Happy Halloween!
Jason posted on October 31, 2005
No post today, as I try to make sense of a strange weekend, but I wanted to send my love. So, um, Happy Halloween and whatnot. Back tomorrow.
Happy Halloween!
heat, sizemore/hilton, feedback, email, music, music + link
Jason posted on October 28, 2005
For those of you not in the area, it’s been cold – like, really cold – in NYC for about a week. Once again, we had no temperate season. It was hot, then warm, then it rained for like two weeks straight, and now it’s just fucking cold.
And my heat hadn’t been turned on yet. It’s been consistently in the low 40’s at night, which means that I’ve been laying in bed wrapped up in blankets, both hands down my pants, trying to keep warm (although both hands would have most likely been down my pants regardless of temperature).
Since it got cold, I’ve been vacillating about when I should go talk to my landlord about turning on the heat. I know that there’s some sort of law wherein a landlord must have the heat on from October 1 to May 1 of every year (or something), so I wasn’t worried about being in the wrong by asking him to turn it on. But the problem is that my landlord is a very macho Italian guy (remember, I live in Little Italy above an Italian restaurant, which he runs and owns). He’s a nice guy and all, but he definitely exudes that alpha male/Italiano b.s. that frightens a mezzofinook like me. I didn’t want to go down to the restaurant to interrupt him to complain about being cold at night, since he most likely would then slap me and say something about me being a sissy.
But – hallelujah – in the middle of the night last night, the radiator in my room kicked on with a squeal and the heat was on. At first I wasn’t concerned about the loud squealing, since every time a radiator kicks on for the first time there’s bound to be some noise. Even though the noise woke me from my sleep, I was just glad to be warm.
That was about twelve hours ago, and this radiator is still squealing like a puppy being stepped on. Good lord. I’ve been looking at it a lot, turning the knob and such, trying to figure out what the hell is wrong with it, but it still keeps screaming. Great.
So if this keeps up, I’m going to have to talk to my Ital landlord and meekly ask him why the radiator in my room is hissing and crying. Why not ask the super, you ask? Because the super is not really a super in the traditional sense (i.e. an immigrant who lives in the building and fixes stuff when it needs fixing). True, our super is an immigrant, but he doesn’t live in the building. Hell, I don’t know where he lives. From what I can tell, all he does is sit in the Italian restaurant below my apartment, drinking wine and verbally sexually assaulting women in Italian. So I’m not sure I feel so comfortable approaching him, as at least my landlord speaks English and most likely wouldn’t try to kiss me in my hallway with his nasty wine breath.
[I know I just wrote about an old Italian guy trying to kiss me with his wine breath, but I like getting kissed – by women – with wine breath. Something about tasteful drunk making out is really nice (by "tasteful" l mean not trying to eat each other's faces). If you like poems or are gay, there is a poem by Catullus (or maybe it's Horace) about drunk making out that has the line "To kiss your inebriated eyes". I couldn't find it from a quick Google search, but if you know it, email it to me.]
[And yes, I know – I really have to stop smoking pot before writing these posts. I'm working on it.]
So let’s all collectively hope that my radiator shuts the fuck up. Not turns off, but shuts up. Is this too much to ask? Probably.
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It’s official: more people emailed me about this than anything else I’ve ever discussed or written about before.
I don’t know what to say, other than if you get one upped by Tom Sizemore or make Tom Sizemore look good, you’re in trouble. It’s getting to the point that Paris Hilton is just a complete fucking joke (um, more so than before). And I saw an ad for her new perfume, “Paris Hilton for Men”, in my latest issue of Men’s Health. I can’t imagine what this smells like, but I’d imagine it’d be a delicate mix of cigarettes, dick, and cosmopolitans. If so, sign me up.
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Instant feedback from Mark in
You have just described the perfect situation. You answered your own problem but just don’t realize it because either you are too wrapped up in the fact that you are fat and can’t get laid or you can’t see the forest through the trees.
You still have the “cool older brother” factor going for you. These kids looked up to you, I know it is a scary thought, but they did. And in a way they still do. This is evident from the fact that your sibling’s friend came up to you. When was the last time an attractive girl apporached you. Never!! Forget the fact that she is hot and doesn’t want to be seen conversing with some fat middle aged guy. But it isn’t some middle aged guy, this is “Jay, remember [insert little brothers name]’s older brother.” Then the “Oh my God I remember when” stories start to fly, as long as they aren’t “When I woke up and you were standing over me naked” type of stories, you’re all set.
Then comes the kicker which you already discovered, you live in NYC. You just say to the girls and play it ultra smooth, “Hey, if you guys ever want to come to the city and need a place to stay, by all means here is my cell phone number you could totally stay at my place.” Or if they are in need of a place to stay when interviewing for your bosses’ job they can stay at Palace de Mulgrew. That is when the magic happens. You can take them to any bar you want - as long as there are people there you can tell them it is coolest place in NYC and they will think you are God. Then the best part is when they get hammered they have to go home with you. It is there that they thank you for being such a wonderful host and tell you about the crush they had on you when they kids. Then you are money.
If the “cool older brother” thing doesn’t work for you, i don’t know what will. And if the whole thing blows up in your face, who cares. They aren’t your friends, they are your brother’s, and he will just tell them what a dick you are and no big deal.
Some valid points here, but:
1) No girls, even if they were younger than I, had a crush on me when I was younger. None. There is not a hint of exaggeration in that sentence. I’m not looking for pity, but rather stating a fact. So I would never here that “I had a crush on you when I was younger” story. Maybe the “I remember when you lost the Geography Bee and started crying on stage” story, but not the “I had a crush on you” story.
2) No girls, knowing my reputation, would ever agree to stay at my place in NYC without some sort of weapon or personal bodyguard. Hell, my guy friends are sometimes reluctant to crash at my place, knowing full well that odds are I’m going to have too much to drink and crawl onto the couch with them. So that ain’t happening.
3) If any girls did come up to NYC to stay in my apartment, I don’t think we’d make it out to any bars. I’m sure that as soon as they got to my place, they’d think something was up, as I’d have all sorts of penis-shaped candles lit and porno magazines lying around. So it would be a very short visit.
But thank you, Mark, for the email. It helped by self-esteem, albeit briefly.
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Speaking of emails, the following email exchange is floating around the internet. To date, I have received it from six different people, one friend and five readers, each one claiming a connection to “Brad”. I’m not saying this isn’t real or didn’t happen, but it’s funny that six people from across the country are somehow connected to Brad (”my co-worker’s cousin’s buddy” or “some dude of my girlfriend’s brother’s softball team knows him”). Either way, it’s funny, so enjoy.
Brad,
It would be difficult for me to be any more miserable right now, I feel like the worst person ever. First, let me start by saying that I am truly truly sorry, and I hate myself for hurting you. Of all the people in the whole entire world, you were honestly the last person that I would ever want to wrong in any way. There is no excuse at all for anything that happened, so I won’t even try other than to say that all of us had WAY too much to drink, and I did a stupid thing.
I can handle you being pissed at me, I absolutely deserve it, I can even handle the ugly words that were exchanged between us, what I can’t handle is thinking that you see me as a different person. It is weird, I feel like I just went through a horrible break up or something. The world looked funny yesterday, I couldn’t crack a smile if you paid me, there are songs I can’t listen to, and I just feel beyond crushed. I
don’t know if you meant everything you said to me, and I am hoping that you didn’t.
I know that I was wrong on many levels, but I am also hoping that this is something that we can deal with. I know it sounds totally crazy and stupid, but you have come to play such a significant role in my life, I can’t imagine my days without you. It is totally strange and weird to say that, and you could say that my behavior didn’t reflect that, and you would be correct. I hate feeling like you
hate me, and I hate feeling like all of your friends think I am a terrible person, because I am not.
I know there is nothing I can say or do to take back what happened, but I just want you to know that fighting with you was just about the worst thing I could have ever imagined. It was right up there with one of the ugliest nights of my life, and I would give anything in the world to rewind and fix it.
I am not sure if you will respond to this, part of me thinks that you won’t. If not today, then maybe some other time. Also, thanks for getting my stuff together, although I think my sunglasses are still at your house, if you could keep your eyes peeled for them that would be great. I can’t even focus or work today, I can’t eat, I seriously feel like it was an ugly break up, and I am hoping against hopes that it
was not that and you are not done with me. Please don’t cut me off, I really don’t think I can handle that.
I am so sorry.
And now the reply…
Dear Elizabeth,
Thank you for your concern. I’ll be sure to file it away under “L” for “Long-winded diatribes from drunken whores I couldn’t care less about”.
You did a stupid thing huh? No…doing long division and forgetting to carry the one is “a stupid thing”; Mixing in a red sock with a load of whites is “a stupid thing”; Blowing some guy in a bathroom for 45 minutes while I sit at the bar wondering if you’re taking so long because you ate too much bran that morning isn’t as much a “Stupid thing” as it is grounds for permanent removal from my social calendar.
To be honest, I’m not sure if it was more amusing that you went and degraded yourself in a public toilet not once but twice in a 2 hour span, or that you seemed to think that by saying “Well, I didn’t Fuck
him” somehow gave you a clean slate.
So forgive me if I couldn’t care less if the world “looked funny” to you yesterday. Since your world revolves around blow dryers, golden retrievers, Prada Bags and Jelly Beans, I’m sure it must have been
most unsettling to actually have to consider someone else’s feelings for 24 hours straight. The good news for you is that my friends don’t think you’re a terrible person, they just think you’re the average run
of the mill cum-guzzling blond who commands about as much respect as your average child porn collector. I could be wrong but, it’s pretty hard to respect some B&T chick who comes out to spend the night at my place even though she’s seeing someone else in New jersey and winds up tongue-bathing the taint of anyone who decides 30 minutes of droning commentary on Colin Farrell’s new haircut is worth putting up with for a hand and b-job in the men’s room. The good thing about being a guy is
that when I eventually bump into the young lad who finger-blasted you on top of a towel dispenser last Saturday, we’ll have a shot and laugh our heads off about the time it happened.
By the way, for the amount of time you claim to spend in spin class you really must be doing something wrong to sport the thunder thighs you do. Watching you parade around my bedroom in a thong was a little like watching sea lions mate. Thought you might like to know.
PS. I BCC’d about 100 people on this email.
Talk to you never,
Brad
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Six Songs:
(To listen to these songs, go to iD1G1T.com)
“Pretending” Eric Clapton
This song, as cheesy as it is, makes me cry a little bit. It reminds me of a line in “The Misanthrope” that goes “Pretend, pretend that you are just and true/And I will make myself believe in you”. When I first read that line, I was very under the influence and I nearly had an emotional breakdown. I won’t allow myself to read the play or the line anymore, so this Clapton song is the closest I can come to it.
“Memo From Turner” Rolling Stones
Another dirty rock song. They just don’t make ‘em like this one anymore.
“Gett Off” Prince
So I’ve pretty much spent all day getting high, drinking hot chocolate, and listening to Prince so loudly that I’m certain the tourist and Chinese people below can hear it. Not to brag here, but not working is HIGHLY underrated. The good news is that though you may be jealous of me now, in a matter of months I will be sued by a major network for failure to deliver, up to my neck in legal fees, and possibly in debtor’s prison (if debtor’s prisons still exist). So for now, let me relax and listen to my Prince. What time is “Cops” on again?
“Freedom” Wham
Just because it’s Halloween.
“Ain’t No Problem” Snoop Dog
“Guess who’s back in the mother fucking house/With a fat dick for your mother fucking mouth”. A better epitaph, I can think of none. Should I just order my gravestone with that on it now, just to save time later?
“Belle” Al Greene
Two questions: 1) Who is the “he” that Al Greene is singing to? Is it the Lord? I hope so. 2) Is it “Greene” or “Green”? I always add the extra “e”, but have no idea if this is correct or not.
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Happy Halloween weekend everyone. My buddies Bill and Joe are coming down from
And just in time for Halloween, this might be the funniest thing you’ll ever see (safe for work and listen with sound).
(Thanks to my buddy Chris for passing it on)
young lust
Jason posted on October 27, 2005
For the most part, I have made it a practice not to lust after my younger siblings’ friends.
This may not sound like such a grand resolution, but you all know that I lust after everything and anything: boobies (and flesh in general), four-day old lunchmeat, used tennis balls, wires, tubing, worn hair pieces, etc. So for me to throw down the gauntlet like this, well, it’s pretty fucking impressive.
But, like they always do, things done changed. I left my hometown of Philly in 1997, at the age of 18. When I left, my little brother (and his friends) was 14. My little sister (and her friends) was only 11.
Since then, I have returned to Philly on breaks and vacations and watched these friends grow into, ahem, women. I don’t mean this in the pervy “I’m waiting in a trash can in your backyard” sense, but just that I see them when I go out.
(Ok, and one time I hid in one girl’s trash can for four days before I realized she was on vacation. What, and you’re perfect?)
But on each visit back home, I have managed to successfully restrain myself. It’s one thing for me to go up to an unfamiliar girl in Boston or New York and say, “Hey, I’ll give you $46 to come home with me and let me take pictures of you in my clothes”, but it’s another entirely to make such an offer to a woman and have her say, “You’re Dennis’ older brother, right? God, you are as creepy as I’ve heard.”
So I’ve done pretty well with this over the years. When I now go out in the bars in Philly, I’ll see my siblings’ friends, say a cordial and polite hello, and move on. Of course, I’ll spend the rest of the night with a mild erection thinking, “My god – look at her! The last time I saw her she was making her first communion, and now she looks like she’s been in at least a half dozen Vivid films!”
[Editor's note: I realize that joke alienates the non-Catholics and the non-porn people, but get over it.]
But last week I spent a few days in Philly, hanging out, going out, and getting drunk and it was hard (no pun intended). Worse yet, it was (nearly) uncontrollable. I have to face the fact that my younger siblings’ friends are entirely lustworthy. Damn.
Firstly because, when I was 22 and 19, girls simply did not look like they do now. I know I sound like an old fuddy-duddy, but I know that every guy in
Secondly, there is the element of the shock factor. For example, one night I saw a girl who I hadn’t seen since she was about 11 (maybe eight or nine years ago) and when she said hello I didn’t recognize her. When in mid-conversation I finally did recognize her, I actually blushed because she had really, um, blossomed. It’s kinda like that SNL skit I love so much: the one in which Lindsay Lohan plays a newly-busty Hermione, shocking Harry Potter and the other characters (sorry, I don’t know any other Harry Potter character names because I’m a grown-ass man).
Thirdly, young girls are HOT. Maybe it’s because they don’t have the baggage/history that women my age come with, baggage that renders them bitter, distrustful, and incapable of any emotions aside from “need” and “want” and “infliction of distress” (again ladies, that email address is jason@jasonmulgrew.com). Maybe because it’s unorthodox or even taboo to date someone much younger than yourself. Or maybe it’s just because we men want to do them first, before they’re collecting sexual partners like tubes of lipstick or scrunchies or whatever the hell else it is that women collect.
Fourthly, I’m no Denzel, but when learning of many of the guys these girls are sleeping with (most of them time, secretly sleeping with), it is easy to lust after them more, putting all your faith into “if he can get her, why can’t I?” that I have struggled many a night with. This conversation happened a lot:
Me: “My god – is that [some girl I haven't seen since she was 13 and now looks like a Hooters trainee]?”
Buddy: “Yeah, that’s her. She really grew up, didn’t she?”
Me: “Good lord! Is she with anyone?”
Buddy: “Yeah, she’s messing around with Tommy C.”
Me: “Tommy C? Isn’t that the guy that pushed him mom down a flight of stairs? The really bad gambler, right? And isn’t he like 36?”
Buddy: “That’s him. But don’t tell anybody. He’s getting married next month to some hot-ass Rican broad from Fairmount, so it’s secret.”
Me: [stabs penis with fork]
So it’s over for me. I have tried very hard over the years to do my best and shrug off these sex kitten friends of my siblings, but I can no longer do it. And to be honest, I’m not concerned. I probably should have known this day would come eventually. But perhaps I’m worried that this is an après ceci, le deluge-type thing. Now that I am ok with lusting after them, maybe I’m going to start approaching them in bars asking them if they’d like to see my dad’s basement or if they know that I live in New York City (”In Manhattan, actually. Have you heard of
The good news is that I’m not planning on returning to Philly for a while, so maybe I’ll cool off before then. Let’s just hope that happens, or else I am going to have some big problems. And by “I” I mean “These girls”. I’ll be just fine, only because I always am.
…
God I’m so fucking high right now. Time for a nap.
some world series-related thoughts
Jason posted on October 26, 2005
1) Do black people go to Astros games, or is that not allowed? Was it “White Night” at Minute Maid last night? I think I saw maybe a half dozen black people in the stands at the game last night, although most of the time it was only a quick glimpse so they could have been really tan Italian or Greek guys. Did anyone else notice this, or am I just sensitive because I’m been secretly dating a hot black chick?
2) Why do so many players have trouble being called off pop ups? Why do easy pop ups so often end in collisions or near-collisions between players? Do the players not hear each other saying “I got it?” Is it an ego thing? Do they get an extra $100 per pop up? When I was in Little League, I used to let my teammates go after pop ups all the time and it was not a hard thing to do. I mean, fundamentals, people. If one guy says “I got it”, let him take it. This is not hard.
3) What the fuck is wrong with Dustin Hermanson’s goatee? Are those white splotches on his chin or is he trying to do some AJ from the Backstreet Boys-type thing? Judging from this picture from when he was in
4) Craig Biggio is a very easy player to root for. Not only does he consistently produce despite being 5′1″ and not having a batting helmet that actually fits him, but he’s a class act too. His wife was in the stands in
5) AJ Piersynzkeisni looks like a real asshole. I know every team he’s played for has hated him and I can see this in his face. Something about the smug look he has screams, “I am a real douche.” I just want to punch him in his fucking face. And he doesn’t even owe me money.
6) Paul Konerko has a really unfortunate bald spot. I’m trying to thing of what celebrity he looks like with curly hair and the bald spot, but I don’t have anything (Steve Guttenberg maybe?). But regardless, he’ll be able to afford plenty of Rogaine come this winter.
7) I know the Sports Guy talks about this a lot, but the incessant promos for Fox shows are going beyond advertising and entering the world of psychological manipulation or even hypnosis. My god, enough already with “Bones” and “House” and “Prison Break”. If you’re going to promote at least one of these shows during EVERY commercial, can you at least make several commercials for each? Like maybe show one “Prison Break” commercial wherein the protagonist is sitting on the toilet in his cell pooping and the narrator says, “He broke into to prison to break out his brother. But he never realized how embarrassing shitting in front of another man is. [pause for six seconds while camera closes up on guy shitting with his head in his hands] Boy this is uncomfortable.”
I’m glad the Astros got rid of the playoff beards. This ain’t hockey, geeks: you’re wearing tights and hitting a little white ball. So dispense with the lumberjack look.
9) I’m sorry, but any pitcher with bleach blond hair doesn’t scare me.
10) Heck of a Series so far, despite the 3-0 Sox lead. But we’ve got to try to limit the extra inning games. I like baseball as much as the next guy, but after four hours, things get kinda blurry and I start zoning out. I think the ‘Stros win tonight, but then the Sox finish it in
“party”
Jason posted on October 24, 2005
Many years from now, long after my spectacular death in a garbage fire, my authorized biography will be released. It will come after several unauthorized biographies, which will contain various half-truths and lies, like how I was briefly Vice President in Charge of Operations for Petco (half-truth; I was CFO), how I played a small but important role in the Falklands War (lie; not even sure what the Falklands War is), how I don’t know how to use a fax machine and have always hated this about myself (half-truth; no idea how to use a fax machine but I don’t care), and how once when cornered by a gang of youths in 2000 I turned a potentially dangerous situation into a satisfying sexual romp (lie; I wasn’t cornered, it was two men I met at club and not a gang, it was only somewhat satisfying, and it cost me $400).
Of course, there will be shocking revelations in this authorized volume, penned by my long time friend and confidant, this guy. And of course, I won’t reveal these revelations now, because I want you to buy the book. Not for me, because I’ll be dead, but for my estate, to whom I will leave many, many legal bills and gambling debts and countless half-Taiwanese children, all named Sip-Sip.
But there will be a lot of talk in the biography about how, though loved by literally millions – even trillions perhaps – I have, for the most part, few friends. This is my own fault entirely. It’s not because I’m not that open of a person and yada yada yada, but this isn’t therapy. It’s also because I suck at the whole keeping in touch thing and doing my part to make friendships work. I’m not good at following through with plans, I don’t return most emails, and if you call me, there’s a less than 10% chance I’m going to call you back (in part because of my horrible Sprint cell phone; by the way, I think I’m getting a Sidekick – please email me if you have one and tell me what you think).
Basically because I’m lazy, self-centered and somewhat private, I don’t have a lot of friends (I should say that this applies to NYC only; I have lots of friends in Philly and Boston and had lots of friends in NYC before everyone moved out). I have lots of associates and people I get along with, but few tried-and-true, “wipe my ass after I’ve shit myself on your bedroom floor and passed out” buds. Sad, but true. The good news is that I always manage to convince myself that I have more, but the bad news is that this weekend I learned that it just ain’t true.
On Saturday night, Brian and I had a joint party. Friday was Brian’s birthday. He is now 27, and we are all happy he made it this far. Seriously, I don’t know how he’s lived this long, but we’re not going to start questioning this, lest we jinx him.
On my end, I’m working on this. For legal/pr reasons, that’s all I can say about that until further notice. I’m also working on another project which I can’t speak about for the same legal reasons (not the same exact legal reason, but a different set). Additionally, my wonderful, wonderful employer has made it possible for me to work only one day a week while I pursue these other things. So basically this is the best time of my life and this party was to celebrate that.
[And yes, I hope to make an official, tell-all announcement very soon. But please, this is all I can say now, so don't inundate me with emails. Believe me, I want you all to know, and as soon as I get the green light, I'll let you all know, but this stuff takes time. But know that I'm working one day a week at my real job and writing (read: sleeping in, being slovenly and disappointing people) the rest of time. Thank you for understanding.]
We even classed it up a bit. We usually have our parties at the Keltic Lounge on
What we didn’t know was that the location of the bar really didn’t matter. By the end of the night, Brian summed it up best: it was a new personal low. Ladies and gentleman, Brian and I had our party at Happy Ending. We were there from 10pm until 4am. We were expecting around 50 people. Six people joined us.
Six.
(Eight if you include Brian and I. But I don’t think we should.)
I should clarify to say that six people spent a decent amount of time at the bar. By that I mean that six people were at the bar for longer than one hour. Roughly ten others stopped in for a drink en route to other, no doubt more exciting places and parties.
Six. I sent out an email inviting around 80. Six came and hung out. Ouch.
In truth, I am not that bothered by this. I had a pretty decent time with those that did come, managed to get very drunk, bought drinks for everyone, and had my credit card rejected because it’s maxed out. Good stuff.
And like I said, it’s my fault too. I stink at being a friend, so I shouldn’t have been surprised. Also, a few people replied to the email to say that they couldn’t make it. Also, it was pouring rain and around 48° out, so if I didn’t have a party to host I probably wouldn’t have come either.
But damn – six. That’s just embarrassing. I don’t want to turn this into a pity party, because I’ll make it. Sure, Brian and I might just have to move out of NYC and rent a house upstate where we can get messed up and start fights with trees, but if that’s what we have to do, that doesn’t sound too bad.
And I’m not, in any way, mad at those who didn’t come. I’m sure they each thought, “Jason is the most wonderful and charismatic person I know, so I’m sure he won’t even notice if I don’t make his party, because there will probably be all sorts of athletes, celebrities, and strippers there.” I’m ok with that. Of course, these people didn’t know that I locked myself in the bathroom for two hours during the party while my friend Jeremy talked through the door consoling me, finally getting me to come out only when he promised me that we’d go to Friendly’s the next day. God bless him.
But the whole incident made me put things into perspective. I need to do one of the following things:
1) Be a better friend. I doubt this is going to happen, so let’s just move on. Although maybe if I get that Sidekick, that will help.
2) Join some groups or some shit. Maybe I can look for friends on craigslist or join a choir or discussion group or something. This probably isn’t going to happen, because I’m not good at meeting new people and I don’t really want to discuss anything except how awesome I am and how much I can bench press.
3) Move. I can either move to Philly or
4) Nothing. Winner.
So that was the big party and this is what I’m going to do. I don’t really have an ending or a point, so I’ll go with this: Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go lie on the couch and watch ESPN all afternoon. If I get ambitious, I might make a giant omelet, but right now I can’t tell either way.
sizemore/paris, karaoke gibby, id1g1t, music, nfl (not) picks, b-day
Jason posted on October 21, 2005
My fascination/love with/for Tom Sizemore has been well documented on this site, and this latest piece of news makes me very happy, because it just keeps getting better. Just when you think he can’t top himself after releasing his own homemade porn, he goes and claims that he banged Paris Hilton.
The thing is, I would believe him if his story wasn’t so far-fetched. Sizemore “heard the repeated clicks of a cigarette lighter and followed the sound to his gym, where he saw Hilton, and suggested rather explicitly that the two should have sex.”
Survey says? No way. That’s too, too…porno-like. That doesn’t happen in the real world, even in the world of celebrities. I’ve seen every Paris Hilton sex tape and I know that she’s not coy enough for something like that. If Sizemore had said,
“I had a party at my house and went to take a shit and found
I would have believed him. But the clicking lighter and sex on the gym equipment? No way. Hell, I think I’ve seen that actual scene in “Masseuse 3″, starring Stacey Valentine, Jill Kelly, Raylene, and Dale Debone. So don’t try to tell me that actually happened, Sizemore.
But I wait with bated breath for his next misadventure. If I had to guess, I’m thinking it’s got to involve either a) a church or other house of worship or b) something racist. At least I hope it involves one of those two. Let’s keep our fingers crossed.
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Thanks for the all the kudos on the karaoke post. A lot of y’all wrote in, offering additional karaoke types, but David from
In your list you need to include what we can call the ‘Kirk Gibson’ or ‘Gibby’. For whatever reason, he doesn’t sing at karaoke bars…ever. Perhaps you’ve had one or two or ten drinks in yer belly and you try to cajole, harang, or intimidate him into singing (by the way, is there no better word in the English language to get another guy to do something than by calling him a “skirt”?). For whatever reason, he refuses to get on stage. Maybe he “isn’t drunk enough”. Maybe “all the songs the karaoke dude has sucks.” Maybe he just doesn’t “want to make an ass out” of himself. Maybe he’s “got really intense diarrhea and cannot be away from the toilet for more than two minutes”. Whatever. Over the years you have never seen him do anything at a karaoke bar but drink and make snarky remarks about everyone who gets on stage except for that drunk-ass Pancho who sings “Strokin’” before he passes out on the bar because that guy fucking rocks. Anyways, one night you are at a karaoke bar, and you don’t expect ‘Gibby’ to sing, because it’s just not in the cards.
Until one night, you notice that he has hobbled his way onto the stage. He looks in rough shape. You almost sense how much pain he is in being up there. You hope for the best, a miracle, but you feel that the deck is stacked against him. But somehow it all comes together, and he knocks it out of the park. Whether it is your version of Joe Cocker’s “I Am So Beautiful to You” or Random Asian Guy with Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’” or some guy doing David Lee Roth’s “Just A Gigolo” or Guns-n-Roses “Paradise City” (all eighty minutes of it), the song and performance just bring the house down…and then he never sings again. All of this is like Kirk Gibson in the 1988 World Series: wasn’t supposed to play, suddenly appears in the dugout, hobbles out to the plate, belts out a memorable, emotional game-winning home run, and never appears in the World Series again. Hence, the Karaoke Gibby.
Dynamite. This is a classic karaoke guy who I overlooked: the guy who gets up and out of nowhere bangs one out, shocking the whole room, and rides off into the sunset.
Also, I love any example that reminds of my childhood so vividly. The Gibson home run off Eck was one of the first “I remember where I was and what I was doing when that happened” sports moments of my childhood, right up there with the Tyson-Douglas fight, the A’s-Giants Earthquake game, and when the Ultimate Warrior fairly beat Hulk Hogan in WrestleMania VI. God I miss those days.
(Maybe I should write a book about my childhood?)
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If you don’t know, now you know: ID1G1T is the coolest site on the web. It allows you to listen to songs right on your PC, or you can right-click and save the song to your desktop.
And they have a ton of stuff on there, including most, if not all, of our Six Songs selections. I was hoping from now on to hyperlink each Six Song to ID1G1T so that you can just click and listen, but for technical reasons that I’d rather not get into, I can’t do that. So you’ll have to search for them yourself using the link above, but at least you’ll be able to listen to each Six Song from now on (most of them, at least).
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Six Songs:
“Ain’t That Enough” Teenage Fanclub
I referenced it in a post about a week ago, but it deserves it own “Six Song” designation. Airy harmonies, fun guitars, and happiness, happiness, happiness. Download it and listen to it while driving in a convertible.
“Midnight In Her Eyes” The Black Keys
This is dirty, dirty rock. So filthy I want to take a shower after listening to this song. Distorted guitars and a singer who sounds like he could easily drink you under the table, not that he would ever make such a claim, because shit like that is for losers and drinking is for getting drunk and getting drunk only. On a side note, if I ever went to a strip club and saw a stripper dancing to this song, I would do everything in my power to make her my wife. And I’ve been working out lately, so I have a lot of power.
“Lady Stardust” David Bowie
Some of David Bowie’s songs are so beautiful they make me want to cry. If were talented and ambitious, I think I could write a whole movie or novel just by listening to this song over and over again. So, so pretty, except for the last line, where David mumbles (I think), “Get some pussy now.” Otherwise, pretty song.
“Fight Test” The Flaming Lips
I love sad songs the best, but I love original sad songs even more. By this I mean that there are thousands of songs that say, “I’m sad since you left.” This song says, “I’m sad because I let another man take you from me and I didn’t put up a fight for you.” Elegiac is the word I’m looking for, I think, but I only got a 470 on the verbal portion of my SAT.
“I’m A Cuckoo” Belle and Sebastian
If you want to walk around with a smile on your face, blast this number from your iPod. You’ll be skipping down the street by the second verse.
“Thundercrack” Bruce Springsteen
An epic on par with The Who’s “A Quick One While He’s Away.” I’m not particularly a fan of the Boss, but this one gets me all riled up (and not in that way).