Last Thursday I wrote about my upcoming weekend move to Little Italy.  Friday night, before I went to bed, I shut my computer down and would not check it again until late Saturday night. However, from the time of my Thursday post until the time I packed up the computer on Friday night, I got emails from you all covering the following:

• several emails from Chipotle fans (including how asking for two tortillas can get your burrito “at least 30% larger”)
• “Dude, did you see the Paris Hilton Carl’s Jr. add?”
• a transcript of an IM conversation two people had about me (both guys, nothing sexy, mostly saying that they feel better about themselves because I suck so much)
• a woman who sent me very uncomfortable pictures of her that made me blush
• “I’m moving to NYC and would like to move in with you and Brian” (a guy)
• a girl from South Dakota telling me “nothing’s funny in South Dakota”
• a shitload of emails from people telling me their favorite restaurants in Little Italy
• tons and tons of spam

And that’s all well and good. But do you know what email I did NOT get from anyone after my “I’m moving to Little Italy this Saturday” post? Something like:

• “Hey, you shouldn’t move to Little Italy on Saturday because every weekend in summer they shut down the whole fucking street and it’s blocked off and impossible to move your body let alone a 17′ U-Haul and there are tourists and Chinese people everywhere and it’s a total clusterfuck.  So move in during the week when it’s less crowded.“

Yeah, so thanks for that everyone.  I know well enough now not to ask you people for money, sexual favors, recommendations, blood, etc, but to not send me a heads up on this?  Ouch.  I’m sure at least a handful of people who read this knew about the Little Italy shutdown, and nothing?  Thanks.  Thanks a lot.  Let’s just move on before I say something I might regret.

When my family and I went down to the new place on Friday night to drop some stuff off, I noticed the street was blocked and there was some sort of street fair going on.  I thought to myself, “Sweet mother of god, I hope this is just a Friday night thing, because if not I’m just going to flip the fuck out.”  I saw a cop nearby and approached her and my worst fears were realized: every Friday night, and from 11 to 11 on Saturday and Sunday the streets of Little Italy are blocked off.  Fuck.

(I bet you thought I was going to say that my worst fear was getting attacked by blood-thirsty and lusty werewolves.  Well, though still my worst fear, it doesn’t really work here, so I went with the streets being blocked off.  Just roll with it, ok?)

The good news is that in addition to being kinda cute, the cop was very helpful and said that if we could get there early enough it’d be ok for me to move the barricade and put the U-Haul outside my door.  Like I mentioned before, my new apartment is not on the main street (Mulberry Street) of Little Italy, but rather on an intersecting street, so though still crowded it’s not nearly as bad as Mulberry, which has sidewalk tables and vendors galore.  And no, I’m not going to tell you which street I now live on, because I don’t want you showing up at my door at all hours of the night to see if I’m really as bad as I say I am.  Of course I’m not.  Assholes. 

And so we (or more specifically, Brian) got up at 7am on Saturday to get the U-Haul truck.  I rolled out of bed at 8am and decided to tackle the most important thing first: ordering bagels and coffee for everyone.  I can say without reservation that this was the most helpful thing I did all day. 

Not surprisingly, the move was a nightmare.  I have to admit though, it wasn’t as bad as I thought.  After being in Little Italy Friday night and seeing the look of pity on the cop’s face when I told her I was moving in on Saturday morning, I expected the worst: traffic, crowds, heat, and of course, ninjas (or are ninjas Japanese?).

But that’s not to say that it wasn’t bad.  Though there weren’t any ninjas, there were tons of people everywhere.  Not only were there a lot of people, but I’d say the crowd was 60% tourists, 40% Chinese.  I love tourists as much as the next New Yorker – if it wasn’t for their spending, the city wouldn’t be as prosperous, and if it wasn’t for the proclivity of their womenfolk to get scared and confused so easily at 3am in the basement of a Lower East Side bar, I’d never get laid – but non-New Yorker crowds lack the perspicaciousness and (dare I say) tenacity inherent in New Yorkers.  Meaning, while I’m standing behind a couple from Missouri carrying a 75 pound couch sweating my balls off, six minutes away from heat stroke/heart attack/total physical collapse, they’re strolling along, looking wide-eyed at the shops and restaurants, taking in all the ”majesty” of Little Italy.  Excuse me but GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE WAY BEFORE I PUNCH YOU IN THE FUCKING THROAT.  And welcome to New York City. 

The Chinese crowds were similar to the tourist crowds in their passiveness to my situation, but for different reasons.  While a tourist couple from the Midwest might not get out of my way because they’re clueless and content to amble along, a 60 year-old Chinese lady doesn’t move out of the way when I’m carrying an air conditioner because, hey, fuck it.  She’s thinking to herself [translated from Chinese], “I don’t speak English, I’m old as shit, and I was here first.  Just because some fat kid with tits behind me is whimpering because he’s too weak to carry a 5000 BTU air conditioner doesn’t mean I’m going to get out of his way.  Man, I can’t wait to get home to make some really smelly food that will stink up my entire building.”

And so the story of the move was of carrying heavy objects through indifferent crowds of people.  The good news is that Brian’s dad and brother made a guest appearance so that there were a bunch of us carrying stuff and we made relatively quick work of it.  It’s funny, I write “we made relatively quick work of it” now, with the benefit of hindsight, in an air conditioned room, comforted by the knowledge that it’s over.  If you had asked me at the time if we were making “relatively quick work of it”, I would have stared at you, pulled down my pants, shit in the middle of the street, pulled up my pants, stared at you, and then walked away.  Or something like that. 

Though the heavy lifting part is over, it’s still not over over.  My living room, bedroom, and bathroom are filled with boxes as we continue to figure out what to do with all the crap we have.  Making it more difficult is that fact that we moved from a very large apartment with two bathrooms and oodles of cabinet space to a medium-sized apartment with one bathroom and not-so-much on the oodles of cabinet space.  Translation: I’m going to be living out of boxes until at least Christmas. 

But my bed, internet, cable, and refrigerator are all set up, so I’m happy.  Also, I was on the subway platform at 9:22 this morning and was at my desk at 9:33.  I think I can deal with spending twenty minutes a day on the subway.  That’s not going to be a problem. 

But if any of you have any downtime over the next couple of days, please let me know.  Maybe you can come over and help unload some of these boxes, meaning I’ll lay on my bed and bark orders while eating a pizza and you’ll do everything while I occasionally hit you with a piece of wood.  Any volunteers?  (Please not all at once – I don’t want my inbox to crash)

[FYI: This is NOT about sports.  Just keep reading.  Trust me.]

Philadelphia Phillies outfielder Bobby Abreu found himself in an interesting predicament recently.  His fiancée, Alicia Machado, a former Miss Venezuela and Miss Universe, was filmed on a Mexican reality tv show having sex with another man. 

Well.

I do not advocate violence against women.  Not ever.  And I’m not going to joke about it here.  If you were comb over this site, you would not find one single joke about it (go ahead – I’ll wait).  I abstain from this mostly because it’s not funny, but also because if I’ve learned one thing about women in the past 25 years, it’s that they do NOT like jokes about violence against women.  If I’ve learned two things about women in the past 25 years, it’s that they do NOT like jokes about violence against women and asking women you meet at bars “You’re on the pill, right?” is NOT going to get you laid.  But I digress…

But re: jokes about violence against women.  Your coolest girl friend, the same one who will laugh hysterically when you talk about shitting your pants or having sex with fat chicks or and catching an STD from jerking off in a garbage disposal, will cringe at the first mention of any sort of violence against women.  It just doesn’t go over well.

HOWEVER, I have in the past on this site joked about murder (it’s cool – I can joke about it because my uncle was murdered).  I think murder should be divided into two categories: Bad Murder and It’s Still Bad I Guess But I Can See How It Happened Murder. 

Bad Murder would cover all senseless crimes.  These are the kind you see most often on the news: random killings, whether premeditated or not, born out of greed, anger, or insanity.  These are not good.

On the other hand, like its title implies, It’s Still Bad I Guess But I Can See How It Happened Murder is slightly different.  These are the types of situations where a man’s wife is murdered and the man kills the murderer, or when a boy’s father is killed before his eyes by a gang of Turkish youths in Bereket in 1982 and over twenty years later after training every single day the boy travels back to Turkey to find and destroy his father’s killers and along the way falls in love with a beautiful Turkish barmaid who happens to be the daughter of the leader of the Turkish gang who killed his dad, the result of which is a complicated web of honor vs. passion and love vs. revenge the likes of which the world has never known and will win me an Oscar in the year 2010 when I finally finish the script, an award I will receive posthumously as in September of the previous year I will have died, having choked on a gyro I was eating while riding a horse.  You know, that kinda thing. 

And if there was ever any legitimate excuse to murder the crap out of another person, an example of It’s Still Bad I Guess But I Can See How It Happened Murder, seeing your fiancée fucking another guy on national television has got to be pretty up there. 

Getting cheated on is one of the worst feelings in the world.  First and foremost, there’s the betrayal.  The jolt of ”I loved her – how could she do this to me?” that makes you feel like you’ve been shot in the stomach.  After that comes the self-doubt, the “She cheated because I’m not good enough for her or for anyone” that starts slowly at first but then pervades every aspect of your life.  Finally, there is that delightful combination of cynicism and baggage that will stay with you for months or even years to come (“I’m never falling in love/trusting a woman again”).   

The point is it’s really, really bad.  But in the case of Abreu and his fiancée, it’s even worse, because there are three extraneous circumstances here:

1) It’s on TV!  I’d imagine that watching your fiancée have sex on a reality tv show is pretty bad.  If it were “Survivor”, it would be bad, but not so much.  At least there’d be some fame involved for you and her, meaning her whoreishness would be displayed in front of the whole country and you’d probably get some SERIOUS pity pussy.  If it were “Temptation Island” or one of those second rate shows, it’d be a lot worse.  Not enough people watch it for you to get any real pity pussy, but it’s popular enough that every person in your life would know you as ”the dude whose fiancée banged some other dude on a crappy reality show.”

But watching your fiancée have sex on a Mexican reality show?  What the fuck?  Mexicans have reality TV?  I thought all they did down there was mug unsuspecting Spring-Breaking gringos and deliver food to each other’s houses?  What’s the show about, escaping north to take the jobs that not even black people will take (smooth, El Presidente)?  What’s worse, the show is called “La Granja”, which means “The Farm”.  So your fiancée decided to bang some dude on TV and she picks a reality show in Mexico called “The Farm”.  Ouch, baby.  Very ouch.

2) The video is easy to download.  Immediately upon hearing about this story, I set off in a search to find the video.  And oh boy – I found it.  And oh boy – wow.  I can’t put it on here (I don’t even know how to put pictures on here), but you can download it easily by searching for “Alicia Machado” and “la granja” and “sex” via Limewire or whatever file-sharing software you have. 

Since I can’t put it on here, I will endeavor to describe it.  First, it’s one of those night-vision dealies that Paris Hilton made so popular.  The screen is split between the scenes from the reality show on one side and women watching the scenes on the other.  Think something like two women on the Mexican version of “Oprah” watching the night vision sex scenes, gasping in horror on the right side of the screen.  On the left side, which is larger, the sex scenes are displayed in all their glory.

I should tell you right away that there is NO nudity.  Sad, but true.  But fortunately, that does not mean there isn’t any sex.  No sir.  Basically the hidden cameras (which are not exactly “hidden” because these people know they are on a reality tv show and thus being filmed) capture two people in bed rolling around.  This is Ms. Machado and some guy from Mexico or one of those Mexico-type countries.  At first it’s sort of playful and nothing’s going on.  They are under the covers, so you can only see their heads and maybe an occasional arm or two.

Then it cuts to later in the video and you see the dude on top of the girl doing some SERIOUS humping.  At this point, the two women on the right side of the screen watching the video begin gasping in horror and shock.  You can’t tell if the couple is naked because like I said they’re under the sheets, but there’s some very intense humping going on.

Then the video cuts to the woman on top of the man, and there’s more humping.  She’s laying parallel on top of him rather than perpendicular so again all you see is heads poking out of some blankets, but you can also hear heavy breathing and panting.

In the final scene, we cut to an overhead shot.  The camera is on top of the bed, on the ceiling looking directly down (again, this is all in that green night-vision stuff).  The man and the woman are completely covered under the sheets, and now they are REALLY going at it.  The pounding intensifies until you hear some final gasping groans/grunts/moans, and (the body shape of) Ms. Alicia Machado, fiancée of Bobby Abreu, collapses on her man under the blankets.  The couple throws the blanket of their heads – probably so they can get some air – and makes after-sex talk.  Since Spanish is a language built to be spoken at warp speed and I only have a crude understanding of it, I could only gather Alicia saying something like, “My god – I like that” while the dude laughs to himself.  End of video. 

[I would be laughing to myself and feeling pretty good too, since she's extremely hot.  Here's a picture of her.  I mean, wow.]

3) Latin men don’t take this shit well.  Latin men (and women) are very, very proud.  I know this not because I have a lot of Latin friends, but because I’m making a guess that feels right.  Also, one time on Howard Stern, B Real from Cypress Hill was being interviewed and when Howard asked about why his relationship with Carmen Electra fell apart, he said something like, “I’m a Latin man and I couldn’t take it” (meaning the jealousy etc).  And I may have totally made that up, but whatever.   

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

Now, most men in this circumstance would resort to something destructive.  Some would hit the bottle in an effort to drink away their pain.  Some would retreat into a shell and shun their friends and loved ones.  Some would go on an arson rampage, burning down hotels whose names start with the letters “K”, “L”, and “T”.  Some men opt for a Detroit Divorce (when a man whose wife is cheating on him kills her lover, kills her, then kills himself).  I know I would probably do the one about burning down the hotels.  I just fucking hate hotels. 

But what is extraordinary about the Abreu-Machado is not the ridiculous circumstances under which the infidelity occurred, but how Bobby Abreu reacted to it.  His only comment to the media was no comment, except to say that the relationship was over.  And then he took all his aggravation out on the baseball field.

Since this story broke in the beginning of May, Abreu has been on an absolute tear, the hottest hitter in baseball (with all due respect to Tino Martinez).  Since May 1, Abreu is batting an astounding .448 (with an on-base percentage of .560) and 11 homeruns and 26 RBIs in only 17 games, including 9 homeruns over a 10 game span.  You don’t have to be a baseball fan to know that this guy is kicking some serious ass.  Pre-cuckold Abreu was batting .261 with only 1 homer and 7 RBIs in 24 games.  I guess there’s nothing like your fiancée fucking some dude on tv to really kick your game into high gear.

And the good news for Bobby is that though this fiancée did cheat on him on TV, a) he’s still a star baseball player; b) he still rich; and so c) he can probably get a lot of hot women.  I guess if something like this is going to happen to you, it’s not as bad if you can go out and crush the baseball and then come home and have sex with three gorgeous women on a big pile of money. 

And so what have we learned:

1) Mexico has reality tv and an umemployment rate of 3.3% (compared the US’s 5.8%)

2) Alicia Machado is a whore, but I would still marry her because she’s super, super hot

3) Bobby Abreu is a strong man who I would probably not fuck with

4) The internet, where any video clip is just a click away, is a wonderful place

5) I really need a hobby

Have a good weekend.

[This story was originally broken by Ace Cowboy over at Slack Lalane, who also sent me the link to the original news story in philly.com.  Many thanks to Ace.]

Guys, I have some great news on the War on Terror front.  Hamza Ali Ahmed al-Widmizyar (also known as Abu Majid) and Salman Aref Abdulkadir Khwamurad al-Zardowe (a.k.a. Abu Sharif) were recently caught.  Yeah, I know – I’m pretty pumped too.  Totally fucking awesome.

Look, I care about catching terrorists as much as the next guy.  I don’t like pooing four to six times and loading up on Xanax before getting on a plane, I don’t like riding the subway thinking I smell anthrax when it’s really just some homeless guy’s piss, and I don’t like sitting at my desk on a random Tuesday afternoon and having my boss drop by to give me a gas mask. 

But I would care even more if these guys had normal, understandable names.  I have no idea who or what “Ali Ahmed al-Widmizyar” is.  That means nothing to me.  You know what would mean something to me?  Justin Davis.  Ted Barkley.  Even Tommy “The Arabian Fabian” Inez.  These are names that I can relate to, or at least understand and associate with something besides a string of consonants and vowels that shouldn’t go together. 

If the US wants people to really care about catching these terrorists, something’s gotta give.  The government is going to have to give these bad guys Americanized names, or at the very least cool nicknames.  For example, when you say “Chemical Ali”, I know who you’re talking about.  He’s the guy who used all the chemicals on those defenseless Kurds, that son of a bitch.  But if you ask me who Ali Hassan al-Majid is, I’m going to look at you funny and ask if you feel ok. 

Americans have notoriously short attention spans.  If it doesn’t make us fat, involve Brad, Jen, Angelina or some combination thereof, or promise to get us rich quick, we want nothing to do with it.  “Salman Aref Abdulkadir Khwamurad al-Zardowe” is never going to go over in America.  Tell me that name and I’ll say, “Wait – what about salmon?”  Nicknames are the way to go: they capture the imagination of the public and stick with you.  Using Chemical Ali as an example, below are some suggestions for terrorist nicknames.

• Imad Fa’iz Mughniyah: Johnny Muggin’ Ya
• Ali Saed Bin Ali El-Hoorie: Jackie Murder
• Hasan Izz-Al-Din: H to the Izz-Al-Din
• Ibrahim Salih Mohammed Al-Yacoub: Mickey “Sawed Off”
• Ahmad Ibrahim Al-Mughassil: Rashad Massengil
• Sheikh Ahmed Salim Swedan: David Sweden
• Shaykh Sai’id: “Skinny” Mario Costanza

And these are just off the top of my head.  I’m sure the government can think of many, many more, probably at little to no cost to the taxpayer.

Conversely, if the terrorists themselves want to gain some real celebrity in the US, they’re going to have to make the name change that so many celebrities do (and I know a lot about the entertainment business, being pretty much famous and all).  The Hollywood name change is as old as Hollywood itself.  Do you think Allen Konigsberg (Woody Allen), Cherilyn Sarkisian (Cher), Reginald Dwight (Sir Elton John), Demetria Guynes (Demi Moore), Margaret Mary Emily Anne Hyra (Meg Ryan), or Carlos Irwin Estevez (Sir Charlie Sheen) would have been as successful if they hadn’t changed their names?  C’mon now.  I think not.   

[Even I plan on changing my name when the time is right, switching from Jason Mulgrew to Michael Justice Friendandpower.  I wanted something that said, "Hey, I'm your friend, but I also have a lot of power.  And I also love justice."  Hence, Michael Justice Friendandpower (Michael is one of my middle names).]

Again, this is all just off the top of my head.  I’m sure one could come up with many, many more.

But I’m certain that this would work and effectively mobilize the American populace against terror.  Right now, we’re stuck with:

Guy 1: “Dude, did you hear they got Ali Ahmed al-Widmizyar?“

Guy 2: “What?“

Guy 1: “Yeah, he’s like some terrorist or something.  I don’t know; I saw it on CNN.  I was just saying it to sound worldly.”

Guy 2: “Whatever.  So who do you think will win ‘American Idol?’”

Guy 1: “I hope it’s Bo.  Man, I’d love to fuck that guy in a tent.  Real rough-like, in the woods or something.”

Guy 2: “Totally.  I love that ‘mountain man’ shit.”

When we could have:

Guy 1: “Dude, did you hear they got Chris Scott?“

Guy 2: “That totally fucking rules.  I hate that bastard.“

Guy 1: “Yeah, apparently some troops checked out a cave and found him and Saber Saw McGee.” 

Guy 2: “Yes!  America: 1, Bad Guys: 0.”

Guy 1 & Guy 2: “U-S-A!  U-S-A!  U-S-A!“

Guy 1: “Let’s go drink some beers and look at some titties.“

Guy 2: “I fucking love this land.“

I’m not sure how to go about this, but I encourage you to spread the word and write to your Congressperson.  If this past election has taught us anything, it’s that if enough idiots get together and make enough noise, anything can happen.  God bless democracy, and God bless America. 

[Special thanks to my buddy Joe for some of his nickname suggestions.]

Comedy Central star Dave Chappelle has checked himself into a mental health facility in South Africa, the magazine Entertainment Weekly reported on Wednesday.

The comedian’s whereabouts and condition have been unknown since Comedy Central abruptly announced last week that the planned May 31 launch of the third season of “Chappelle’s Show” had been postponed and production halted.

Chappelle flew from Newark, N.J., to South Africa on April 28 for treatment, said the magazine, quoting a source close to the show it would not identify. Entertainment Weekly said it had corroborating sources for its story.

“We don’t know where he is,” Comedy Central spokesman Tony Fox said. “We’ve heard about South Africa. We don’t know. We haven’t talked to Dave.”

Chappelle’s spokesman, Matt Labov, would not comment on the magazine’s story.

“It seems like the issues he’s contending with are really quite serious,” said Dade Hayes, a senior editor at Entertainment Weekly. “It isn’t a case of him spending a weekend someplace recuperating from exhaustion.”

The magazine’s sources say Chappelle is still in the facility, which was not named, Hayes said. Chappelle’s representatives have denied that the comedian was abusing drugs.

Chappelle reportedly signed a $50 million deal with Comedy Central for two more seasons of his show, a payday made possible because of the explosive sales of the show’s first season DVD.

The magazine said Chappelle had shot four to five episodes’ worth of sketches for the new season, but none of its onstage introductions.

“I’m crazy, bitch!”

As I previously announced, I no longer can guarantee a post every day.  If you want to keep me sane, you’ll help me out on this.  I’ve got a lot of stuff going on and need to save my mojo for these endeavors.  Trust me.  I don’t ask for much, just your trust.  And your virginity if you still have it.  But we’ll talk about that later.    

My original plan was to start posting on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays as of May 2.  I thought that I would occasionally post more, as I am pretty much addicted to this here blog, but at the very least I’d commit to posting on those days.

However, that plan didn’t seem to work.  Because of a number of factors (the unpredictable nature of my job, how lazy and/or hungover I am feeling, how many times I poo that particular day, etc), I can’t definitively say for sure that a post will come up every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

And so I have a new plan: I will post at least three days a week.  I can’t say when for sure, but you’ll get new posts at least three days a week and possibly more.  I say this because my greatest fear is disappointing you and it’s something I want to avoid at all costs.  Well, my greatest fear is getting eaten by a giant shark, but disappointing you is up there.  Not with the shark attack or being trapped in an avalanche or seeing a real-live werewolf, but we’re really getting off topic here. 

I’m sure that next week I’ll be discussing a new plan because this one will have failed, but in the mean time I thank you in advance for your cooperation.  To recapitulate, I’ll post at least three days a week.  Not sure which ones.  And there may be more posting that that.  But we just don’t know.  We just don’t know. 

Love,

Jason

P.S. Yesterday, for shorts periods of time, the site was down.  This is because there are too many of you here (this is only most likely true, but I’ll keep telling myself it is no matter what).  This will not stop until I pay more money to increase size or something.  I am not going to do this.  I am also not going to ask for donations – yet.  I will do that in July, the month of my birthday.  Last time, less than .01% of you gave.  We’ll try to work on that a bit next time ’round, because now the site, rather than my drinking habit, needs money.

However, Site Guy Brendan, who by day is a corporate peon but at night is a computer genius, has arranged it so that if the site is down, it will only be down for ten minutes.  I figured that if I asked him how he arranged this, I wouldn’t have any idea what the hell he is talking about, so I let it be.  The point: if you come here and the site has crashed, come back in ten minutes.  And start saving your loose change for July, for the “JasonMulgrew.com Fundraising Drive: Give Until I Have All Of Your Money” Campaign.  Thank you. 

• 80% of the time there is no touching at all;
• 15% of the time there is some light PG-13 touching (i.e. slight caresses on non-genital areas; incidental contact);
• 4% of the time there’s R-rated touching (i.e. grabbing of boobies, butt);
• less than 1% of the time do you get some real deal XXX shit, and that’s usually at really, really sketchy places (i.e. sticking whole wallet into woman’s vagina).