mustache march tonight
Jason posted on November 30, 2005

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

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

…

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

But anyway, come on down if you can.

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

six things I learned about myself, my family, and life over Thanksgiving break
Jason posted on November 29, 2005

1) Spontaneity is great.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seriously, awesome.

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

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

2) I am never having a daughter.  Seriously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

4) My mom hates my wardrobe.

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

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

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

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

5) Heaven is just one long pub crawl.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stripper #2:   “You know it!” 

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

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

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

a cordial moustache-related invitation
Jason posted on November 28, 2005

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To clear a few things up:

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

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

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

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

slack, Cash, diamonds, help, cards, music, Ray, thanksgiving
Jason posted on November 22, 2005

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

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

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

Dude,

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

or

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Final rating: 7.5 out of 10

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Assholes.     

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

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

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

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

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Six Songs

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

“Kiss Me“  Sixpence None The Richer

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

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

“Ain’t Nobody Home“  B.B. King

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

“In Your Room”  The Bangles

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

“By The Light Of The Cash Machine“  Glenn Tilbrook

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

“Dinner Bells“  Wolf Parade

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

if your ho only know…
Jason posted on November 17, 2005

First, read this article.

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

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

My second favorite line:

I done fucked her from the back

And I done fucked her from the front

I even fucked her outside on my T-Bird trunk

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

What’s your name?

G-Reg

What you do?

Get head

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

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

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

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

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

C’mon fellas let’s get weird

Stick your dick up in her ear

While I’m laughing at these guys

I’ll second nut all in her eyes

I’m speechless.  Just without speech.

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

(Sent to me by Kyle in Philly)

god warrior
Jason posted on November 16, 2005

various sales pitches and links
Jason posted on November 16, 2005

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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