July 9th, 2008

tv, crime and punishment, email rules, no music, announcement
Jason posted on April 29, 2005

Two television shows I’ve seen recently, with analysis that is both humorous and insightful (hopefully, but probably not):
 
1) “The Deadliest Catch” on the Discovery Channel.  This show is about crab fisherman in Alaska, the ballsiest men on earth.  Basically, for about four days a year these guys head out on a crabbing boat deep into the waters surrounding Alaska to fish for king crabs.  They can make $50,000 in those four days.  Wow.
 
Of course, there’s a catch.  In this case, this is the most dangerous job in the world, with the highest occupational mortality rate of any job.  And people routinely lose fingers, hands, limbs or otherwise seriously fuck themselves up.  The guys lament about the dangers of the job on the show, about how they’re trying to provide for their families, and how every time they leave them they’re scared because it could be the last time they ever see them.
 
Here’s an idea: why don’t you get a normal fucking job?  Sure, you won’t make $50G’s in four days, but you’ll make a nice living and won’t have to worry about dying in the icy cold ocean, as you swim in vain after your detached arm floating away from you.  I don’t know - I haven’t seen enough of the show - but it seems kinda wrong to me.  These guys risk their lives and the welfare of their families to get rich quick?  How about not being equal parts lazy and crazy and getting a normal job?  I mean, WTF? 
 
At any rate, it’s an entertaining show. 
 
2) “Intervention” on A&E.  This show follows around addicts of various kinds and tells their stories.  The addicts believe that they’re taking part in a documentary about addiction and are unaware that they are about to be surprised with an intervention.  The show could be subtitled “Intervention: What Will Surely Become Of Jason Mulgrew If He Ever Gets Any Real Cash.”
 
In the episode I saw, two stories were told.  One girl, Alyson, was a former White House intern and Ivy Leaguer who met up with a bad guy and became addicted to crack and meth.  Oops.  And then there’s Tommy, a former stock broker and executive VP who spent $200,000 in two years on cocaine was living on the street.  Oops again. 
 
And it’s some pretty intense stuff.  Alyson is so addicted to morphine that she steals her dying father’s prescriptions.  Yikes.  Of course, we know how this ends: the camera follows them and shows how pathetic they are, there’s a touching intervention, then they show how the one-time addicts are in recovery and have been sober for 200+ days.
 
I have two problems with this show:
 
- It pisses me off that the addicts have families that are well-off enough to send their loved ones to very expensive, fancy-pants treatment centers in South California and New Mexico.  Perhaps it’s me, but I don’t have much sympathy for a rich girl who goes away to college and becomes bad.  200 days at a $15,000 a month treatment facility is not an option for the kid in the Midwest addicted to crank or the crackhead begging for change on the 4 train.  For some reason, this really bothers me. 
 
- I thought that seeing a show like this would scare me away from vices and evil (not that I have a problem; as I’ve mentioned before, I’ve retired from most drugs).  But, like my hospital visit I talked about last Friday, it had the opposite effect: I walked away from this show feeling pretty good about the control of my vices.  Since I’m an asshole, my attitude was, “Look at these weaklings - what a bunch of losers!  Why can’t they be more like me!  I have total control over all of my addictions and I’m awesome!  Also, I have this awesome fucking blog!  I want some drugs because I can handle it!  GIVE ME SOME DRUGS!”  I don’t know, maybe it’s just me. 
 
And the next episode features a bulimic and (are you ready for this?) a video-game addict.  Hmmm…good luck drawing empathy from viewers for a video game addict, A&E.  After hearing this, my roommate Ben and I were talking about contacting A&E.  Ben would call all upset, saying, “I don’t know…he’s been my roommate for two years, but about a year ago he started masturbating and he hasn’t stopped since.  All day long he sits in the living room and masturbates! [tears flowing] I don’t even know who he is anymore!”
 
So if anyone knows anyone at A&E, put in a good word for me.  I promise I can pull it off (pun intended).
 
*************************************
 
Joe from Philly sent this to me.  I mean, wow. 
 
I want to go on record and say right here, right now, that if I ever pass out on a couch, you ladies can perform all the oral sex on me that you want and I will NOT press charges.  I do so solemnly swear.  Seriously. 
 
Joe put it best: “I don’t care what SHE looks like, as long as it is a SHE and not a he, I am thinking this man is crazy!”  True, my friend, very true. 
 
(And if you can find a picture of this woman, please send it to me - I’d pay to see what she looks like.  I mean, I won’t pay you if you show me the picture, but you get the point.)
 
*************************************
 
On that note, I love getting emails from you all.  I’ve said this before and I mean it.  Many of them are very good, thought-provoking, and intelligent.  On the other hand, many of them are not so good.

And so I’m instituting some email rules.  I do this because my inbox is getting a little out of control.  I’m currently way behind on emails, and every time I check there are more added, so it makes me scared and sad that I can’t respond to the good ones.  If I were to properly respond to every email I get, it would take me over two hours a night.  I can’t do that.  I have a lot of other things to do (that involve television and nudity). 
 
So in the future, please follow these guidelines before emailing me.  Thank you.
 
(Now here goes me trying to sound like a dick)
 
- Do not send me one line emails.  I don’t respond to these anyway, but they also crowd up my inbox.  Examples are, “Dude, you rock.”  Yes, I know I rock.  You think I just woke up one day and was magically an Internet Quasi-Celebrity?  No, I worked hard at it for at least three weeks there when I really cared about posting.  The same applies for “Dude, you suck” or “Dude, you’re not funny at all”.  I’m not saying you can’t express these sentiments, don’t do so in one line.  If you have nothing substantive to say, please don’t email me (we can still be friends though).
 
- Conversely, do not send me long emails.  I have a very short attention span and that, coupled with my extreme self-interest, means that I can’t read much of anything that a) I didn’t write; b) isn’t about me; or c) doesn’t have boobies or at least a booby playing a major role in it. 
 
- Do not include me on any forwards or group emails.  I can’t express this enough.  When I see “FW:” in a subject line, I delete it without even reading it.  The same applies to group emails.  Every time I get one of these I want to punch you in the face.  I know you mean well, but I am a bitter, bitter man. 
 
- For the ladies and homosexual men: you are not in love with me.  You are just at a weird place in your life which you will come out of eventually.  But I assure you you are not in love with me.  If you really think you are, may God have mercy on your soul.
 
- And you do not want to marry me.  I promise.  If you think you want to marry me based on what you’ve read here, then odds are I will not want to marry you.  To paraphrase Woody Allen who paraphrased someone else, I don’t want to be in any club that will have me as a member.  So since it’s just not going to work between us, save me the painful email.
 
[You know, because I get a lot of those two types of emails.]
 
- I will not read anything that you send me to read (i.e. an article, essay, or piece that you wrote).  I am not a writer.  I have an internet diary filled with curse words.  I don’t know anything about writing or any of that crap, so please don’t send me stuff to read.  Or, if you do send me stuff to read, be sure to include a donation of at least $20 and I’ll pretend like I know what I’m talking about. 
 
- I will go to nothing that you email me about, unless I know you personally.  Though I have tons of free time and don’t get out much, I like sitting quietly in my room, looking at candles and drinking beer. 
 
[Good lord - it is astonishing how true that last sentence is.  So, so sad.]
 
- To my friends who know my actual email address, please do not email me at jason@jasonmulgrew.com and then get mad at me when I don’t respond to your email in a timely fashion.  If you know my real address, use it.  God I hate you. 
 
- I can’t be pen pal or your email friend.  To be honest, I hate emailing.  It’s too artificial for my taste (I hate talking on the phone too).  Aside from that, I’ve never had a pen pal in my life, so I have no idea what to write about.  Also, I’m immediately going into it with a handicap, as you can find out pretty much everything there is to know about me, whereas I don’t know anything about you.  Since it works, let’s keep it this way. 
 
- Help me by emailing me with appropriately titled subjects.  For example, if you have music suggestions, write “music suggestions” in the subject line.  If you have a question or need advice, tell me so in the subject line.  I realize that the contact page does not allow for a subject line, so when possible please email me directly at jason@jasonmulgrew.com. 
 
[Also, in case y'all forgot, Site Guy Brendan has an email address: brendan@jasonmulgrew.com.  You should email him to thank him for ensuring these posts get up everyday and dealing with me on a daily basis, which can be a tremendous stress on anyone.]
 
And that’s it.  I’m really digging this “Email of the Week” thing, partially because it gives me a topic to write about, and partially because I feel empowered that people would ask me for advice.  So keep those type of emails coming.  And, as always, I’m looking for music suggestions.
 
*************************************
 
I don’t have Six Songs to recommend, sadly because I haven’t been rocking out much over the past week.  Spending all of my time wandering around the city looking at apartments has left me little time for downloading new music. 
 
I do however have a correction.  Last week I recommended the song, “Madame George” by Van Morrison, but I should have been more precise.  The version I recommended is from the album “T.B. Sheets”.  There is also a version from “Astral Weeks”, but that one isn’t nearly as good (it’s much slower).  So there.  My apologies for the confusion.
 
*************************************
 
If you have not already seen this, please read it now.  Thank you.  And I’m sorry. 

ah, the joy of the hunt
Jason posted on April 28, 2005

As I wrote before, apartment hunting in NYC is a terrible, terrible, most terrible experience.  I learned that again first hand this week.

 

I’m not sure what renting is like in the rest of the world, but things move quickly in the NYC apartment game (I feel like a total tool for writing something as lame as “the NYC apartment game”, but fuck it - I’m really tired).  For example, on Tuesday morning, you see an ad for an apartment.  You see the apartment after work that day and like it.  The next day, you and your roommate see it.  Thursday, you get together the paper work and money.  Friday you sign the lease.  Over and done in four days, tops.

 

And so it (almost) was this week.  It all started with an ad in craigslist for a two bedroom apartment in an East Village elevator building with no broker fee (jackpot).  Big rooms, amenities, nice pictures, the whole nine yards - all for $2200.  My roommate Brian and I were hoping to cap our rent at $2000, as he works in the rewarding-but-not-financially-so television industry and my spending so exceeds my income that I will be forced to declare bankruptcy this summer, possibly sooner.  But this apartment looked great and all utilities were included, so we figured we could spend the $2200.

 

And so I called the broker, Mike.  A word about brokers: most brokers are complete scumbags.  I’m not saying all of them are, but they are usually not the best people to deal with.  They are salesman after all, and only make money when you lease a place.  Usually, a broker will get the equivalent of one month’s rent when you sign on with one of their apartments (some charge as high as 15% of the yearly rent).  So they are looking to get you signed quickly, so that they can move on.

 

It’s hard for me to deal with brokers (and salespeople in general) because their profession is based on deception, manipulation, and self-interest.  I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with these three things - christ, I could make business cards that say “Jason Mulgrew: Deception, Manipulation, Self-Interest” - but I’m saying that there is a lot wrong with these things when they’re being used against me. 

 

And so now about to embark on my fifth year and fourth apartment in New York City, I’m wary of the whole renting process and brokers.  I’ve found that the best way to deal with them (brokers) is to let them think that they’ve got you hooked.  Play dumb.  Smile.  Always act interested.  Whenever I work with a broker I try to be so impressionable and easy going so that when they go home to their spouses, girlfriends, or friends at night, they say, “I met with this fat guy with this bad beard today, and I totally got him.  He’ll sign anything I put in front of him.  And he has this weird old man/poo smell to him.  It’s gross.”  The more they think they have you in the palm of their hand, the less they’ll be prepared when you turn the tables on them and become aggressive to get yourself a better deal. 

 

I spoke to Mike and asked my two most important questions: 1) Is the apartment available June 1; and 2) does the apartment have a decent-sized living room.  He gave an emphatic yes to both questions, and so on Tuesday I went over lunch to meet with Mike to see the apartment.  As I suspected, it’s in Stuyvesant Town, a collection of 100+ buildings with something like 11,000 apartments on the east side of Manhattan.  I had mixed feelings about Sty Town; it looks kinda like a glorified housing project, but it has class (it was built by the government after World War II to house returning soldiers).  And there are a lot of old people and families in Sty Town, people who generally wouldn’t like fuck ups like myself and Brian.  However, for the money it’s hard to find nicer apartments, and after seeing the model apartment, I was interested.

 

For some reason, when you rent at Sty Town they take you first to see a fake apartment - one that’s unoccupied but set up with furniture and stuff so that you get an idea of what your place will look like.  If you dig that, you come back the next day to see the actual apartments that you would possibly rent, and you must do so with your roommate(s).  Just more time-consuming crap to deal with.

 

And so Brian and I went back yesterday to the Sty Town leasing office to meet with our broker and an leasing office agent to see what apartments we might rent.  We arrived at 5:10 for a 5:15 appointment.  The office was a mad-house, filled with angry people who had been waiting for some time, and the receptionist was being extremely bitchy to everyone.  At 5:45, we were informed that the wait would be “about another hour” but that the office was closing at 6pm.  Using my insanely awesome powers of ratiocination, I deduced that they wait (60 minutes) was longer than their remaining hours of operation (15 minutes).  When both Mike and I confronted the receptionist about this, he said that it’s up to the leasing agents if they’d like to stay overtime and he could only tell them that we’d been waiting. 

 

Eventually, after 6, Brian, Mike and I were seated with a leasing agent.  After spending 2.5 hours yesterday afternoon seeing the model and filling out forms and waiting for almost an hour today, we were finally going to see some apartments that might become ours.  And so it went:

 

Agent: “Ok, so you’re interested in May 15 move-in?”

Me: “No, June 1.”

Agent: “I have nothing for June 1.”  

 

This was not good.  Apparently, Mike “thought” they had apartments available for June 1, when they only had apartments for May 15 or June 15 move-ins.  This meant that we’d have two options: 1) not get an apartment; or 2) get an apartment starting May 15, eating two week’s worth of rent to secure our place. 

 

Mike flipped out on the agent, saying that he’d been here every day and so-and-so told him that apartments were available on June 1, etc, etc, etc.  I sat in my chair building myself into a sweaty rage and Brian stooped in his chair; I don’t think he knew where he was.  After ten minutes of wrangling and learning that they only had May 15 and June 15, Mike turned to us in desperation.

 

This is what Mike said: “Guys, I would strongly suggest you sign right now for the May 15 lease.  I’m sure you can swing something with your current landlord where they’ll let you not pay your full month’s rent for May, as you’ll be spending half your time here and half your time at your old place.  Also, if you move in on May 15, you can take your time and move in over two weeks and that’ll be much easier.  Guys, this is honestly the hottest property in Manhattan and if you don’t sign tonight it will be gone tomorrow, and you’ll regret it for the rest of your life, because you can’t get these kinds of amenities in this location for this price anywhere else.  Let’s go see the place and then come back and sign.”

 

This is what Mike meant: “Look, I didn’t do very well in school.  After graduating, I stumbled from job to job trying to find my way, while maintaining my two passions: riding my bike and DJ’ing.  I started doing this only three months ago and haven’t done so well.  I live in a very small place in Brooklyn and I really, really need the commission on this rental.  I’ve spent a good amount of time with you, chatting you up and becoming your friends, in order to make sure that you sign and I get paid.  Now I need you to sign, and I know you’re going to do it, because you’re not that bright and I can sell anything to anyone.  We’ll go see the place, and on the walk there I’ll talk your ear off, and eventually you’ll get so sick of hearing me that you’ll sign only to shut me up.”   

 

Brian and I looked at each other and said that since we were here, we’d look at the apartment, even though both of us knew there was no way we were going to pay an extra two weeks worth of rent.  Mike almost started crying with happiness, because even though he had either lied or completely misinformed us about the availability of the apartment and had wasted a considerable amount of mine and Brian’s time, we were still going to let him hang on.

 

And so one of the agents walked Mike, Brian and I to the apartment.  The agent was a really cool guy named Todd, who, when informed that he’d be showing Mike and his clients an apartment, said, “Oh no - not him.”  While walking to the apartment, Mike whipped out his cell phone and trailed behind, trying to swing some deals.  At that point Todd said, “I didn’t mean anything against you guys when I said, ‘Oh no’ back in the office.  It’s just that every time this guy comes here, he’s always trying to dump his clients on us or weasel his way into something.  So no offense to you guys.”  Sweet - it had been confirmed by a third party: our broker was a scumbag.

 

At that point, almost on queue, things got quiet and we could hear Mike on his cell phone.  I swear on my internet quasi-celebritiness that Brian and I heard:

 

Mike: [hyper, sleazily talking into cell phone] “Listen, I know your grandfather was important to you, but you’ve seen how amazing the apartment is.  And so I ask you, is it that important? [a beat] I’m sorry to hear that [hangs up cell phone].”

 

From what I gathered, Mike had been trying to convince a client that his/her apartment signing was more important than his/her grandfather’s funeral.  I mean, wow.

 

After that is was pretty much all over.  We saw the place, and when Mike jumped down our throats about heading back to the leasing office and signing, I told him that there was no way we were going to do that, especially since he had wasted so much of our time by leading us to believe that there was something available for June 1.  He protested, but I said, “This is non-negotiable.  Not only are we not going to pay an extra two week’s rent, but you also wasted a lot of my time this week by telling me something was available when it wasn’t.  So no way.”  Like a child, Mike then turned around and stormed off in the rain, leaving Brian and I there.  We laughed.  Then Brian had a cigarette.  And then I said something like, “My feet hurt.”  I don’t recall exactly.

 

And so I got fucked and I’m back to the drawing board.  I can’t wait to pour over craigslist some more, making tons of phone calls to brokers, and leaving for large chunks of the work day, because that’s all AWESOME.  It’s going to be a long month, and I don’t know if I’m up for it.  Are you sure you guys got nothing for me?  I mean, help me out here - I’m dying.  Please help.  I mean, day after day of fat jokes and  not one of you knows someone leaving their sweet East Village two bedroom at the end of May?  If you help, I promise I’ll be your best friend or never talk to you again, whichever you prefer (presumably the latter).  For my wishlist, click here.    

 

God I hate moving. 

Duff San Marino
Jason posted on April 28, 2005

Be like Mike (Vick) and get your own fake name so that you don’t leave a paper trail after infecting a groupie with your sexually transmitted disease!
 
If you have no idea what the hell I’m talking about, read up. 
 
And from now on, please refer to me only as “Duff San Marino”.  As we speak, Site Guy Brendan is feverishly working on building www.duffsanmarino.com.  Thank you for your cooperation.

eotw: putting out
Jason posted on April 27, 2005

Finally.

 

This “Email of the Week” comes from Sarah in DC:

Jason,

I’ve only recently begun reading your blog at the prompting of my friend, Tyler (of Washington, DC “pregnant strippers at the bachelor party” fame). I know that you’re done discussing sexual topics (for at least three days), but I wanted to ask your opinion on an age old question (and hope that I don’t regret asking in the first place).

I’m a 23 year old single woman in DC, as are most of my friends. While I’m perfectly happy hooking up casually at the moment, a lot of my friends are looking for relationships, but to no avail. We often go round and round about the ideal scenario for meeting and dating guys in DC, and there’s always lots of hemming and hawing about how “it’s so hard to meet nice guys, guys are only interested in sex” etc. It seems to me, when my friends do meet guys out, through mutual friends, etc. and actually get the call and go out on a date, it never works out. Oftentimes I’ll blame this on my friends choosing to have sex with the guy too soon, which leads to my question. When is the right time to have sex with a guy that you’re dating?

I’ve had discussions with my male friends about this and it seems that there’s no right answer. I mean, I personally show no restraint, but that’s because I generally never want to see the guy again. However, if you’re looking for things to progress with the dude you’re dating, how long do you hold out? I realize that guys do not want to date girls that they meet at a bar and fuck later that night. That’s not exactly the makings of great romance. On the other hand, I’ve had male friends tell me that they will go out on two of three real dates with a girl, sleep with her, and never call her again. So is there any way to tell if a dude is into you or just looking to get laid? I realize that all dudes are just looking to get laid, and I can respect that. But, you know, people fall in love and get married and shit, and that has to start from something.

I’m interested to hear your thoughts on this.

Sarah

P.S.- Tostitos are really fucking up there in my book as well. And the queso dip is even more awesome when you mix some salsa in with it.

Ah, what a loaded and difficult question: when should you ladies put us for us guys?  I’d like to go on record to say that I am in no way qualified to answer this question as I exude the same sexuality as a pile of used syringes and have the same sexual prowess as Benedict XVI, yet that won’t stop me from putting in my 2,000 words on the topic. 

 

[And by the way, the first person to send me $100 gets Sarah "I personally show no restraint" from DC's email address.]

 

Short answer: there is no correct answer.  I know this may sound like I’m skirting the issue, but I’m really not.  I’m simply saying that each circumstance is different.  People do meet in a bar, go home and fuck, and get married and live happily ever after.  Some people also meet at church, go out to movies, and never fuck until they get married and live happily ever after.  And some people have a normal sex life, especially considering their weight problem, and then inexplicably stop having sex altogether and in a moment of weakness and insecurity start a blog about it that becomes an international phenomenon (at least that’s what that person tells himself when he’s drunk and it’s 4 in the morning and he’s waiting for his leftover Chinese food to finish heating in the microwave as he wipes the tears from his eyes).  The point is that though you say your female friends go out on dates and “it never works out” or that your guy friends will date a girl, fuck her, and stop calling her, people do get together and fall in love.  I promise. 

 

Now that the sappiness is out of the way, I see three questions in your email:

 

1) When is the right time to have sex with a guy that you’re dating?

 

2) If you’re looking for things to progress with the dude you’re dating, how long do you hold out?

 

3) Is there any way to tell if a dude is into you or just looking to get laid?

 

Let’s start with #3, since #1 and #2 are related.  You are correct when you say all dudes are looking to get laid.  The trick is to differentiate guys who are looking to get laid and those who are just looking to get laid.  There is a big difference. 

 

Every guy, when he first meets a girl, is just looking to have sex with her.  Any guy who tells you differently is just trying to play the sensitive card, when deep down he’d stick a candle in your ass if you passed out on his couch.  No guy ever meets a woman and says, “I would like her to be my girlfriend” in a way that a woman can size up a man’s husband potential in three to five minutes.  While a woman who meets a guy for this first time thinks, “I wonder if he has any history of disease or retardation in his family, because he could be the one!”, a guy thinks, “I wonder how good she is at giving blowjobs?” or “I bet her bush is very well-trimmed”.   

 

But the good news is that obviously men are capable of developing feelings for women.  And this gets to the crux of the issue: when do genuine feelings wrest the controls away from lust?  Hmmm…

 

Men are not very emotionally intelligent.  We know this, and, to be honest, we’re kind of proud of it.  We know that we like to have an attractive girl to have sex with, but we also know that we like a cool girl to enjoy the company of.  Everything else we’re either not sure of or don’t care to find out about.    

 

And so it follows that when we do come to the conclusion that we have feelings for a girl, we can have a very difficult time expressing these feelings.  I needn’t get into the culture of manliness and about how feelings are for “pussies”, but the result is that men are often not up front with their feelings. 

 

For example, most of my guy friends, if they like a girl, will try to “play it cool”.  They could be giddy with joy that such a lovely lady is interested in them, but having been scarred by the movie “Swingers”, they will still act as though it doesn’t really matter and wait prescribed amounts of time before returning calls, initiating dates, etc.  After all, one of the best relationship rules taken from a movie that I would rather not name says “We pursue that which retreats from us.”  Play hard to get, act cool, and the chick will totally dig you more (I’m not saying just guys act this way; women are just as guilty).

 

[I, on the other hand, can't contain my excitement when a woman seems interested in me.  Since it's such a rare occurrence, it's like Christmas, St. Patrick's Day, my birthday, rolled into one, celebrated on a Caribbean island with lots of pina coladas and busty women of ill-repute everywhere.  I remember once I went out with a girl to grab some drinks, had a great time and ended the night with a small smooch.  That night, I made her a mix CD which I gave her the next day.  I was 24 at the time.  Needless to say, it didn't work out.  God I am so pathetic.]

 

So here’s a novel idea: if you want to find out how a guy feels about you, why don’t you ask?  Now I’m not saying you should ask a la “Blind Date” during the first date, nor am I saying that you should come out and inquire, “So, um, do you like me?”, but there is a time and place for this type of discussion.  You have to remember two things about guys: 1) we’re clueless; 2) we’re impressionable.  Take initiative and we will follow where you lead.  It’s ok to talk about the status of a relationship even if it’s in its incipient stages, as long as you do so without sounding crazy (i.e. “I love you” or “Do you think we could get married?” or “Our kids would have beautiful eyes”, etc).

 

But that doesn’t answer the question of figuring out if a guy likes you or if he likes having sex with you.  For that, I’ve got nothing.  No idea.  If I had the answer, I’d be a millionaire.  Instead, I have a blog.  So let’s move onto the sex… 

 

No matter what a guy will say to you, sex changes everything.  Everything is immediately different in a relationship (or in an evening) once you have sex with a guy.  “Different” doesn’t mean bad, though it could be.  And “different” does have to be drastic, though it could be.  “Different” just means not the same as it was before. 

 

And I’m not going to diss one night stands here.  One night stands can be a magical thing really; two people, in a moment, filled with cheap booze, going for it all.  There is something sexually empowering about the one night stand in the “we both know this isn’t going to go anywhere, but I’m attracted to you, you’re attracted to me, so let’s just fucking rock out.”  It happens, it’s fun, whatever.  I’m not gonna say that it makes guys cooler or women sluttier if they have a bunch of one-night stands, but I will say that my wife will not have had many one-night stands.  If I have to hire a private investigator to find this out, I will do so.  And I imagine this will cost me a fortune, as the PI will have to fly to Uzbekistan to trace my wife’s first 19 years on earth, but I’m really getting off track here…

 

The bottom line: if a guy likes you, he’ll wait.  And here’s another crazy idea: instead of me saying, “Well you should wait six weeks or six dates before sleeping with him, whichever comes first”, I think that if you actually like the guy you should wait until you feel comfortable before you sleep with him.  Why rush?  If he’s a good guy, he’ll be willing to wait a little bit.

 

[Please note: this does not apply to me.  I can't wait, frankly because I'm not in very good health.  So if you and I start dating, it's very important that you put out as soon as possible, because that might be the last time you see me alive.  Last night while watching TV my roommate Brian noticed that I was turning blue and, long story short, turns out I was dead for 28 minutes.  Had it not been for my incredible will to get up and get some more jello out of the fridge, I might still be dead now.]

 

I know that guys are probably pissed at me for saying that a girl should wait and I know that I’m a little conservative, but hey, it’s my fucking blog.  And so a short story: once upon a time, long, long, ago, I really liked this girl.  We had an long courtship, and finally we went out to dinner.  We had a great date.  We then got some drinks.  The girl didn’t go to BC (where I was at school) and so lived reasonably far away, so toward the end of the night I put on my best “I really, really would love to sleep with you but I’m gonna pretend like I don’t want to” voice and said, “It’s late - instead of traveling all the way home by yourself, why don’t you just crash at my place?”  Sure, it took some convincing (and a fifth of gin), but she agreed.  We got back to my place and started smooching, and she said almost immediately, “All right, I’ll stay, but no serious making out.” 

 

It was a strange thing to say, but good LORD it made my crush on her 10,000 times worse.  That one sentence (followed by her actions following through with her statement and not allowing any “serious” making out) made me completely hooked on her, because she wasn’t like the other skanks that my roommates and I would bring home, have our way with, and then completely disregard.  It was refreshing, not because she, unlike the previous girls I had been with, had morals and self-esteem, but because she was honest and straight-forward.  We both knew what was going on but neither of us had the balls to verbalize it until she spoke up.  I was very, very impressed.  And so I followed her around like an overweight puppy dog for the next month until she realized that I suck and cut things off with me.  Also I had a long-distance girlfriend at the time, but that’s neither here nor there.

 

And so that’s all I can say: if a guy likes you, he’ll wait until you’re ready to make the dance of love.  Is it unreasonable to make him wait six months before sleeping with him?  Oh good lord yes.  Hell, after six weeks I’d be asking you questions like, “Seriously, are you gay?” or “I know that you’re not attracted to me, but can we please just have sex anyway?  I’ll buy you stuff!”  But F him and only F him when you’re ready. 

 

And you’re welcome for a very long-winded and mostly unhelpful response. 

worst employee ever
Jason posted on April 26, 2005

1:00pm

Me: “Hi, do you mind if instead of having lunch I go check out an apartment?  It shouldn’t take more than 45 minutes, as it’s nearby.”

Boss: “Sure, but don’t dilly-dally.  You know we’ve got a lot going on.”

Me: “Oh no worries - I’ll be back in less than 45 minutes probably.  You know how it is - meet the guy, see the apartment, leave.”

Boss: “Ok.”

 

2:00pm

Boss: [to Co-Worker 1] “Have you seen Jason around?”

Co-worker 1: “Nope.”

 

2:45pm

Boss: [to Co-Worker 2] “Have you seen Jason around?”

Co-worker 2: “Haven’t seen him.”

 

3:15pm

Me: [rushing into boss's office, exasperated] “Geez, I’m sorry but they had all this paperwork and stuff and I was sitting and waiting and then they said -

Boss: [dead-pan] “Just do [confidential business information] - now.”

 

So there. 

 

[If you live in, have lived in, or know anyone who lives in Sty Town, please email me immediately with the subject "Sty Town" sharing your or your friends experiences.  Thank you.]

the wedding guest
Jason posted on April 25, 2005

This weekend I did something interesting.  I went to a wedding.

 

Now normally, I would have told you about this in advance.  I would have written at length about going to this wedding, bragged about how many cranberry-vodka’s I’d drink, how there most likely would be some gratuitous nudity on my part, and how I’d generally be an embarrassment to my friends, family, and myself.  But this wedding had a twist: I went as someone’s date.  Therefore I couldn’t talk about the wedding until it was safely over in case my date and I were no longer speaking after it (something I knew was a 50-50 possibility).

 

The bride was a relation of my friend Abby.  A few weeks ago, Abby and some friends and I were out and I was going on and on about a) how much I love weddings; and b) how great a date I am to bring to weddings (I dance, I’m good with strangers and old people, I get loaded, etc).  Unbeknownst to me, Abby had a wedding to go to in a few weeks and after I ended by booze-fueled diatribe, she asked me to go to this wedding with her.  Having a completely empty social calendar and always looking to abuse an open bar, I agreed.  Also, she’s a girl with both her eyes and full use of her limbs who voluntarily requested to spend time with me.  Score! 

 

But I have to clear something up.  Despite my protestations and better efforts, Abby and I were going to this wedding strictly as friends.  When Abby asked me to go, I immediately thought, “This girl wants me to go to a five hour open bar with her and then we’re staying in a hotel room.  We are going to have a baby.”  But sadly Abby and I are just friends.  Several times I thought of either calling the hotel in advance or surreptitiously bribing the concierge to “mistakenly” put us in a room with one king bed as opposed to our reserved room with two double beds, but I couldn’t bring myself to pull the trigger.  Crap.  I am such a fucking gentleman.

 

I’m also a veteran of weddings and I understood Abby’s position.  While I may not be to ideal guy to bring to a family-type wedding, what with being slovenly and unhandsome and all, I think that if you can ever bring a date to a wedding, you absolutely should.  Of course, there are exceptions – the first wedding I went to post-college was that of my old roommate Victor’s, where about twelve guys all went solo and we had a blast (read: I was thrown out of the hotel) – but for the most part it’s nice to have someone to talk to and get drunk with and even slow dance with, so that you can at least come close to convincing yourself that yes, you still do have a penis, and yes, one day you’ll be able to use it again and yes, my god her hair smells like flowers. 

 

And it was a good time.  This was the first wedding I went to where I had met neither the bride nor the groom in advance, but it really didn’t matter.  It was a small wedding with an intimate feel, and though I was admittedly uncomfortable at first, this was nothing that a few extra Anchor Steams and vodka-crans couldn’t take care of.  And the entrée was spectacular…filet mignon AND shrimp stuffed with crab meat.  Heaven!

And I believed that I lived up to my billing as “greatest wedding date ever” and am pretty sure that if Abby’s not already in love with me, she will be in a matter of days, if not minutes.  I made pleasant conversation with strangers and other wedding guests, not once letting out that my hobbies include masturbating in unlocked cars and school gymnasiums, throwing punches in the air, and hatred.  Believe it or not, I have a pretty good line.  I have a fancy job title and a nice suit with an expensive tie and I can really look presentable when I need to be.  This incredible talent for deception is probably the thing I love most about myself, aside from my powers of manipulation of course. 

 

However, I’d be naïve to think that the night would go off without a hitch, and there was a minor bump in the road when Abby learned that I had smoked pot with the wedding photographer, but this was not a big deal.  Let me explain.  The wedding was held at this nice lil’ church, and within walking distance through some lovely fields was the reception hall.  Immediately in front of the entrance to the reception hall, there was a giant tent set up where guests had cocktails and appetizers before being seated.  There was a bar in this tent, and this would be the only bar at the event, so that each time you wanted a drink you had to step outside the hall into the tent (this sounds like a pain but it really wasn’t).

 

Because the bar was out there and because it was partially outside and thus cooler, fringe groups, looking to escape the madness of the reception, started developing in this tent area.  Also present in this area were the heavy drinkers (I’m looking in my direction when I write that).  Since I was both a fringe guest and a heavy drinker, this was a natural place for me to hang out.

 

Among the regulars in the tent were the photographer and his crew.  His crew consisted of two unfriendly people my age, but the photographer himself, who had the longest rat tail I’ve ever seen, was a decent guy.  While I was drinking a beer just outside the tent and he was secretly sipping a vodka tonic, he said, ”I know something that’ll liven the party” and lo and behold, he pulled out a joint.  Como se dice “jackpot”?  We took a short walk into the nearby woods (I’ll thank you in advance for not pointing out the homoerotic overtones here, as I walked half-drunk in the darkness with a middle-aged man with a rat tail to get high), but it only took a minute and it wasn’t especially potent.  After a few tokes and a few semi-awkward minutes, we rejoined the wedding party.

 

[I re-read the last few lines of that paragraph and it definitely sounds like we were involved in some sort of bizarre sex act.  That was not the case, I assure you.  Not because I wasn't up for it, but because he's married.  So there.]

 

Apparently, when I found Abby I still smelled a little like marijuana, so as soon as I confessed to Abby that I did smoke a little (”What are you, the wedding party’s narc?”), she rushed me outside to “air out”.  I was exiled outside for quite some time, as Abby left to rejoin the party and left me to get the pot smell off myself.  I stood outside for a few minutes, got the scent off me as well as I could, and went back in.  No harm, no foul. 

 

The rest of the night was fun but uneventful.  After the ceremony, we went back to the hotel bar for some drinks, and then retired for the evening.  And I was on by best behavior back in the room.  Actually, I’m not sure if you can say I was “well-behaved” or just “really drunk and super tired”.  Probably the latter.

 

And that’s that.  It’s funny because years from now, when the couple is looking at their wedding pictures, they’ll see me and say, “Who’s this guy?  He looks high.”  And the response will be one of two things: “Oh, he’s that famous guy” or “Oh, I think he’s dead now.”  Well, it could also be both, but probably option #2. 

 

So what have we learned?

- bring a date to a wedding if you can, except if your date is me

- open bars are great (duh)

- “surf and turf” may be the three most beautiful words in the English language

- if given the opportunity, smoke pot with the wedding photographer and then write about it in homoerotically-charged terms

- I really want to get married

 

Thank you.

no EOTW, crazy monkeys, bad crap, hospital bills, music
Jason posted on April 22, 2005

I stink.

 

This week, I got a wonderfully thought-provoking email from Sarah in DC and I knew immediately it would be the perfect “Email of the Week.”

 

However, because the question is both extremely broad and extremely important, I am not able to give a satisfactory response at this time.  I’m up to about 1500 words and there’s no end in sight.  And I’m not slacking either; realizing how important it was, I actually (gasp!) wrote some last night.  But still I couldn’t finish it.  Fuck.


So therefore, I’ll be posting it next week.  I’m sorry, but I’ll make it worth your while, if you catch my drift (wink wink).

   

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

 

This is so awesome I don’t even know what to say. 
 
All I ask is that before I die, something like this happens in New York City.  This way I’d have something cool to tell my mom when she calls to see how my day is going: “Well, I got off the subway, and it was crazy - apparently, a bunch of monkeys, like hundreds of them, drank this alcohol made from pot and were fucking wasted and running all around Wall Street.  A couple attacked me and one tried to suffocate me with a trash bag, but the good news is that since they were so fucked up, they fought real sloppy and I killed like fifty of those bastards with the shiv I bring to work every day.  Also, one lady got her shirt ripped off by the monkeys and I saw her boob.  So it was actually pretty cool in the end.  How are things with you?”
 
 
My question: I understand the zoo visitors are throwing the chimp cigarettes, but how the fuck is the chimp lighting the cigarettes?  Do the visitors throw him a lighter or does he have a zippo of his own?  Or does he pick up matches on his occasional visits to the convenience store?  I just want to go on record and say that I don’t think we should be giving chimps any sort of flammable device.  Could you imagine if the monkeys in the above article had the power of fire at their disposal?  Half of India would be burned and we’d have to send in troops.  So please, keeps all matches and lighters away from monkeys.  Thank you.
 
(And thanks to my buddy John for both links.  I don’t know if he has a monkey fetish or what, but I’m definitely creeped out.)

 

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Speaking of emails, my buddy Dave emailed me today (the subject of the email was “THE TRUTH”):

Correct me if I am wrong - but you are the WORST prognosticator EVER.  Looking over your blog you state that the entire league should call it quits for the ‘04 MLB season because the Yanks got A-Rod.  Boston went on to win the series that year.  You also pointed out that Curtis Martin was old and washed up - what did he do?  He won the NFL rushing title that year.  You lobbied for John Kerry and the Philadelphia Eagles - result - 2 losses.  You raved that Randy Johnson will be great with the Yanks and even picked him as the number 1 overall fantasy pick - HE STINKS THIS YEAR!

Please no matter what you do - never write anything about me or my family on the blog.  Please refrain of thinking of me or my family. You are a jinx and I hope that you do not ruin anyone else’s career who you constantly plug on your blog.

I called Dave after receiving this email, and he pointed out some additional things: my birthday party was a disaster, having been held in the middle of July at a bar with a broken air conditioning system; I made a terrible decision by moving from the Lower East Side to the Upper East Side which I’ve complaining about weekly since last June; and I got maced by some Asian kids last time I was in Boston last month.  This is all true.  Sad and true. 

 

So maybe you guys asking for links should reconsider.  OR maybe Dave should just shut the fuck up, because I’d like to point out that I’m currently in four fantasy baseball leagues and I’m in first place in all of them (yes ladies, all this can be yours).  Additionally, I participated in three NCAA tournament brackets this past March, and won one (no prize money), came in second in another (won $12), and didn’t place in the third (entry fee: $50). 

 

So suck it.  My luck is fine. 

 

…

 

For the most part (I mean, there is a reason why this site is called “Everything is wrong with me” - assholes).

 

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I received a wonderful piece of (regular) mail this week: a $427 bill from St. Vincent’s Hospital in Chelsea