying “I got it?”  Is it an ego thing?  Do they get an extra $100 per pop up?  When I was in Little League, I used to let my teammates go after pop ups all the time and it was not a hard thing to do.  I mean, fundamentals, people.  If one guy says “I got it”, let him take it.  This is not hard.    

3)     What the fuck is wrong with Dustin Hermanson’s goatee?  Are those white splotches on his chin or is he trying to do some AJ from the Backstreet Boys-type thing?  Judging from this picture from when he was in Boston, I think he likes the AJ carved goatee look.  Either way it looks ridiculous. 

4)     Craig Biggio is a very easy player to root for.  Not only does he consistently produce despite being 5’1″ and not having a batting helmet that actually fits him, but he’s a class act too.  His wife was in the stands in Chicago for Game Two and was slapped by a (male) White Sox fan.  Biggio went into the press and said it wasn’t a big deal and that he wasn’t going to judge all the ChiSox fans because of the actions of some jerk.  Good for him.  If someone hit my wife, I would have taken him into my basement and raped him with a shoehorn, but that’s just me.  

5)     AJ Piersynzkeisni looks like a real asshole.  I know every team he’s played for has hated him and I can see this in his face.  Something about the smug look he has screams, “I am a real douche.”  I just want to punch him in his fucking face.  And he doesn’t even owe me money. 

6)     Paul Konerko has a really unfortunate bald spot.  I’m trying to thing of what celebrity he looks like with curly hair and the bald spot, but I don’t have anything (Steve Guttenberg maybe?).  But regardless, he’ll be able to afford plenty of Rogaine come this winter.   

7)     I know the Sports Guy talks about this a lot, but the incessant promos for Fox shows are going beyond advertising and entering the world of psychological manipulation or even hypnosis.  My god, enough already with “Bones” and “House” and “Prison Break”.  If you’re going to promote at least one of these shows during EVERY commercial, can you at least make several commercials for each?  Like maybe show one “Prison Break” commercial wherein the protagonist is sitting on the toilet in his cell pooping and the narrator says, “He broke into to prison to break out his brother.  But he never realized how embarrassing shitting in front of another man is. [pause for six seconds while camera closes up on guy shitting with his head in his hands] Boy this is uncomfortable.”    

8)     I’m glad the Astros got rid of the playoff beards.  This ain’t hockey, geeks: you’re wearing tights and hitting a little white ball.  So dispense with the lumberjack look. 

9)     I’m sorry, but any pitcher with bleach blond hair doesn’t scare me.  Houston‘s Mike Gallo has hair whose color can best be described as “lemon.”  And though he did his job, he looked ridiculous doing it.  Guys, no hair dyeing.  C’mon.  You should know better than this.   

10)  Heck of a Series so far, despite the 3-0 Sox lead.  But we’ve got to try to limit the extra inning games.  I like baseball as much as the next guy, but after four hours, things get kinda blurry and I start zoning out.  I think the ‘Stros win tonight, but then the Sox finish it in Houston tomorrow night.  And I know a lot about sports, so feel free to wager on this if you like.    

Many years from now, long after my spectacular death in a garbage fire, my authorized biography will be released.  It will come after several unauthorized biographies, which will contain various half-truths and lies, like how I was briefly Vice President in Charge of Operations for Petco (half-truth; I was CFO), how I played a small but important role in the Falklands War (lie; not even sure what the Falklands War is), how I don’t know how to use a fax machine and have always hated this about myself (half-truth; no idea how to use a fax machine but I don’t care), and how once when cornered by a gang of youths in 2000 I turned a potentially dangerous situation into a satisfying sexual romp (lie; I wasn’t cornered, it was two men I met at club and not a gang, it was only somewhat satisfying, and it cost me $400). 

Of course, there will be shocking revelations in this authorized volume, penned by my long time friend and confidant, this guy.  And of course, I won’t reveal these revelations now, because I want you to buy the book.  Not for me, because I’ll be dead, but for my estate, to whom I will leave many, many legal bills and gambling debts and countless half-Taiwanese children, all named Sip-Sip.

But there will be a lot of talk in the biography about how, though loved by literally millions – even trillions perhaps – I have, for the most part, few friends.  This is my own fault entirely.  It’s not because I’m not that open of a person and yada yada yada, but this isn’t therapy.  It’s also because I suck at the whole keeping in touch thing and doing my part to make friendships work.  I’m not good at following through with plans, I don’t return most emails, and if you call me, there’s a less than 10% chance I’m going to call you back (in part because of my horrible Sprint cell phone; by the way, I think I’m getting a Sidekick – please email me if you have one and tell me what you think).

Basically because I’m lazy, self-centered and somewhat private, I don’t have a lot of friends (I should say that this applies to NYC only; I have lots of friends in Philly and Boston and had lots of friends in NYC before everyone moved out).  I have lots of associates and people I get along with, but few tried-and-true, “wipe my ass after I’ve shit myself on your bedroom floor and passed out” buds.  Sad, but true.  The good news is that I always manage to convince myself that I have more, but the bad news is that this weekend I learned that it just ain’t true. 

On Saturday night, Brian and I had a joint party.  Friday was Brian’s birthday.  He is now 27, and we are all happy he made it this far.  Seriously, I don’t know how he’s lived this long, but we’re not going to start questioning this, lest we jinx him.    

On my end, I’m working on this.  For legal/pr reasons, that’s all I can say about that until further notice.  I’m also working on another project which I can’t speak about for the same legal reasons (not the same exact legal reason, but a different set).  Additionally, my wonderful, wonderful employer has made it possible for me to work only one day a week while I pursue these other things.  So basically this is the best time of my life and this party was to celebrate that.

[And yes, I hope to make an official, tell-all announcement very soon.  But please, this is all I can say now, so don't inundate me with emails.  Believe me, I want you all to know, and as soon as I get the green light, I'll let you all know, but this stuff takes time.  But know that I'm working one day a week at my real job and writing (read: sleeping in, being slovenly and disappointing people) the rest of time.  Thank you for understanding.]

We even classed it up a bit.  We usually have our parties at the Keltic Lounge on Ludlow Street, but this time around we went for the Happy Ending Lounge.  Brian and I had been there before several times, and it’s not too fancy for scumbags like us and our friends.  Plus, it was a special occasion: Brian is old and I’m livin’ the dream, so a lil’ fanciness wouldn’t hurt.

What we didn’t know was that the location of the bar really didn’t matter.  By the end of the night, Brian summed it up best: it was a new personal low.  Ladies and gentleman, Brian and I had our party at Happy Ending.  We were there from 10pm until 4am.  We were expecting around 50 people.  Six people joined us.

Six. 

(Eight if you include Brian and I.  But I don’t think we should.)

I should clarify to say that six people spent a decent amount of time at the bar.  By that I mean that six people were at the bar for longer than one hour.  Roughly ten others stopped in for a drink en route to other, no doubt more exciting places and parties. 

Six.  I sent out an email inviting around 80.  Six came and hung out.  Ouch.

In truth, I am not that bothered by this.  I had a pretty decent time with those that did come, managed to get very drunk, bought drinks for everyone, and had my credit card rejected because it’s maxed out.  Good stuff.

And like I said, it’s my fault too.  I stink at being a friend, so I shouldn’t have been surprised.  Also, a few people replied to the email to say that they couldn’t make it.  Also, it was pouring rain and around 48° out, so if I didn’t have a party to host I probably wouldn’t have come either.

But damn – six.  That’s just embarrassing.  I don’t want to turn this into a pity party, because I’ll make it.  Sure, Brian and I might just have to move out of NYC and rent a house upstate where we can get messed up and start fights with trees, but if that’s what we have to do, that doesn’t sound too bad.

And I’m not, in any way, mad at those who didn’t come.  I’m sure they each thought, “Jason is the most wonderful and charismatic person I know, so I’m sure he won’t even notice if I don’t make his party, because there will probably be all sorts of athletes, celebrities, and strippers there.”  I’m ok with that.  Of course, these people didn’t know that I locked myself  in the bathroom for two hours during the party while my friend Jeremy talked through the door consoling me, finally getting me to come out only when he promised me that we’d go to Friendly’s the next day.  God bless him. 

But the whole incident made me put things into perspective.  I need to do one of the following things:

1)     Be a better friend.  I doubt this is going to happen, so let’s just move on.  Although maybe if I get that Sidekick, that will help.

2)     Join some groups or some shit.  Maybe I can look for friends on craigslist or join a choir or discussion group or something.  This probably isn’t going to happen, because I’m not good at meeting new people and I don’t really want to discuss anything except how awesome I am and how much I can bench press.

3)     Move.  I can either move to Philly or Boston where I have friends and family, or to LA, where I don’t know anyone but I can start over as a vegan, environmentalist, and horrible writer who uses way too may run-on sentences and doesn’t place quotation marks properly.  Odds are not good on this either, because moving would require a ton of physical effort, something I am strongly averse to.

4)     Nothing.  Winner.

So that was the big party and this is what I’m going to do.  I don’t really have an ending or a point, so I’ll go with this: Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go lie on the couch and watch ESPN all afternoon.  If I get ambitious, I might make a giant omelet, but right now I can’t tell either way.       

Erin in the Philly was the first to send me this.

My fascination/love with/for Tom Sizemore has been well documented on this site, and this latest piece of news makes me very happy, because it just keeps getting better.  Just when you think he can’t top himself after releasing his own homemade porn, he goes and claims that he banged Paris Hilton.

The thing is, I would believe him if his story wasn’t so far-fetched.  Sizemore “heard the repeated clicks of a cigarette lighter and followed the sound to his gym, where he saw Hilton, and suggested rather explicitly that the two should have sex.”

Survey says?  No way.  That’s too, too…porno-like.  That doesn’t happen in the real world, even in the world of celebrities.  I’ve seen every Paris Hilton sex tape and I know that she’s not coy enough for something like that.  If Sizemore had said,

“I had a party at my house and went to take a shit and found Paris passed out in my bathroom with a bottle of champagne.  She attacked my penis like a piece of kielbasa, passed out, and I made her sleep in my pool house.  It was pretty uneventful.” 

I would have believed him.  But the clicking lighter and sex on the gym equipment?  No way.  Hell, I think I’ve seen that actual scene in “Masseuse 3″, starring Stacey Valentine, Jill Kelly, Raylene, and Dale Debone.  So don’t try to tell me that actually happened, Sizemore. 

But I wait with bated breath for his next misadventure.  If I had to guess, I’m thinking it’s got to involve either a) a church or other house of worship or b) something racist.  At least I hope it involves one of those two.  Let’s keep our fingers crossed.

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