July 9th, 2008

back and the Oscars
Jason posted on February 28, 2005

I’m back and I’m alive, so that’s good.  Everything else…not so good.  Because it requires the proper amount of effort and love, I’ll give a full recount on London later, but I wanted to say a lil’ sumpin’ about the Oscars.
 
First, I should say that I didn’t watch much of the Academy Awards.  After all, save for a few instances in 1978, I have a nearly unblemished record of heterosexuality, so there’s really no reason for me to watch them, especially when I have hours and hours of porn on my computer which I didn’t see all week while in London.
 
(By the way, after my behavior in the last 24 hours since returning home, my penis is filing a sexual harassment lawsuit against me.  Good god.  I’ve abused it so much since getting home that I woke up in the middle of the night last night to find that it had detached itself from my body and was crawling toward the door, trying to get escape the near-endless beatings.  Poor bastard.) 
 
Second, I don’t know much about acting.  I’ve never acted in anything, save for a role in Mrs. Martucci’s 1992 7th grade class production of “Hamlet”, in which I played Laertes.  I don’t know how I was able to pull it off, as I suffer from terrible stage fright.  Actually, I do know how I was able to pull it off: a few Jack ‘n’ cokes and a blow job right before going on loosened me up quite a bit.  And to this day Tom says it was the best beejer he’s ever gotten.
 
Add to this that I don’t really watch movies.  Sure, I like the same movies that every 25 year-old male asshole who really gets off on women peeing on tile floors likes (”Old School”, “The Big Lebowski”, “Office Space”, “Anchorman”, “The Royal Tennenbaums”, “Love Actually”, etc), but movies aren’t my thing.  I just don’t have the time to sit down for two hours to watch people do shit.  Well, I do have the time, but I don’t have the attention span.  Sometimes a movie will grab a hold of me, but most of the time after fifteen minutes I’m thinking of ribs or plotting revenge against that Chinese guy who hangs around outside my building for laughing at me when I fell down the stairs that time.
 
But I do know the following:
  • Jamie Foxx (that’s two X’s) won an Oscar for Best Actor, and was also nominated for Best Supporting Actor 
  • Jamie Foxx was/is a stand-up comedian and was on “In Living Color”   
So I am compelled to ask: how fucking hard is acting?  Jamie Foxx won a fucking Oscar?  What the hell is going on here?  
 
I’m not saying that his performance in “Ray” wasn’t spectacular.  I’m sure it was great, though I haven’t and won’t see it (my intense racism doesn’t allow me to see any movies with black people in them, let alone movies about black people).  I’m just saying that Jamie Foxx was a stand-up comedian and he won an Oscar.  Therefore, my respect for acting as a profession is lessened.     
 
And this is not the first time an Oscar nomination has caused me to say, “What the fuck?”  To wit, Queen Latifah was nominated for an Oscar in 2003.  Queen Fucking Latifah, the rapper?  Are you fucking kidding me?  I don’t even have a joke here.
 
I hope this is not perceived as racist, since my targets both happen to be African-American.  I would feel the same way if Jeff Foxworthy or Fergie from the Black-Eyed Peas were nominated in 2007.  It just sort of makes me wonder how much of acting is art and how much of it is luck and looks.
 
A lot of people have talent.  Even more work hard.  However, both of these attributes pale in comparison to being lucky and good-looking, which are much more influential for success.  I don’t want to get too into this because I could go on forever and I really have to piss, but I’m very peeved (and yes, I know Queen Latifah isn’t good-looking in the traditional sense, but hell, I’d bone her).
 
I recall seeing a red carpet interview with Cate Blanchett and the question was, “How did you make Katharine Hepburn come to life in ‘The Aviator?’”  My roommates and I made a few jokes, saying stuff like, “Well, I basically read what was on the script and memorized it” and “I mean, they tell you what to say, so it’s not that hard - I didn’t have to like, make it up or anything”.
 
I don’t really know where I’m going with this and I’m sure I’ve already said enough to get a shit load of emails from all sorts of actors/waiters, actors/bartenders, actors/personal assistants, and actors/girl who I paid $23 to say “Jason is my hero” all slow and sexy-like three times in a row, so let’s just send it off:
  • acting: not too hard
  • me: little to back this up except anger and self-loathing 
  • Jamie Foxx and Queen Latifah: recognized by the Academy as great actors, formerly a stand-up comedian and rapper, respectively 
  • hard work is for immigrants and old people; luck and looks much, much better
  • how come no one thanks the writers of the movie?  Directors are thanked for their vision, co-stars for their passion - what about the people who came up with the fucking idea?
  • my penis is trying to leave me
More later (hopefully)…

final thoughts
Jason posted on February 18, 2005

So this is what it’s like to have a real job and a real life.  For the past two days, work has simply been NON-STOP.  And I don’t mean ”non-stop” like I can only talk to my friend Jeremy on the phone about where we can buy more drugs for 20 minutes instead of 45 minutes every day, I mean ”non-stop” like I can’t do shit (literally - my half-hour mid-morning and mid-afternoon pooping sessions have turned into sad four or five minute affairs that leave me feeling less than fresh all day because I don’t have the time to properly clean the vast expanse that is my ass).  No long poops, no long lunches, no long distance personal phone calls, no internet time, and no posting.  Damn.
 
And I know you all could care less - you wouldn’t care if my balls were being attacked by hundreds of angry mutant mice as long as you got your daily masturbation/racist/fat jokes.  But damn…I’m telling you, this whole “working” thing sucks.
 
[FYI: Usually when I write posts, I can bang them out in one sitting in about 20 minutes or so.  I'm writing this particular one almost sentence by sentence as I get time during the day, so I apologize if it stinks.  And if you think it stinks, then I think you stink.  So try that one on for size, bitch.]
 
Not to mention I haven’t even had time in the evenings to enjoy myself (read: download porn), as I’ve been packing for my London trip, something that takes someone as anal as me a very long time to do.  I spent four days making and refining a list of items to bring and almost had a nervous breakdown two nights ago when I did a packing dry run and realized I didn’t have enough white undershirts to bring to England.  Actually, I had plenty of white undershirts, but most of the armpits of the undershirts were soiled and stained a silverish-pale blue color, so last night I needed to venture out to buy some more.
 
But please - I mustn’t go on any further about such minutiae as buying undershirts, for fear I start to sound like a regular “blogger”.  We now rejoin your regularly scheduled programming already in progress…
 
I am about 95% sure that I’m going to die either on the flight to or from London or while I’m in London.  I don’t know why exactly, but I’m pretty sure it’s going to happen.  Admittedly, I am a hypochondriac and suffer from sudden bursts of anxiety, but I guess this is what happens when you let yourself go physically, haven’t been touched non-accidentally by a woman this millennium, and list your three favorite hobbies as drinking beer, watching people have sex, and planning a race war.
 
The good news is that I have in my possession thirty pills of Xanax, so I will be VERY medicated on the plane.  But I have and have always had this feeling that God, who I have been feuding on and off with since the 1960’s, is really going to fuck me over in the end (at death).  My roommates and I have a running joke about this.  For example, say one day I wake up and I say to myself, “You know what?  I can’t do this anymore.  I’m sick of killing myself with booze and pills and all this terrible food.  From this day forward, I’m going to change.” (I know, it’s a stretch, but bear with me). 
 
So I spend the next year being clean and sober, working out and eating right, and I lose weight and my health improves.  For fear of dying, I stick with this for years and years - doing right by my body, but completely depriving myself of all the goodness and fun that beer, napping, and chicken fingers bring.  Then, one day when I’m in my early 40’s, I go to the doctor and he says, “Well, you’re in great shape - your blood pressure and cholesterol is low, your heart looks great, but there’s just one problem: you have an extremely aggressive form of cancer that’s going to kill you in three weeks.  So I suggest you forget the weight room and hit the Roy Rogers on your way home, because you have a lot of catching up to do.”
 
I can see this type of thing happening on a plane: suddenly, we hit turbulence.  Then, even more suddenly, the plane’s going down.  The oxygen masks drop down, everyone’s going nuts, people are masturbating, etc.  I think to myself, “Oh, fuck this” and take 26 pills of Xanax.  Then, as suddenly as it started, the insane turbulence stops and the plane rights itself.  The captain comes over the PA and apologizes, but assures us that everything will be alright from here on out.  Meanwhile, I have a belly full of drugs and we’re still four hours away from landing.  And so I die of a drug overdose because I’m an asshole and God hates me.  End scene. 
 
With this in mind, it occurs to me that if I die this week, the best record of my existence will be this website: 600 pages of tasteless humor and curse words.  Good god.  Sure, there’s a chance that after my death my career will take off, and other people will read this website and other people besides me and the hooker I pay to repeat it while I masturbate will call me a genius, but that’s highly unlikely. 
 
So in an effort to give you something more to remember me by other than the time I shit myself or some responses I wrote to a magazine’s sex tips, I offer the following nuggets o’ information about me, Jason Michael Joseph Patrick Aloysius Elizabeth Mulgrew:
 
- I love animals.  Not mean or big ones, but little ones, like dogs.  As long as the dog has been neutered.
 
- No matter what I said when I was drunk or on a nationally-syndicated radio show, I firmly believe that Jeffrey Dahmer (and all homosexual serial killers) was wrong.  This is non-negotiable.  He was an asshole.  Not a complete asshole, but definitely more asshole than not.  Maybe like 60% asshole/40% not asshole.  Ok, 52/48.
 
- I love music.  My dream was to one day build a school so that all retarded kids could come and fuck with some instruments to know the joy that music brings (to the extent that it’s possible for a retard to really “know” anything). 
 
- I love children.  All my life, I have wanted a big family.  And this is not because I wanted soldiers for the aforementioned race war or people to do shit around the house for me, but it’s because I have so much love to give.  Also, I don’t believe in birth control and my aim is true. 
 
- No matter what I said otherwise, drugs are bad for you.  Very, very bad.  Mostly because they’re expensive.  And that’s bad. 
 
- I love fantasy sports.  More than I have ever let on, they are a major, major point of my life.  And yes, I really that’s I’m only digging the celibacy hole deeper, but I don’t care anymore. 
 
- For the record, I have never hit a woman with a cordless phone.  I’ll repeat: I have never hit a woman with a cordless phone.  Don’t believe everything you read, especially in filed court complaints or the “Crime Blotter” of the Philadelphia Daily News.
 
- I love taking really long showers.  Nothing sexual, just a naked man, hot running water, and lots of hair all over the tub.  
 
And, um…that’s really about all you need to know.  Celebrate these.  And cherish them. 
 
So I’m gone.  Wish me luck and all that jazz.  If I make it back, I will write again on Monday, February 28.  Otherwise, I will see you all in hell.
 
Have a good week.   

no post today
Jason posted on February 17, 2005

Not even a chance.  I’ll get you tomorrow - promise.

love, STD’s, and answers
Jason posted on February 16, 2005

I got an email recently that I thought deserved attention.  Anytime someone sends me an email involving a love triangle and an STD, well, you’re damn right I’m gonna help as best as I can.
I have a bit of a problem that I would like your help with. See, I’m in love with this girl. And not like the kind of love where you want her to swallow your jizz. I mean, this girl has been my best friend for a really long time. Well, we almost hooked up over thanksgiving last year, but decided not to because my parents were in the other room. Well she goes back to chicago after the weekend and the next weekend my X-Girlfriend shows up. We talk and she tells me she has HPV. This poor girl is convinced that she has given it to me so she is heartbroken. well we talk as she is going through the whole testing/burning off warts phase, and everthing is going great. Then we get back together (I know what everyone is thinking, and by everyone I mean me and Jason, you’re thinking that I am an idiot because she has an STD. Well, you’d be right. But I would be fat. Plus I have been a pretty big whore in the past so I am 97.4% sure that I gave it to her. The HPV though is neither here nor there. The point is I am living with this human CDC Lab now. And she wants to get married, I guess she figures this is the best way for us to Quarantine the virus. But I am freaked out now. And I really miss my friend. And I am pretty sure I am making the wrong choice. Please help me.  

Jon-Paul Logan St. John
[location withheld]

By the way, if you post this please use an alias (and make it something tough, nothing new age and pussy.)
Well, Jon-Paul Logan St. John, this is quite a doozy.  Let’s recap: you’re in love with a girl who’s your best friend.  You almost made out with her, but you didn’t.  She moved away, and then your ex came back into your life.  The ex is upset because a) she has HPV and b) she thinks she gave you HPV.  You got back together with her because you’re fat and can’t get any better and are pretty sure you’re the one who gave her the HPV.  Now you’re living together and she wants to get married.  And you miss the best friend.  Hmmm…
 
First of all, I have no idea why anyone would ask me for advice.  None.  I can’t imagine the desperate situation you must be in to turn to someone who hasn’t considered another person’s feelings since the womb for guidance, especially since I’m only going to make lame and/or tasteless jokes anyway.  To wit, you lost me on the whole part about your love not being the kind of love where you want her to “swallow your jizz”.  I mean, what other kind of love is there, finally?  What, are you all high and mighty just because you are able to feel that Hallmark/in-the-movies type love, whereas the closest thing I feel to “love” is my warm penis in my clammy hand after a night of binge drinking and starting garbage fires?  Asshole.
 
Second, for your own health (and subsequently the health of others), you must get an STD test.  This isn’t even an issue.  I got one, a lot of people get them, it’s not a big deal.  Sure, it was miserable, but to be honest it was totally worth it.  In my case at least, as I don’t have any STD’s.  Probably not so much in your case, as you’re fairly certain you have HPV.  Either way, you need to get tested.  You have to protect yourself (and your girl).  Also, I don’t want to be in the same room with you, have a few too many drinks, and then through a series of strange and homoerotic events end up with HPV myself.  So get tested.  Seriously. 
 
[By the way, I just spent about 30 minutes on my computer at work reading HPV and STD sites.  I can't wait for the IT department to review my internet history.  I was just waiting for my boss to walk in and catching me looking at a site that said, "Genital Warts and You: How To Treat Your Genital Warts".]
 
Third, I have a lot of follow-up questions (Under what circumstances did you and the ex get back?  Who initiated it?  What do you mean “almost” hooked up?  Is the best friend aware at all of your feelings?  By any chance, your ex isn’t a slightly chubby girl named Andrea who was in Brighton at The Avenue Bar on March 23, 2001, is she?  Because something itches down there, and she’s the most “questionable” lady of my past), but it’s too late now and I needed a topic to write about for today, so I’m just gonna wing it.  Also, I’m not even sure if this is serious, but I probably shouldn’t write that, lest I hurt anyone’s feelings (read: lest anyone comes to my house and sets me on fire). 
 
Your problem is a complex one but your solution is simple.  The way I see it, you have two options:
 
1) Stay with and possibly marry the girl you’re currently with.  I don’t think I’d choose this option.  It sounds like this girl is pretty serious about being with you (if she’s talking about marriage), whereas, to put it mildly, your heart doesn’t seem into it (calling her a “human CDC Lab” was my first tip).
 
Maintaining a relationship because of an inferiority complex and guilt is not the way to go (not that I would know what a “good relationship” is based on; most of my relationships are/have been built around jealousy and punching).
 
Instead, I’d chose…
 
2) Be honest with her.  Well, actually, not really.  Let’s scrap this and instead go with -
 
2) Follow your gut.  In my opinion, you should end it with the current girl and make your feelings known to the best friend.  The reason I scrapped “Be honest with her” is because you should only use partial honesty.  For example, you should not say, “Listen, I think we should end it.  I’m in love with my best friend, and the only reason I was with you is because I think you’re about the best I can do and I feel guilty about possibly giving you HPV.  Oh, did I mention that I possibly gave you HPV?  Sorry about that.  So, um, yeah…”
 
Instead, tell her that you don’t feel the same way about her that she feels about you, and you think that you two should go your separate ways.  I don’t really know how you can do this.  In my previous relationships, I usually just stopped calling or one of us went to jail.
 
The point is that as it stands right now you’re not being fair to yourself, your girl, or the girl you’re in love with.  To keep things status quo is a great and obvious error.  Do right by your current girl, end the relationship, and, when you’re ready, start to talk to the best friend about your feelings.
 
[One caveat: if your best friend is really, really hot and you are really, really fat and ugly, it ain't gonna work, so don't even try it.  She's just your friend, and no matter how nice you are to her she isn't going to fuck you.  Although, in your case I feel like you have a chance, as you said that you two "almost hooked up".  As long as you don't mean it in the way I do when I say "I'm almost drug-free" or "I almost never masturbate  with my thumb up my butt", then you're set.]
 
Case closed.
 
…
 
Geez, this shit is easy.  Who’s next? 

just a reminder: London
Jason posted on February 16, 2005

I am leaving for London on Friday night, where I will be until Saturday, February 26.  That means that after Friday there will be no posts all next week - none until Monday, February 28.
 
I know, I know - I don’t know what you’re going to do with yourselves either, which is why I’m reminding you again now, so you have time to prepare.  Maybe you should actually fucking work, but if that’s not the pot calling the kettle black, well I don’t know what is. 
 
That is all for now. 

three links, with comments
Jason posted on February 15, 2005

I don’t know how many of you are aware of this, but Tom Sizemore is the greatest celebrity fuck up of all time.
 
His history of drug abuse is well-documented.  He dated a former Hollywood madam - nay, the former Hollywood madam - Heidi Fleiss, and beat the shit out of her.  He has cried at several court appearances and talked about wanting to get his life back together.  And now this.  I don’t even know what to say. 
 
I mean, I couldn’t make something like this up even if I really, really tried.  My favorite parts:
 
- Sizemore failed his court-ordered daily drug test on the first day.  He was ordered to get tested every day and failed on the first try!  That means when the judge passed down his decision requiring Sizemore to be tested on a daily basis, at that moment Tommy must have been thinking, “Oh no - no way this is going to work.  I’m gonna have to figure something out.  Because fuck that - I fucking love drugs.”
 
- The brand name of the fake penis: the Whizzinator.  Wow.  A company actually makes a product whose sole purposes is to cheat authorities and allow drug users to illegally keep using drugs.  How is this allowed?   I get caught one time stealing hypodermic needles from my doctor’s office and now can no longer find a doctor to take me as a patient, but an entire company is built around promoting drug use and nothing happens to them?  Where is the justice here?  Where is the fucking justice?   
 
- According to the article, Sizemore is destitute, living in a garage in Whittier, California, and an expectant father.  Poor bastard.  But this is part of the reason I keep asking you jerkoffs to pass on the site: when I’m famous one day, I can guarantee a similar write-up about me.  Something like, “Jason Mulgrew, since he was blacklisted by the Hollywood community in 2007 for attacking actress Chloe Sevigny at the Oscars with a really old cordless phone for allegedly stalking him, has been living in abject poverty on a ranch forty miles north of Santa Fe, where he writes racist literature and breeds racist dogs.  When we went to his residence to ask for comment, Mulgrew answered the door, and without saying a word calmly came onto the porch, removed his pants and underwear, laid down, and spent the next twenty minutes trying to bite his own penis.” 
 
Mr. Sizemore - I would like to write your biography.  I know that I don’t write very well, and the final product will be more about me and the Hollywood actresses I want to sleep with than you and your life, but at least we’ll get fucked up together. 
 
I don’t need an answer now - just think about it.
 
***************************************
 
In keeping with our “teachers fucking students” theme, my friend Allie sent me this story about the godmother of this type of thing, Mary Kay Letourneau.
 
So, let me get this family straight: the mother is 43, the father is 22, and the daughters, who will be flowers girls in the wedding, are 7 and 6. 
 
Hmmm…
 
What’s the over/under on the age at which these girls lose their virginity - 9.5?  Should I contact “Girls Gone Wild” about these girls now, to give them the heads up?  Or should we book their appearance on the Howard Stern Show for 2017 now, just so they have plenty of time to get all their travel arrangements ready?
 
God damn do I feel bad for those girls.  On the other hand, they have a free pass to do whatever the hell they want for the rest of their lives.  Think about it - after they get arrested for blowing a a dude for some meth money, the judge would say, “So let me get this straight - your mother was a 34 year-old married teacher with four kids when she started fucking your dad, who was 12 at the time.  Then she went to jail for rape for seven years and gave birth to you two.  You know what?  You can leave.  Case dismissed, and god help you.”
 
Lucky bitches.  And whenever I go before a judge the only excuses I have are “I have really high blood pressure” or “She was asking for it, what with her tight pants and all and that one sexy crossed-eye” or “I’m sorry, but I was really, REALLY fucked up at the time and I don’t remember shit.”   
 
***************************************
 
My buddy Joe sent this article to my friend Bill and I, saying in his email, “Bill, they spelled your mom’s name wrong.”
 
Nice, Joe.  Nice.
 
Bill’s response: ”Oh, like you guys enjoy rolling joints for your parents. I felt like I was working in Bangladesh…I just couldn’t take it anymore.”
 
God I need new friends.

balls and backfires
Jason posted on February 14, 2005

First, if you haven’t seen it, I put up some pictures of the good ol’ days to celebrate the one year anniversary of the site.  You can find them here.
 
Second, we’ve updated the “Choice Cuts” section.  The previous idea was not working out, as I am incredibly lazy, so we set it up like a true “greatest hits” section (if such a title could be applied to run-on sentences about masturbation and obesity).
 
Third, I think I blew my Valentine’s Day load with Friday’s post, so I will not address the holiday directly in this post, lest I start crying, as I am terribly lonely.
 
Now that that business is out of the way, I had a pretty decent weekend.  I managed to turn all that loneliness and rage that I feel inside outward and projected it onto other people (i.e. unsuspecting females).  Let us begin…
 
The good thing about my “lack of getting any” situation is that I have roommates and friends who are equally bad if not worse with women than I am.  And, as the saying goes, misery loves company, especially when misery and its company really, really like to drink and one time wasn’t allowed on a plane because he stunk of booze. 
 
While pre-gaming on Friday, my roommates and I talked about our lack of luck with the ladies recently and decided that from that moment forward, we would be more forthcoming.  Instead of taking part in the dance of seduction, we decided that in the future we were just going to come right out and speak our minds with the ladies, even if it meant possibly getting arrested or burned with a cigarette.   
 
On Friday night, my friends and I stayed local in the wasteland of my terrible neighborhood, the Upper East Side.  I randomly got a call from my friend Sara, who was in the neighborhood with her roommate, Liz. 
 
A little background here: I went to college both with Sara and Liz.  Actually, Sara was the first girl I met at BC, and from that moment I spent most of my effort trying to sleep with her.  This didn’t happen, though she did sleep with my roommate junior year and hooked up with another roommate of mine senior year.  So that was great.  We did, however, make out one drunk night after college, but nothing ever came of it.  Probably because after kissing for a little on her couch I went into her bathroom and came out fully dressed, save for my lack of pants and underwear.  She was not down. 
 
On the other hand, Liz and I used to hook up for a time in college.  It was nothing serious, and happened occasionally in the summer between my junior and senior years, and maybe twice during our senior year.  It ended because I was kind of a dick to Liz and, oh yeah, I had a long distance girlfriend at the time. 
 
[But hear me out about this: I am not really a scum bag.  The long distance girlfriend I had at the time and I had a sort of unspoken "don't ask, don't tell" relationship.  While I made out with a few girls every once and a while, I'm sure she was slobbing hogs left and right behind my back - actually, my buddy who went to college with her called me one day out of the blue to tell me that my girlfriend had hooked up (as in, went in a bedroom with on several occasions) with his roommate.  Not a good day.  Not at all.  After hearing the news, I think I heard my liver say, "Oh no" because it knew that during the course of the evening I was going to assassinate it.]
 
So that’s the background.
 
My roommate Brian and I met up with those two for a drink, and then some more people came.  Because it was close to Valentine’s Day, I made a decision: I was going to make out with Liz.  We were both drunk and flirting, and there’s the Rule of Previous Hook Ups:
  • If you have made out or slept with someone before, it’s totally not a big deal to make out or sleep with them again.  Like, not at all.  (For further reading, please see here) 
Things were going well - chatting, drinking, drinking, chatting.  It was getting late, and some of the people we were with started to leave.  Liz stayed, which was a good sign, but so did her roommate Sara, so it was a push. 
 
More time passed, more beers were drank.  The bar thinned out, but we continued talking.  By then, we had sort of isolated ourselves from the rest of the group, and slowly it appeared that fate was on my side and I was going to pull it off. 
 
Sara came over to Liz and told her she was going to go, which made for an awkward couple of seconds where each person was thinking something different and trying to read each other’s faces/body language/reaction:
 
Sara: [easy to read] “I think Liz wants to hook up with Jason but I want to go home.  I guess she knows what she’s getting into, having hooked up with him before, but I heard recently that he likes to strangle girls during sex.  Also, I think he has some clam chowder in his beard.  I can’t believe I made out with him.  What a low point for me.”
 
Liz: [hardest to read] “I am very, very drunk.”
 
Jason: [easiest to read] “I will fuck anything that moves.  Sara, get the fuck out of here before I fucking stab you.  Does anyone have a slightly warm but uncooked piece of chicken breast for me to have sex with?”
 
Liz, god bless her, said that she was going to finish her drink and then head home (Sara and Liz live fairly close to me and where we were drinking, so this wasn’t as much of a commitment as it would have been if she lived very far away).  So Sara left, followed shortly by everyone else, and it was just Liz and I sitting there. 
 
The gods were smiling on me. 
 
For now. 
 
I thought I was doing pretty well; I had drank enough to kill a small-ish teenage girl, but I held myself together.  We started talking about how much I hate the neighborhood but that I really like my place (nice views, large rooms, my own bathroom, etc).  At this point she said, “Oh - I’d love to see your place.”
 
Well.
 
[Queue the "Superman" theme in my head.]  It was on.  We were both drunk and had been flirting from the moment we saw each other.  We had been talking to each other exclusively for the last two hours.  There was minimal light touching, but it was there.  I don’t even remember what I said when she said she wanted to see my place, but I’m thinking it was something like, “Uh…mmph.”  I couldn’t have gotten out of there fast enough.
 
Before I continue, I should point out that both Liz and I were very, very drunk at this point.  I was feeling good because it looked like I was gonna get some, but I was exhausted from a long week at work and had had at least twenty drinks.  Liz, on the other hand, was also very drunk.  She had been out drinking since 8pm; it was now around 3am.  Draw your own conclusions. 
 
It was a short walk back to my place.  We didn’t hold hands or anything like that - it would have been too bold a move, even though everything seemed pretty set.  We entered the lobby and I was joking about something, probably minorities, and things were going well.  I hit the up button to the elevator, and, feeling good, I figured I’d take a little chance.  So, in an effort to be more forward, I said, “I’m really looking forward to all the making out we’re going to do.”
 
Not a good idea.
 
Not at all.
 
Liz said, “Um, Jason, I have a boyfriend.”
 
?
 
???
 
Again, I’m not sure exactly what my reaction was, but it was something like a mix of confusion, anger, and hunger.  After a moment, I said, “What?” and she repeated, “I have a boyfriend.”
 
I thought about this for a moment, looked down at the floor as I collected myself, and after three seconds or so, said, “Yeah - I don’t care.” 
 
Apparently, Liz cared.  So much so that she stared at me for a few seconds, and then turned and walked away, leaving me standing in the lobby thinking, “What the fuck just happened?” and “I swear to god there better be pizza up there [in my apartment].”
 
…
 
In retrospect, I’m not really sure what happened.  Also, I don’t really care.  If anything, my roommates and friends got quite a kick out of the whole story, including my chivalrous reaction to her boyfriend announcement, and we all had some laughs.
 
But in another way - what the fuck?  Sure I was drunk, but I don’t think I misread anything that badly.  When a drunk girl stays with you at a bar (alone) and asks to see your place at 3am, I think that’s a good sign.  I’m not sure if she thought we were going to go up to my apartment to build a lego house or what, but sheesh.  It’s actually a good thing that she told me she had a before in the lobby, because if she said something to that effect when in my apartment, I might be writing this from the Manhattan county jail.  
 
So there you have it - my Valentine’s story.  So happy fucking Valentine’s Day everyone.  Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some markers to sniff. 

doctor love
Jason posted on February 11, 2005

This weekend, couples all over the world (or wherever) will be celebrating Valentine’s Day, which is officially Monday.
 
[Sigh]
 
I don’t really have much to say about Valentine’s Day.  Even before I inexplicably stopped all consensual, cost-free sexual interaction with the fairer sex, I never thought of Valentine’s Day as a very big deal.  However, I know that with women, this is not the case.  Valentine’s Day to a lot of women is like Christmas, their birthday, and the day that bitch they hate at work got fired for stealing phones all rolled into one. 
 
[I'm sorry, but I can't get over the fact that I'm going to try to write a post offering tips for guys on how to make their ladies happy.  Last month, I indirectly offered diet tips and now romance tips - what's next?  "How to stay clean when your roommates are alcoholics?" or "Why you should always order the side salad even if the soup is a delicious cream-based chowder?" Good lord - what is happening to me?  I must be dying.]
 
Anyway, to me (and a lot of other guys), Valentine’s Day is dumb and only a contrived excuse to spend money.  All the hearts and flowers and cards and blah blah blah just represent dollar signs.  Really, how can something like romance be mass produced on a designated day?  Doesn’t Valentine’s Day at heart (pun intended) defy the very definition of “romance”? 
 
The hype notwithstanding, there’s also the element of pressure.  Most guys obsess about creating the perfect Valentine’s Day; I obsess about creating new and cheaper ways to get fucked up (”Spray Tinactin on a Marlboro Red?  I’ll do it!”).
 
For example, my buddy Nevin, years ago when he first started dating his girlfriend Molly, was searching for the perfect way to spend their first Valentine’s Day together.  After much research and deliberation, he surprised her at work and took her on a helicopter tour of Manhattan.  This tops my previous best Valentine’s gift to a woman: a punch to the stomach after a huge blow out over who was the better Batman: Michael Keaton, Val Kilmer, or George Clooney (so help me god if you say Clooney…).
 
When he was wrapping up his due diligence, he called me to see what I thought about the helicopter idea.  My immediate reaction: “You know, you’re kinda raising the bar a little high, aren’t you?  I mean, years from now when the love is gone between you two and routine has set in, you’re going to get in arguments and she’s gonna say, ‘What happened to us?  Remember when you took me on the helicopter ride around Manhattan for our first Valentine’s Day?  Now all you do is drink beer and watch sports!  Where did our love go?’”  To his credit, Nevin stuck to his guns, and to this day he and Molly are still together.  The moral: I know nothing about woman.
 
In that vein, here are five simple tips that require only marginal effort to make your lady happy, on Valentine’s Day or otherwise.
 
1) Make her a card.  This is so, so simple, and women eat this shit up.  Instead of spending a few bucks on a card written by some douche who doesn’t know anything about you, your girl, or your relationship, get some glue, construction paper, scissors, and markers, and make your own.  You may wind up spending more than a card would cost, but I would recommend stealing these supplies from work or robbing a second-grader.
 
And really - go to town on the card.  Cut out a heart from red construction paper, draw pictures of you two dancing in the heart, draw genitals on the pictures if you’re feeling especially randy, etc.  Pretend like you are in second grade; in my experience, the cruder the card looks the better.  Women love effort and she won’t care that your card looks like some highly-diabetic blind kid made it - she’ll care that you tried.  Speaking of effort…
 
2) Make her dinner.  Another easy one.  A lot of guys feel pressure when they decide to make a woman dinner, like they have to make shit like framboise sauce or tomato concassé or saffron infused sea bass (Editor’s Note: I have no idea what any of this stuff is; I pulled it off a menu I found online).  But that’s completely unnecessary.  The only rules you need to follow when making a woman dinner are: 1) make her something that you like; 2) make her something that you’re sure you know how to make.  Of course, you should take her tastes into consideration a little bit: if she’s a vegetarian, don’t make her a triple bacon cheeseburger with bacon fries and meatballs for dessert.  And please note that you must use a little sense here.  For example, this could never work for me, because I would wind up making a woman my most gourmet dish: Jason Mulgrew’s Loaded Chili.  This consists of a can of Hormel chili, mixed with a can of sliced potatoes that have been cooked in a heavily buttered skillet and dosed with three types of cheese, with a generous dollop of sour cream on top.  Don’t make your lady chili.  Just don’t. 
 
3) Pretend you’re gay and make her a photo album or collage.  Women love pictures.  God, if I had a dollar for every time I was in a woman’s room and after making love to her and her breasts all night long she offered to show me some pictures, I’d have zero dollars.  But women - damn they love pictures.
 
So buy her a nice, artsy-looking photo album and put some pics of you two in there.  Of, if you’re feeling artsy yourself, make some sort of collage of the pictures.  If you want to be especially sneaky, insert some suggestive pictures in there, like maybe a man and a woman having anal sex.  If you do this properly, she’ll probably let you do her in the butt.  And no, I have absolutely no evidence to back this up. 
 
4) Surprise her with affection.  Who doesn’t love surprises?  Call her on a Tuesday morning at work and tell her you’re thinking about her.  Mail her (normal mail, not email) a short note saying that you like her like more than a friend.  Show up at her door with flowers on a weekday.  Easy, easy stuff to do, and the returns can be awesome (read: facial). 
 
5) Who needs holidays?  Think of what a traditional Valentine’s Day entails: a pricey, romantic dinner and a night out on the town; a trip to the mountains, complete with fire and whiskey; a night or two at a nice hotel with lots of room service and nudity.  Then take these ideas and instead of doing them on February 14, do them on April 23 or August 13 or November 5.  This is especially great if you’ve been dating a while and have reached the “been there, done that” point of the relationship.  Again, use the element of your surprise to your advantage and whisk her away for no reason at all.  Of course, you do have a reason: to get a nasty, almost violent porn-caliber blowjob from her.  But please, don’t verbalize this and try to subtly make it happen.  Something like this will help.
 
…
 
So there are your five tips.  Please men, learn from me.  Many of you out there are dating women you don’t really deserve, because you drink too much or are addicted to porn or haven’t washed your sheets since Kerry really had a shot.  I’m not saying that I’m any better - if anyone doesn’t deserve a girlfriend, it’s me, what with all the hatred of minorities and low self-esteem and sporadic fits of rage and violence and all.  Plus, I’m more into kids than women anyway. 
 
But as someone who throughout his life has been the ostensibly gay best friend to women he secretly wanted to violate in every possible way, learn from me.  The ideas listed above require only a minimal amount of effort on your part, and they’ll make her very, very happy (unless she’s a really cold bitch and you’re only with her because you know you can’t get any better).
 
So have a happy and safe Valentine’s Day weekend.  For those lonely hearts out there, I will see you in the bars of NYC this weekend, where I will try to stick my finger(s) around, up, and in your heinie (male or female, but preferably female). 

lyrics, music
Jason posted on February 10, 2005

I was in two bands in college (well, one and a half: before the second one was able to make its debut, I was unceremoniously thrown out of housing by The Man at Boston College - assholes).
 
Anyway, it was a good time, and nothing too serious.  We played mostly covers, played out at some bars (and thus got free drinks) and kept it simple - definitely something fun I had going over parts of my sophomore and junior years.
 
It was an interesting dynamic because the band played hard rock (i.e. Tool, Rage, Helmet, Godsmack, etc), something I wasn’t really into.  The other guys totally dug it, but I’d show up at practice, hear some terrible Rush song, and have to learn the bassline immediately.  This could be difficult for me sometimes.  Not just because I was drunk at the time, which I most certainly was, and not just because I’m a terrible bass player, which I undoubtedly am, but because I really wasn’t into the music, preferring songs like Elvis Costello’s “What’s So Funny About Peace, Love & Understand?” to Tool’s “Stinkfist” (featuring the most poetic line of all time: “I have found some kind of temporary sanity/Shit, blood, and cum on my hands”) (Editor’s Note: Russell from NYC pointed out that this line is not from “Stinkfist”, but from another Tool song which my band also played, the unforgettable “Prison Sex”.  Russell knows his Tool.) 
 
But still, I have many great memories of the band.  We had a lot of fun just getting drunk and breaking stones.  For example, Pat, the lead singer, could never remember lyrics.  There were times were we’d suggest a new song to cover, and he’d immediately say, “No way - I can’t learn all those words.”  This was a running joke in the band - that Pat had the easiest job (he didn’t play any instruments) and yet he couldn’t pull it off.  Meanwhile, I’d have ten minutes to learn this random Tool song that sounded to me like a mix of loud and pain. 
 
I have a playlist on my iPod that features the forty or so songs we covered when we played.  One of them is Pearl Jam’s “State Of Love And Trust”.  A few posts ago, I transcribed what I thought were the lyrics to “Yellow Ledbetter”, so I figured I’d give this one a close listen too. 
 
Pat, I’m sorry I ever broke your balls for having to learn lyrics.  Because this shit is absolute gibberish.  Here’s my take on the lyrics to “State Of Love And Trust”:
State of love and trust is a
Busted down the preaches
Since then blaze and beaches
But to have an empty cord oh
In a signs a boxing
Grip the wheel can’t read it
Sacrifice the sea bed
The smell that’s on my hands and dead
 
And I listen
For the voice inside my head
Nothing
I’ll do this one myself
 
Lay her down as priestess
Sherpa lord the accountant
We’ll be in my honor
Make it pain and painful liquid oh
Promises a whisperin’
In the days of darkness
Want to be enlightened
Like I want to be told the end and her
 
And the barrel shakes and
Oh directly at my head
Oh help me
Help me from myself
 
And I listen
For voice I try my bread
Nothing
I’ll do this one myself
 
[instrumental break]
 
Hey na na na na hear there’s something
Hey na na na na hear there’s something
Hey na na na na hear there’s something
Want a bag bag bag uh huh uh huh
 
And I listen
For the voice inside my head
Nothing
I’ll do this one myself
 
Oh and the barrel way
Take a shit - England in my head
Oh won’t you help me
Help me from myself
 
State of love and trust and uh
State of love and trust and uh
State of love and trust and uh
State of love and…
I dare you to listen to this song and come up with different lyrics.  It’s not possible.  I walked away from songwriting when I finally realized nothing rhymed with “vodka”.  If I only knew that lyrics didn’t matter at all, I would have a gold record by now.  Damn it. 
 
*****************************************
 
Six Songs (Love songs for Valentine’s Day):
 
“When The Circus Comes”  Los Lobos
I first heard this song because Phish covered it.  I love Phish and all, but Los Lobos does this song much better.  Just a group of sad-ass Mexicans singin’ and playin’ their hearts out.  Poor lil’ guys - I just want to hug ‘em and ask them for a little extra guacamole.  No, a little more.  OK - that’s enough.
 
“Out To Get You”  James
Starts out very slow and quiet but builds to a crescendo.  Kinda like making love.  Well, not my kinda love-making - when I make love, it’s like two apes fighting.  And then one of the apes poops.  And then they both sleep. 
 
“Hold You In My Arms”  Ray Lamontagne
I know I’ve pimped Ray Lamontagne ad infinitum on this site, but this song is simply amazing.  It brings me back so vividly to the spring: I’d listen to it when I left the gym in Soho on B’way and Spring and headed back to my old place in the LES.  I know it’s a strange song to listen to when leaving the gym, but I needed something to slow down my heart after a workout, which, if you listened closely enough, you could hear screaming, crying, and coughing.
 
Really though - I can’t imagine a woman not immediately putting out if this song were played in the right circumstance (meaning, when I’m not in the room).
 
“Venus”  Air
More ethereal-ambient-cool-wispy music from Air.  I sometimes listen to this song when I’m falling asleep, but I have to turn up the volume really hig