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.]

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. 

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.

 

(Holiday weekend recap coming tomorrow)  

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.

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)

I love you, but please stop sending me clips of the “God Warrior” from “Trading Spouses.” 

If you haven’t seen it yet, you can view it here.

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.

2)     Many of you have emailed both this year and in the past about what to do in NYC for New Year’s Eve (both out-of-towners and NYCers alikes). 

3)     My friend Terry has his number on here.  Feel free to call him and ask him about me and my genitals.

 

I don’t know how many tickets are left, but I know it sold out very quickly last year.  So if you’re looking for something to do in NYC on New Year’s Eve, in my professional (boozehound) opinion, you’re not going to get any better than $150 for 4.5 free hours of booze and appetizers on a giant yacht cruising around Manhattan.

 

(And to answer your question, no, I will not be there.  I spend every New Year’s Eve in Philly because of the Mummer’s Parade on New Year’s Day.  But if I were here, this is what I’d do.)

 

(And really, call Terry.  I’m sure he’d love to hear from you with any questions about the booze cruise or otherwise.)

 

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Two moustache-related items (one for charity, one for art). 

 

The first is “Moustaches for Kids.”  Basically, you get a sponsor, you grow a moustache, and all proceeds go to charities for kids.  Every week they get together at a bar to check on progress, get drunk, and talk about what a good idea this is (and I mean that in a sincere way – it’s a very good idea).  If you’re in NYC and interested, Shaving Day is tomorrow (Thursday).  Check the website for details.

 

I would be all about this, but I’m already growing a moustache for the sake of art.  A friend is making a documentary about guys under 30 growing moustaches called “The Glorius Mustache Challenge.”  If you dig around the website, you’ll see what it’s about: trying to make the moustache cool once again for people our age (or my age, depending how old you are).  Currently, I am on Day 15 (of 28) of my moustache and I’d say the length right now could be best described as “Black High School Kid Who Hasn’t Shaved in Five Days.”  Needless to say, I look ridiculous.  As it continues to grow, I will keep you abreast of its progress.  Which will hopefully be quick.  Because I really look very silly.  But, as I said before, we all suffer for our art, don’t we? 

 

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I promise this is all the pimping I’ll do for a while (for this week at least).  Although if the right product comes along, I’m willing to align myself with it.  Pretty soon you’re going to see me on television at 3:30am doing an information for “The BEST Pet Euthanizer on the Market: Doggie Die 3000.”  But hey, those things pay like $60 an hour and have free catering.  A man’s gotta eat, you know?

• The season is over
• No one can tackle anymore
• The three all-pros in our secondary have been replaced by much slower and less talented players
• The team (offensively) displayed no killer instinct, getting lazy with a lead
• Terrell Owens is vindicated, as he certainly would have made the catch that Reggie Brown dropped
• Opposing offenses are on to the whole “we’re going to blitz a lot” thing
• The playcalling was atrocious
• The clock management was atrocious
• The season is over
• I hate myself
• Something smells like shit in my office, and I’m pretty sure it’s me

Another Email of the Week.  Susannah from Melbourne writes in:

 

Dear Jason,

I have been reading your site pretty much every day for a while now and today I was looking at some of your old posts (…actually I was trying to find the post which relays the story of your ‘friend’ who was trying to hook up with a girl from work and spectacularly failed due to an unfortunate reference to a coathanger cos a friend and I were chatting about it last night and couldn’t remember the details of the story – ever considered a search this site function??)

Anyway, as I was reading the posts I was reminded that on a couple of occasions you have mentioned a long-distance girlfriend you had during college. It seems that you were still trying to pick up other girls while dating this long-distance girlfriend.

I have been a “long-distance” girlfriend in the past and my ex wasn’t big on the whole monogomy thing either – it’s from this perspective that I’m wondering whether you think guys have an “out of sight out of mind” gene that precludes fidelity when your girl is temporarily away. I guess I’m wondering whether this long-distance thing ever works (not that I would try it ever ever again). Any thoughts??

Sus

p.s. I’m not being all judge-y – I don’t know what arrangement with this girl, I’m just curious.

 

Before I get into the email, I want to say that I don’t know a single person who was in a long distance relationship in the past and would be involved in one again.  Of course, I know that I wouldn’t even hear someone say, “Well, what I’m really looking for is a long distance relationship,” because people just don’t say that.  But it seems that those previously in long distance relationship are entirely averse to one ever happening again.  I know that I felt this way after mine eventually ended, and so if faced with a girlfriend that was forced to move away, I’d rather cut ties with her and carry on than do long distance.  Of course, this would never work; if I had a girlfriend who moved away, I’d most likely follow her and sleep in my car outside her place until the authorities got involved.  But let’s not get sidetracked.

 

I’m answering this email because a few people who read this site have asked me about this in the past, saying something to the effect that, “You mentioned cheating on your long distance girlfriend in college.  This is surprising, both because you seem like a nice guy but also someone not capable of getting much action.  Please explain.”  So I’ll explain and then I’ll answer Susannah’s question.

 

I had two long distance girlfriends in college.  The first was during my sophomore and junior years, the second during junior/senior years (no overlap).  With the first, I was faithful.  I’m not sure if this was out of the goodness of my heart or because I didn’t have many other options.  I like to think it was the former, but if I know myself, it’s gotta be the latter.

 

I’m pretty sure that the second girlfriend and I had an unspoken “Don’t ask/Don’t tell” policy when it came to hooking up.  This was never expressly stated, but it’s certainly what I operated under (and I’m fairly certain she did too).  We did this because we were both in our final year of college and didn’t want to be held back by the other person, 500 miles away.  But again, this was never stated; just strongly implied. 

 

We never talked about this, because we learned how destructive it could be.  She asked me once if I had kissed anyone else.  I said yes.  The next day, she called me to brag about making out with two guys at the bar the previous night.  Sweet.  Not as sweet as the time I got a call from my buddy who went to the same college as her, telling me (“friend to friend”) that my girlfriend had hooked up on several occasions with his roommate.  That was TOTALLY awesome.  To be fair, I was hooking up with others as well.  I was just better at hiding it.   

 

I don’t want to give the impression that I’m airing dirty laundry here; our relationship ended many years ago and we haven’t spoken much since.  I suppose that I’m writing all this to clear my good name and illustrate that I wasn’t “cheating” per se but rather playing the hand I was dealt (see? I’m totally a nice guy – mostly).  Of course, like I said, the relationship ultimately ended.  She and I dated for a few years long distance but last less than two months in the same city.  I think this was because we had never actually been a “couple” and so struggled with this once we were in the same city.  It’s easy to be nice and get along one weekend a month.  Hell, I think I could get along with pretty much anybody for a weekend if we were having sex.  But when you have to do be nice every day…well, that’s a different story.           

 

Now onto Susannah’s query as to whether guys have an “out of sight/out of mind” mentality with girlfriends. 

 

Here’s the general rule when it comes to guys and cheating: it is impossible to tell which guys cheat and which guys don’t.  In my time I’ve come across guys who are entirely faithful and those who fuck everything that moves.  You can know a guy who seems devoted to his girlfriend, commits public displays of affection and talks baby talk, and then you get five beers in him and he’s banging the 52 year-old waitress in the bar bathroom.  Conversely, you can know a guy who goes to strip clubs three times a month and spends $10,000 a year on lap dances but doesn’t even consider cheating on his girlfriend.

 

What I’m trying to say that it’s impossible to generalize and make a sweeping statement like “All guys believe in ‘out of sight/out of mind.’”  Cheating is an individual choice that takes into account a number of variables (most importantly, having the option to cheat – like Chris Rock jokes, “Man is only as faithful as his options.”)   

 

Long distance is not an exception to this, as long as it’s still an exclusive relationship.  If a guy wants to cheat (and he can), he’s going to.  If he doesn’t, he’s not.

 

I know this may sound like a cop out and you’re probably thinking, “Thank you Captain Obvious”, but what I said is important and true: you can’t generalize with guys and cheating.  It’s an individual choice.  And that’s really it. 

 

[And now I have to answer phone calls/emails from my buddies saying, "Dude, any time you write a post about cheating, don't even HINT about me in the post.  You know [girlfriend] reads your crap, and now for the next month I’m going to have to answer her questions about cheating.  So thanks for that.  Asshole.”]

 

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I don’t know if Jesus watches “Trading Spouses”, but I certainly hope He didn’t catch this week’s episode.

 

If you’re not familiar with “Trading Spouses”, well, it sounds like what it is.  One family sends their mom to another family in exchange for that family’s mom for a week (or weekend or whatever).  Hilarity ensues as the new mom tries to adjust to living with the new family.  Naturally, the moms are polar opposites: sweet Chinese American Mom swapping with Punk Rock Mom, Poor Mom switching with Rich Mom, Handicapped Mom switching with Fitness Instructor Mom, etc.  In this week’s episode they had an Ultra-Christian Mom trading places with a New Age Mom. 

 

I don’t normally watch this show, but I saw the previews during the week and Tivo’ed it.  These previews showed the Ultra-Christian Mom in a living room screaming at the top of her lungs about “Jesus” and “sweet name of Jesus” and telling the camera crew to get out of her house.  As an added bonus, this woman was about 500 pounds.  So it was a no-brainer for the Tivo.

 

I finally watched it last night and was not disappointed.  The Ultra-Christian Mom (UCM from here on out) spent the week with her adopted family complaining about just about everything, refusing to even talk to her “husband” about his beliefs, reading the Bible, and trying to convert everyone to Christianity.  I don’t know what the record was for using the word “Jesus” on primetime television, but she easily shattered it.  The climax of the show occurred when she returned to her real family and essentially had a nervous breakdown in front of the cameras.  She started screaming about Jesus and how she’s a warrior of god and about the “dark side” that her adopted family represented (the husband was an astrologist, the mother a hypnotherapist, and the kids didn’t believe in god).  I regret that I can’t do it justice here, but trust me, it was spectacular.  Nothing like seeing a gigantic Southern woman invoking the name of Jesus with a fervor that would give most people her size a heart attack.    

 

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’ve got nothing against Jesus.  I was raised Irish Catholic, so I’m down with JC.  Sure, we’ve had some problems in the past, but it’s been smooth sailing for the most part.  But I wonder what Jesus would think about this woman using his name all over national television while carrying on like a total lunatic.  I can just imagine Jesus, sitting in His chair up in heaven, eating a sandwich, watching “Trading Spouses” and screaming, “Oh – come on!  Come on! [stands up] Stop it! [throwing His Pepsi can at television] Damn it!”     

 

All I can say is that this woman set Christianity back many, many years.  I wasn’t sure if she was from the 21^st century or one of the participants in the Salem Witch Trials.  Like many big city liberals, I’m not into the whole evangelical thing.  And the way that this woman acted (or perhaps how Fox sought to portray this woman) was very damaging to her beliefs.  Again, she acted like a stone cold crazy person.  I really wish I had a video of her breakdown, but that would require going to Google and typing and that’s a lot of extra work (especially since I’m not at home and stealing wireless right now and my connection is crap).    

 

Don’t really know where I’m going with this and thinking that I’m going to have to chalk it up to “I guess you had to be there”, so I think I’ll stop.  But I know that at least a handful of you saw the show and are thinking, “You know what – he’s totally right.  I just want to do him.”  So my job is done.

 

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Thank you for all the pictures of the Panthers cheerleaders.  I guess I should be more careful in the future what I wish for in the future because I got a LOT of emails with at least two of the following words in the title: sex, cheerleaders, Panthers, pics, bathroom.  The best part is that just about every email from y’all started off with “I bet about 1000 other people sent you this…”  In the future, if you think 1000 other people have sent me something, please refrain from sending it. 

 

(Is anyone interested in being my assistant?  All you’d have to do is sort through the emails/booby pictures and let me know which are good.  The job pays nothing, but you and I can sit around getting high all day.  Also, if you’re cute, we can have tickle fights.  Please send resume and three references.) 

 

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I don’t know what I can say about the Terrell Owens situation that hasn’t already been said.  For a personal standpoint, it makes me sad.  Sad because TO is a tremendous athlete and really could have helped the Eagles.  It’s more of a shame though.  After his performance in the Super Bowl, TO could have run for mayor in Philly.  The city was devoted to him.  And in less than nine months, he has completely squandered all that affection and the city is universally turned against him.  I would make a TO:post-Super Bowl::George Bush:post 9-11 analogy, but I don’t have the energy to read all the emails from the conservatives reading this now.    

 

But the Eagles were 100% right to suspend him for the season.  Philly loves someone who plays hard, but Philly hates bitches.  So as a Philadelphia fan, speaking for Philadelphia fans, fuck you, TO.  You’re 32.  You’ll get about 1/3 your current salary next year.  And since we know you’re all about money, that’s gotta hurt.  So again, fuck you, and don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out. 

 

But hey, at least it’s been interesting.

 

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Well, I asked for it, and you guys brought it.  Last week, I complained that I had only a few MySpace friends.  I think I had under 20 when I mentioned this, now I have around 350.  So thank you.  I feel loved.

 

And not only that (and I don’t mean to get all gay on you here), it’s weird for me to see your pictures.  It’s hard to explain, especially because I am pretty messed up right now, but until last week the idea of my “readership” was abstract.  Sure, I’ve talked to people in bars who I don’t know who read the site yada yada yada, but seeing all your pictures really freaked me out.  For the first time, I realized that people actually read this.  Like, actual, real people (some of them pretty good looking, too). 

 

…

 

Ok, I just read that last paragraph over and it’s obvious that I am too messed up to articulate anything properly right now.  Let’s talk about music before I start writing poetry or some shit.

 

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Six Songs (get them at id1g1t)

 

This week’s Six Songs has a theme: “Songs I Want to Fucking Shoot Myself to Because You Broke My Heart You Fucking Crazy Harpy Bitch.”  Enjoy!

 

(Note: this is in no way related to Wednesday’s post, but rather a result of my mood swings.  Seriously.  I would tell you if it was.  Thank you.)

 

“Red Red Red”  Fiona Apple

I should note that it’s impossible for me to give an unbiased review of this song, since I am so desperately in love with Fiona Apple that my stomach hurts whenever I think about her.  But if you listen to this song and do not feel considerably worse after listening to it than you did before listening to it, then you either a) are deaf; or b) have no soul.  This is the only song I’ve listened to on the album because I’m afraid of what might happen to me if I listen to the others.  Crazy, but 100% true. 

 

(And yes, I realize that being involved with someone as crazy as Fiona Apple is an invitation to be destroyed emotionally.  But c’mon – we all know there’s nothing more attractive than aloofness and self-destructiveness.)

 

(God I’m so turned on right now.)

 

(And so, so sad.)     

 

“Love Is Just A Game”  The Magic Numbers

This song (and this band) is amazing.  This is now one of my top ten favorite songs of all-time.  This is a remarkable achievement whose remarkableness I can not express on paper, but rather only through dancing.  You must MUST MUST listen to this song.  I can’t explain it; sort of like this weird British funk, but a ballad of sadness.  A good song to get high to in the tub when depressed.  Um, not that I know from experience or anything…

 

(I think this is also titled “Love’s A Game”, but not 100% on that)

 

“Just Like Me”  that dog

I think I am the only person in America who has heard of this band (and likes them).  They broke up only in 1997, but I have not come across anyone else who’s ever even heard of them, aside from the guy who introduced me to them (but he’s in India now, hence the “America” reference).  Two chicks, some guitars, a violin, and a cello is always a recipe for sadness, especially when you rip off a line from the Beatles’ “Something” but change it to “Something in the way you move/Distracts me like no other.”  Distracting, indeed.     

 

“Magnolia Mountain“  Ryan Adams

I know, I know – you’re probably surprised that Ryan Adams wrote a sad song.  I was shocked too, but believe it or not, it’s pretty good.  Over the chorus, he begs “Lie to me/Like I lie to you/Hold me down until the morning comes.”  Pretty, pretty heavy.  I don’t really know what the song is about, but it makes me sad.  So that’s all I’ll say about it.

 

“Goodbye My Lover”  James Blunt

Part of me, when I hear this song, wants to grab this guy, shake him, slap him in the face, and say, “Dude – fucking pull it together!”  It’s a song about lost love, but it’s way too emotional (“You touched my heart you touched my soul/You changed my life and all my goals/And love is blind and that I knew when/My heart was blinded by you” – ugh.  Sounds like something a sixteen year-old scribbled to his ex-girlfriend in History class). 

 

That being said, if I were ever heartbroken enough and high enough, I think I could sit in a hotel room and cry to this song for about a week and a half straight.  But this is probably less because of the song and more because I have the emotional depth, experience, and control of a thirteen year-old fat girl.  Yep.  Pretty much. 

 

“33″  Smashing Pumpkins

I mean, this is a really pretty song, right?  Billy Corgan extolls over dreamy flanged-up guitars, “I’ll make the effort/Love can last forever” and “Graceful swans of never/Topple to the earth/Tomorrow’s just an excuse/You can make it last forever.”  And it makes me want to throw up.

 

Chuck Klosterman, in his seminal work “Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs”, espouses a theory that (roughly) states that certain elements of popular culture (movies, music, etc), by creating the myth of perfect love, are ruining countless relationships.  Since I’m pretty high right now and could start crying at any moment, maybe I should defer to Dave Attell to further illustrate this point:

 

I think it’s hard for you ladies, you know, because you go see these movies and think these Brad Pitt’s and Will Smith’s and Leonardo DiCapricock’s are gonna come waltzing off the screen into your life, taking you out all fancy to like an Olive Garden or Pizzeria Uno or something, and make love to you with a condom without fingering your asshole, and then call you within a week – well wake up!  They don’t have the time.  I do. 

 

People our age are constantly seeking perfection from a mate when it isn’t going to happen.  I’m not saying that everyone should just settle for whomever, but I’m saying we need to work less on finding “The One” and more on finding “The One Pretty Close To The One Who’s Better Than The Others.”  Then we can spend the rest of our lives adjusting this person to fit our ideal.  I mean, relationships are work people!  Love isn’t a vacation, it’s a vocation!  Damn it!

 

Anyway, this song makes me pukey because it’s so happy/lovey/rosey because nothing lasts forever.  Or something.      

 

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

 

Off to Boston to get drunk at a BC football game (read: get so drunk I don’t realize that there is even a football game going on).  Have a good weekend. 

At 3pm on Saturday afternoon, just as I was walking back to my apartment with my take-out breakfast in hand, I got a call from my buddy Hal. Hal is the brother of my old college roommate, Bill, he of Baldwin Brothers fame. Since Bill is from an NJ town just outside of NYC, I have gotten to know many of Bill’s hometown friends, including his brother Hal, as they often venture into the city.

The situation was this: Hal was in from NJ and Bill was flying down from Boston. Every year, these guys, their dad, and their dad’s friends get together to a touristy tour of NYC, chugging beers the whole way. Hal ostensibly asked me to join him and Bill on a drinking odyssey. The best part? It would be in a party bus.

Like most young men who enjoy sitting, drinking, leather, and shiny things, I love party buses. There is no better way to travel for a night on the town, really. It’s a totally self-contained unit, a true party on wheels, complete with cooler full of beers, comfy chairs that seat over a dozen, good tunes, and up close views of the vibrant nightlife and streets of NYC. If I had the money, I would rent a party bus every time I went out in the city. I can’t think of much that would make me happier that doesn’t involve narcotics and sexy bisexual ladies. And I guess the hope is that the party bus WOULD involve narcotics and sexy bisexual ladies, but you get it.

So Hal and Bill called me to join them in this party bus. They would not be partaking in the touristy activities (The Rockette’s Christmas Show, the Empire State Building, etc), but instead would be either drinking in bars near these places or driving around the bus drinking, before finally heading back to their NJ town to drink the night away.

I can’t express how much I was for this impromptu Saturday afternoon drinking tour. But my plan was to only stay for a little while, because I had (gasp!) a date that night. I was meeting my date for dinner later on that night and figured I shouldn’t get too bombed before the date (seeing as I’m a romantic and all). However, when after eight or so beers Hal suggested that I join them the rest of the evening, going all the way back to NJ with them in the bus, I knew that the date must be postponed. I was see-sawing until Bill put it best: "Dude, you’re in NYC with this girl all the time. How often are we in town and how often are we in town with a party bus?" Done deal.

So I called the lovely and wonderful Cara to explain the situation. Cara and I met a few weeks back, so she’s familiar with me and my steez (read: getting drunk and messing up). I rang her up at 6pm, three hours before we were supposed to meet.

Me: "Cara, listen, I’m sorry but I think I have to postpone the date."
Cara: [genuinely ok with this, but surprised] "Um, ok. That’s cool."
Me: "Oh, great. I’m really sorry, but it’s just that something came up last minute."
Cara: [concerned] "Is everything ok?"
Me: "Yeah, yeah. It’s just that, and I didn’t realize this when I asked you out tonight, my buddies Bill and Hal are in from out of town and they have this awesome party bus and we’ve been drinking for a while, so I think I’m gonna go back to Jersey with them tonight."
Cara: [confused] "What? Party bus?"
Me: "Yeah, you know, like a big ass limo-type bus filled with beer and booze. I had no idea they were doing this."
Cara: [putting it all together, growing agitated] "So you’re going to get drunk in this bus with them tonight?"
Me: "I know it sounds stupid, but it’s an awesome bus. And really, you and I are in NYC like 300 nights a year, so we can reschedule anytime. But how often do you get to ride in a party bus, you know?

Wrong answer.

Since those words left my mouth, I have regretted them. Not only because I didn’t get to spend any time with Cara that night, and instead woke up on a couch with a vicious hangover, but also because Cara and I were at a very delicate point in our relationship: about to enter the vaunted 4^th Level of Dating.

Modern dating can be divided into eight levels, which cover everything from the first time you see your love interest all the way up to when she’s helping your mom serve the deviled eggs on Christmas. These Eight Levels of Dating are below, with examples for those of you who are slow.

Level 1: Pre-Dating
This isn’t really dating per se, but rather the initiation of contact. For example: you’re at a friend’s party and see an attractive girl across the room. You ask the host, a mutual friend, who the girl is and once you get the word that she isn’t crazy and hasn’t had sex with any former or current NBA players, you approach. You try to make witty conversation but are limited because you took one too many Xanax before the party and are convinced that every time you speak to this girl you’re spitting on her face and in her hair.

In the days after the party, you spend most of your energy emailing the mutual friend to ensure that sometime in the near future you seemingly coincidentally hang out with this girl in a large group and in a casual and secure environment (with alcohol). She obliges, mostly because she feels sorry for you, but also because you threatened to hurt her family if she didn’t.

When you see the girl next, you are in tip-top shape: you have put on cologne, trimmed your pubes, made sure not too drink too much or take too many pills, and have done enough cocaine to cripple most teenagers (therefore you are the most fascinating person on the planet). You see the girl and are on fire - joking, laughing, making fun of others, hiding your incredible racism - and at the end of the party, you say something like "We should hang out sometime." Lulled into a false sense of security, she gives you her number (though you secretly would have preferred her email address, because you are eons better in print than in person/over the phone). Congratulations, you may now move on to Level 2.

Level 2: The Explicit Invite Period
Level 2 is merely an extension of Level 1. But in Level 2, everything is more explicit, deliberate, and intentional. You call the girl after a few days to invite her (and her friends) to a bar where you (and your friends) will be hanging out. She agrees to come (and to bring friends).

Prior to her arrival, you share with your friends the battle plan: divide and conquer. You will talk to your girl and you expect your friends to at least partially entertain her friends. Knowing that they are drunks and incapable of actually doing this properly, you either a) bribe them with drinks at a later date or b) threaten them, reminding them that you haven’t been with a women in a while and have a lot of pent up sexual aggression, which, coupled with your astounding fat boy strength, can be devastating to the faces and/or genitals of said friends.

The girl arrives at the party. The good news is that you’re more confident, having secured her presence at the bar without your mutual friend, and she’s more comfortable, assuming that despite what her friends have said, you will more than likely not take her into the alley and make her whip your bare ass with your belt while you sing Boy George songs. More talking, laughing, and drinking. Things are going well.

Two variables about this period: 1) you may or may not get a kiss (or more); and 2) it may take more than one Explicit Invite to advance to Level 3. But fortunately, the gods are smiling upon you. When at the end of the night you suggest meeting for dinner sometime during the week, she accepts. You spend the next few days wondering what the hell happened to her in her childhood for her to consent to spending time with you alone. Probably some terrible, terrible things.

Level 3: The Weekday Date Period
Dinner or some other date variation on a non-prime night (Sunday through Wednesday; if you can get a Thursday, it’s a good sign). Also, in Level 3, what may have been obvious before is now official: you are courting this girl.

Level 3 is the make or break period. Studies have shown that around 70% of dates do not get past Level 3. The reason for this two-fold. First, it’s very hard to hide behind alcohol at 8pm on a Tuesday evening. You’re pretty much on your own here - for the first time in the courtship. Of course, you could hit the booze, but getting drunk or drinking too quickly will only prove that you are not a man unless you are intoxicated (which is of course true, but should not be known to the girl until month three of the relationship) and will invariably lead to you sticking your hand down your pants halfway through the entree.

Second, a dinner requires around two hours of one-on-one time (as mentioned above, with little alcohol). During these two hours, you must prove to the girl not only that you are not into strangling during sex, but also that you are intelligent, well-liked/respected by your peers, witty, and generally a great person for genital-to-genital contact. Quite a tall order.

But again, the stars are aligned. Perhaps it’s because the margaritas are just strong enough to make everything a tad easier or perhaps it’s because her hair is so astoundingly pretty that you just want to choke on it, it matters not. The date goes well. You get home and recount the date to your roommate, who, because he is high, can not appreciate the significance of the evening. So you retreat to your bedroom with a bottle of wine to feel warm and listen to Elvis Costello. In the parlance of our times, "It’s on like Donkey Kong." Congrats, old man - it’s on to Level 4. Welcome to the big leagues.

Level 4: The Weekend Date Period
If you’ve made it to Level 4, you’re doing something right. Level 4 means that you are hanging out on a prime night: Friday or Saturday (and possibly Thursday).

Also, it means that the pressure is (mostly) off. To secure a weekend night of a woman in New York City is a substantial accomplishment which only means that she may like you in return. I know, I know - I can’t believe it either, but all signs point to yes.

This is the most formal date yet. Moderately-but-not-too romantic dinner date followed by drinks at a bar that doesn’t host English dart league matches (think less "pub" or "tavern" and more "lounge" or something with a one word name). You do reasonably well, except when during dinner the waitress gives you the wine cork to check the wine’s aroma, instead of smelling it, you put it in your mouth to suck on it, unsure of how that whole process works. However, the girl finds this endearing, which is good. You only hope that four months from now, when you come home covered in piss, blood, and gin, she will find that endearing too.

This one of the longer periods. This doesn’t mean that once you graduate to Level 4 you’re only hanging out only on weekend nights, but rather that if you get two or more Level 4 dates under your belt, intersperse those with some weekday dates and group things, and voila - you’re dating someone. She’s not technically you’re girlfriend (and won’t be until Level 6), but you’re kinda/sorta/somewhat dating her. You’re still single, but those days may be numbered.

Also, making love, if it has already not happened, becomes a realistic goal. And considering my personal circumstances, there is absolutely no way I should have written this. But, I am high. So let’s just move on.

Level 5a: The "Yeah, She’s Kinda My Girlfriend" Period
Level 5b: The Weekday Evening Sex Period
Once you successfully get past Level 4, you’re onto Level 5, which is divided into two parts.

This is arguably the best Level, because, well, you pretty much have a girlfriend. It’s still not official yet, but you both know it’s true. There is near daily contact and you’re hanging out with her three nights a week, one of which is a weekend night. You will even stay over her place during the week, which is a monumental step in any relationship. You’re introduced to her wider circle of friends, who grill you with questions about everything from your musical tastes to what you do for a living to "I read something on your site about how you jerked off with an uncooked chicken breast - is that true?"

That’s the social aspect of Level 5 (5a). Concurrently with 5a, there is 5b: you are entering a realm of sensual delights. The sex is abundant and free. You are comfortable enough to call the girl at work at 5pm on Wednesday to say, "Hey, listen - I just found out that my roommate is going to be working late. Do you wanna come over after work to have sex in the kitchen? Because I don’t think we’ve done that yet." And she agrees. Finally, everything is right with the world.

Level 6: The Love Period
Love. Sex. Girlfriend. And at this Level, the notion of having a girlfriend is a great and wonderful thing. You will tell your mom about her, who will sigh in relief, secreting thank the Lord above that you are telling her about your love for Bruce or Tad. You will take weekend trips where you will lay in bed naked, watching pay-per-view movies, eating pizza, and drinking wine. You will laugh and wonder how this feeling could ever end, because you are stupid with love.

Sadly, it does end. Sooner than you think, too. This level is an inherent dilemma. On the one hand, it is great because you feel better than you ever have. On the other, it’s bad because it’s all downhill from here. You’re only hope is to stay in this Level for as long as possible, although you have no control over these things. And since you’re not a good person, God and Fate are going to gang up on you and usher this period out the doors as soon as possible. I guess you shouldn’t have committed all those hate crimes back in the late 80′s.

Level 7: The Cracks in the Facade Period
You’re still in love, of course. You worked hard for this relationship and things are still very good between you and the girl. But you wonder – why does she have to talk to her mother every day, even when you’re on vacation? Is that really necessary? And she really takes a very long time to order at restaurants, even though you both know what she’s going to get. And why does it matter that you spend more time talking with your buddy John about the potential assist numbers for Rafer Alston than about your relationship? I mean, what’s there to talk about about the relationship? And why does she get all huffy when she calls you and you’re so high you think you’re talking to King Arthur? I mean, a man’s gotta have his fun.

Level 7: the beginning of the end. Also, the beginning of the rest of your life.

Level 8: Malaise
Routine has taken over. Sex in the kitchen on a Wednesday evening has been replaced by ok take-out food and "The Notebook." Spontaneous weekend trips whose sole purpose was to get it on in another state are replaced by going to weddings of extended family members and more than likely not having sex (too tired "after such a big dinner and long drive"). Blowjobs are something you see every day on your computer and but in real life only on your birthday, Christmas, and anniversary. Going out with the guys, which was once a common occurrence, is now arranged and orchestrated with a diligence usually reserved for the Rose Bowl Parade. The idea of having a girlfriend, which once made you blush with delight, has lost its luster. The idea of having a mistress, however, sounds pretty good right about now. But you know you could never do this. You are in love. Right?

And this, folks, is how you get married. She might bring marriage up and though you’re averse to it initially, you start warming to the idea. You think, "Well, maybe getting married is just the change of pace we need. Maybe it’ll give us the spark that has been missing for some time." And so you get married. And that’s all she wrote.

…

A loving relationship is like a pair of jeans. When you first see the jeans in the store, you decide you need to have them and so buy them immediately. It takes a while for you to break them in and for you to feel comfortable in them, but in a matter of time you’re strutting around town looking and feeling great. You wear them all the time, get compliments, and they slowly become a part of you.

But as time passes, the jeans slowly begin to break down. The cuffs get frayed, there may be a tear or two in them, and they start to smell funny. But you keep on the wearing them, mostly because they’re your number one jeans and you’re attached to them. But also because you remember how long it took you to break in these jeans and you’re not ready to do that again to a new pair, which will more than likely not be as good as this pair anyway. So you keep wearing them. Forever. Or until they fall to pieces. Either way, it ain’t pretty.

…

And so just as Cara and I were about to enter that oh-so-important Level 4, I informed her that spending time in a bus getting drunk was more important than spending time with her. Smooth move. She politely said, "Well call me next week" and - god bless her - has agreed to see me again. So this time, I’m going to do something special for her. I’ve been doing push-ups every morning in preparation for the date and I have prepared a short dance number which will express my regret. I stayed up until 4:30 in the morning last night banging it out, and I think it’s going to be pretty good. If I had to describe it, I would say it has the moves of Prince in the "Bat Dance" video but with George Michael’s look from the "Faith" era set to AC/DC’s "You Shook Me All Night Long".

So wish me luck. I don’t often get past Level 3, so I am willing to go the extra mile for Level 4. Even if it means dancing. Or arson. Or murder. Whatever really. Now back to the dancing.

It’s official: the Carolina Panthers have the best cheerleaders in the NFL.  According to an ESPN.com report:

 

Two Carolina Panthers cheerleaders who allegedly were having sex with each other in a bathroom stall at a Tampa, Fla., nightclub were arrested and charged early Sunday following a run-in with patrons and police.

 

According to a police report obtained by the CBS TV affiliate in Tampa and the Charlotte Observer, Angela Ellen Keathley and Renee Thomas were arrested following an incident at Banana Joe’s, in Tampa’s Channelside district, at 2:10 a.m. ET.

 

In the police report, witnesses claimed Thomas and Keathley were having sex with each other in a stall when other patrons grew angry that the two were taking so long in the bathroom.

 

Another woman waiting to use the bathroom got into an argument with the two, and Thomas hit that person in the face, according to details of the report posted on TampaBay10.com, the CBS TV affiliate’s Web site.

 

Keathley, who was escorted from the nightclub, was so drunk she could barely stand, the report said. Police described Keathley as rude and belligerent with police.

 

When Thomas was arrested, she gave police the name of another Panthers cheerleader — Kristen Lanier Owen, the Observer and TampaBay10.com reported. Thomas, who was charged with one count of battery, might face additional charges for lying to police, once they confirm her identity.

 

Keathley was charged with disorderly conduct and obstructing or opposing an officer.

 

Other Panthers cheerleaders bailed Thomas and Keathley out of Hillsborough County jail later Sunday morning, TampaBay10.com reported.

 

The cheerleaders made the trip to Tampa on their own — the squad performs on the sideline only at home games. Panthers officials at Sunday afternoon’s game said they were aware of the report, but declined further comment when contacted by the Observer.

 

According to the Panthers’ official team Web site on NFL.com, Keathley is a registered nurse and second-year member of the TopCats. Thomas is listed as a student at the University of North Carolina-Charlotte and first-year member of the cheerleading squad.

 

OK, that’s pretty much made my week.  Two cheerleaders having sex in a nightclub bathroom.  Good LORD.  Two things:

 

1)     I really should have focused more energy on playing football in high school.  Instead, I spent too much time being the Gay Best Friend to about fifteen girls, all of whom were out of my league, listening to them tell me about their problems with their boyfriends as I quietly wept and masturbated on the other end of the telephone.  Had I put half as much time into a football career, I could now be at least a marginal NFL player.  Which means that I would at least know cheerleaders.  Which means that I could then offer them drugs/cash to do stuff like this in my own bathroom (while I quietly wept and masturbated on the other side of the bathroom door).    

 

2)     I am never, ever having daughters.  Of course, having written this, I’m sure I’ll have six extremely hot daughters.  At least I’ll be dead by the time they’re getting breast implants and appearing on “Real World: Omaha” having orgies with visiting college basketball teams, whole precincts of police officers, middle-aged businessmen at conferences, Indian chiefs, carnies, etc.

 

I have been feverishly trying to get pictures of these two girls, but I’m currently away from home and stealing someone’s wireless and the site keeps getting timed out (since I imagine about 100,000 other perverts like myself are trying to do the exact same thing and are crashing the site).  But if you want to see for yourself, the Panthers’ cheerleaders’ site is here.  Good luck, godspeed, and yay for Panther Pride!   

 

(Thanks to Stuart in Pittsburgh for bringing my attention to this)

We no longer have an “Email of the Week” because I am just too lazy to keep up with my email.  But this week we’re going to pretend that we do as I help out Sonja from Winnipeg (that’s in Canada).

 

Dear Jason Mulgrew,

I know you’re not Ann Landers, but I was hoping you could give me some advice as to how to “snag” a certain dude into actually taking me out on a date. I can’t figure out why he keeps on playing me. I’m asking you because he seems a lot like you in that he’s a big fat party animal, he works in an office and tries to hide the fact that he’s a big fat party animal, he loves to eat really gross foods in quantity because he’s a big fat party animal, and everyone thinks he’s gay, (but he’s not because he sometimes gets lucky and goes home with a girl and consistently turns dudes down). On many occasions over the past year, “Mr. Playa” has asked me to call him or give him my number so he can buy me some lunch or something. I finally dumped my girlfriend two months ago and called him, because I do have a crush on him, and now that I’m single, why not?

Wait – “girlfriend?”  What?

He promised to take me out about four weeks ago. Since then, we have stuck our hands down each other’s pants once (I blew him a little, too) and he has cancelled and rescheduled like three times and has not taken me out for shit, yet says he’s super-interested. I am losing patience, but have suddenly become INTENSELY attracted to the bastard because he’s acting so exclusive. What’s the deal? Trust me, I’m pretty hot, and what I don’t have in the hotness department, I make up for in nastiness (the sexy kind).

 

OK, I’m listening…

Also, I wanted to mention that Winnipeg is an actual city (small) and there is more than one dude and/or chick here I can hook up with. I just kind of am stuck on Mr. Playa because I rarely get played and this is new. (Admittedly, I’ve played a few girls, myself, and I’m recognizing the situation for what it is. What gives?!! I’m cute!!).

Anyway, I hope you will buy a bucket of chicken to eat for supper tonight.

Sonja

This is easy. 

 

This is what I know about Sonja from only this email:

 

1)     She is cute – and not because she tells me she is cute.  I get I would say about 30 emails a week from women saying that they’re cute and/or they have nice boobs (I’m not bragging; bear with me).  They usually go something like:

 

Jason,

I love your blog.  You should know that I’m hot – and I have great breasts!  You would love me.  Anyway, just thought you should know.

Love,

Candy

Toledo, OH

 

PS – You are not that fat.  And I would know, because I am hot (and have nice boobies)

 

These women, of course, do this to torment me, expecting me to curse the computer and say “Damn it!  I wish I was in Toledo!”  But of these 30 emailers, only one will actually include a picture (if that), and many times, she ain’t as cute or boobilicious as she claims to be.  So I don’t really care for or get excited about these emails anymore.  However, Sonja sent a picture.  She is cute.  Her boobiliciousness can not be determined, but she is cute.    

 

2)     Sonja is bisexual.  Comment vous dites “awesome”?  (Wait, I don’t think they speak French in Winnipeg, which is good because I’m not 100% sure that’s how you say “How do you say…” in French.  Whatever.  It’s still awesome).

 

3)     Sonja writes: “[W]hat I don’t have in the hotness department, I make up for in nastiness (the sexy kind).”  Again, awesome. 

 

My conclusion: something is seriously wrong with this guy.  Unless Sonja is withholding information, like forgetting to mention the part about how after they made out she set his garage on fire or when she saw him with another girl she beat her with a camera, something isn’t right with this man, because no guy in his right mind would turn down an attractive bisexual girl who likes him.

 

Unless…

 

Sonja is coming on too strong.  Remember, there is very much truth to that horrible movie quote, “We pursue that which retreats from us.”  Sonja herself admits that she likes this guy because he’s playing so hard to get.  Making yourself too available and too easy lowers your value in the eyes of the opposite sex.  Therefore, at all times it’s important to look in demand.  Because in love, as with all of life, perception is reality. 

 

My recommendation: Give him a taste of his own medicine and cool off a bit.  Appear less interested and see how that works out.  Remember that courtship is a game involving both manipulation and risk AND luck and fate.  “True love” is dead and has been replaced by “cold, calculated planning.”  Call his bluff by lessening your own interest and see how he responds.  If he gets more interested, which I think he will, then you win.  If he gets less interested, to hell with it – it wasn’t meant to be (and, like I said, it sounds like this guy has major judgment problems anyway). 

 

That’s my call.  But again, asking me for relationship/sex advice is like asking a Sudanese villager for to give you a quick recap of the basic theories of Econometrics or asking Nicole Ritchie who makes the best cheesecake in LA (zing! That that, Nicole Ritchie!  And who says I can’t do celebrity gossip?).        

 

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

 

Tammy from Wisconsin was the first to figure out the Catullus poem that I wrote about last Friday.  It is Number 45 (apparently, Catullus wasn’t good at the whole “titles” thing and just went with numbers). 

 

On the left is how the text appears in its original Latin, and on the right is my English translation.  I took four years of Latin in high school (in addition to two years of Greek AND three years of Spanish), winning silver medals each year in the National Latin Exam, and I scored a 4 on the AP Latin exam.  So I assure you this translation is completely accurate, though for sake of artful poetry of the Latin text, it is an idiomatic translation, not a literal one.  Enjoy, and be moved!

 

Acmen Septimius suos amores tenens in gremio ‘mea’ inquit ‘Acme, ni te perdite amo atque amare porro omnes sum assidue paratus annos, quantum qui pote plurimum perire, solus in Libya Indiaque tosta caesio veniam obvius leoni.’ Hoc ut dixit, Amor sinistra ut ante dextra sternuit approbationem. At Acme leviter caput reflectens et dulcis pueri ebrios ocellos illo purpureo ore suaviata, ‘sic’ inquit ‘mea vita Septimille, huic uni domino usque serviamus, ut multo mihi maior acriorque ignis mollibus ardet in medullis.’ Hoc ut dixit, Amor sinistra ut ante dextra sternuit approbationem. Nunc ab auspicio bono profecti mutuis animis amant amantur. Unam Septimius misellus Acmen mavult quam Syrias Britanniasque: uno in Septimio fidelis Acme facit delicias libidinisque. quis ullos homines beatiores vidit, quis Venerem auspicatiorem?

Septimius, holding his love Acme In his arms, said “My Acme, Unless I lose and love you through love And all sums through the years, Time that many lose potency, Alone in Lybia and India I toast A lion came into the obvious house.” As he said this, Love approved On the left before the right. And Acme raised her head reflecting, Gave the boy sweet kisses on drunken eyes, Purported suavely to him, “If, my life Septimius, Let us serve one master, And many major acquire, The hot flame burns in my brain.” As she said this, Love approved On the left before the right. Now from this auspicious perfect boner We love mutual minds that love. Miserable lonely Septimius mauls Acme More than Syrians and Britains; Acme has faith in one Septimius And a delicious libido. How many other men see beatings, Who Venus is auspicious?

 

Gorgeous.  Just gorgeous.  Kudos to Catullus and to myself.  TEAMWORK!

 

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If you’d like to see some pics of Halloween, you can view them on my MySpace profile.  I think you have to join to view them, but it only takes a second or two.  You can also see some general pictures of me, as well as some Frosting techniques.    

 

And for those already on MySpace, be my friend.  Only a handful of you all have discovered me on there, and my lack of popularity has made me sad.  God, I have terrible self-esteem.   

 

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Lindsey from Iowa City passed on this video of two Chinese kids doing their best Backstreet impression.  I can’t even make a joke about it.   

 

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If you like my Six Songs segment, you should really buy this book.  It contains pages and pages of playlists collected by ubiquitous blogger, Ultragrrrl, broken neatly into four categories: Essential Artists, Essential Genres, Celebrity Playlists, and Other Playlists.  My favorite is the Other Playlists section, which has such playlist gems as “Car Sex Songs”, “Entrance Music”, “Pooping Songs”, and “Sorry Your Dad Is Gay.”  It’s been next to my computer since I bought it and I refer to it often whenever I’m looking for some new music to steal.  So go buy it (and it’s only $10, too).

 

[And if you think I'm sucking up/pimping out another blogger, you are mistaken, as I'm pretty sure Sarah doesn't even like me in real life.  But we all suffer for our art, right?]

 

[Man, I should write a book.  I wonder, if I did get a book deal, how long it would take for the paperwork to finish.  Probably a long, long, long time.  Just a guess though.]

 

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Six Songs

(Listen to these songs at id1g1t) 

 

“Voices That Care”  Various

Does anyone remember this song besides me?  Every one of my friends draws a blank when I mention this song, which was recorded for the troops in the first Gulf War (or is it “The First Gulf War?”).  The talent here is immense: singing lead on the track was an eclectic mix of country music stars (Garth Brooks, Randy Travis), hip-hop artists (Bobby Brown, Will Smith, Ralph Tresvant), easy listening snoozers (Kenny G, Michael Bolton, Peter Cetera, Celine Dion) and “What the fuck?” people (The Nelsons, The Pointer Sisters, Warrant). 

 

Some celebrities/choir members were also a strange mix of personalities, including crazy people (Gary Busey, Mike Tyson), athletes who I’m guessing can’t really sing (Orel Hershiser, Wayne Gretzky, Brian Bosworth), weird actors who are no longer successful and/or alive (Alan Thicke, Dudley Moore, Fred Savage), and people with severe sexually transmitted diseases (Magic Johnson, Downtown Julie Brown, Ted Danson).  Incredible!

 

Also, even though I’m pretty sure I’m going to hell for this, but when I entered “Voices That Care” into Google Images, this is what I got.  I mean, these people are retarded, right?  Or is it that they’re just Welsh?  (Zing again!  I am on fire today!)  

 

“Queen Jane Approximately”  Bob Dylan

“Hey, when you’re sick of everything else, then come and talk to me, baby.”  Not a bad philosophy to have toward women.  Also, could you be “When you’ve fucked everything else up, then come and talk to me, baby.”  Either way is still better than my philosophy when it comes to courting women, which is “IF YOU SCREAM I SWEAR I WILL FUCKING KILL YOU!  NOW TAKE OFF YOUR SHIRT AND LET ME WATCH YOU MAKE SOME FUCKING LASAGNE!  AND DON’T BE SHY ON THE MEAT SAUCE!  NOW ADD THE RICOTTA!  JUST DO IT!”  Anyway, probably my fourth favorite Dylan song.  And no, I’m not going to tell you the top three.

 

“It Must Be Love”  Madness

I admit: I’d never heard this song until it was on that jeans commercial.  But I downloaded it and I like it.  Please don’t judge.

 

“Brown Skin”  India.Arie

A reader emailed this to me, suggesting it could go on my make-out mix.  One problem: it’s about two people with brown skin making out.  My skin is somewhere “printer paper white” and “clear”.  So of course I put it immediately on the list, hoping that if I do bring a girl home, she’ll be so moved by how non-racist I am she’ll volunteer to help me do the rainbow.  [sigh] A guy can dream. 

 

“Come To My Window (Acoustic)”  Melissa Etheridge

You have not experienced music until you’ve heard Melissa Etheridge do this song live with only an acoustic guitar.  Sadly, I don’t think I’m kidding. 

 

[Shhhh – hear that sound?  That's the sound of 1000 frat boys clicking off this site, never to return again.  As long as I have my CTMW, I'll be ok.]

 

[Seriously though, I'm not a Melissa Etheridge fan, but I think this song acoustic is pretty cool.  Let's just move on…]

 

“Off The Record”  My Morning Jacket

Here’s you for the past month: “Dude, you have got to listen to the new My Morning Jacket album.”

Here’s me: “Yeah, yeah, yeah – I’ll get around to it.”

You: “No, seriously bro, it’s really good.  You HAVE to listen to it.”

Me: “Alright, I said.  I’ll check it out when I get a chance.”

 

Well, I’ve had the chance.  And it’s really good.  This song goes from near-pop-ish rock to space/sex jam in the span of five and a half minutes.  And it’s not even one of the best songs on the album.  So check it out.

 

[And that's all.  Have a good weekend]

 

Boys and girls, I got a new toy. May I present to you, the Treo 650.

Now before ye pass judgment, hear me out. I am not a materialistic person. My wardrobe consists of clothes I buy at the same stores that every 26 year-old fat white dude with no fashion sense shops. But I don’t buy clothes very often. When I go out, I routinely hear from friends, "Dude, didn’t you wear that shirt last weekend?" To which I reply, "Dude, take it easy � my parents are divorced." You’d be surprised how much this works. On top of that (or more appropriately, below that), I own only two pairs of jeans. I wear both constantly. The shoes that I wear to work and when I go out to bars etc have holes in their soles, so that when I step in a puddle my feet are soaked for many hours (seriously). I own one pair of sneakers, which I’ve owned for over a year. So I guess what I’m saying is that I don’t have a lot of clothes.

As for other material things, I don’t collect anything. Baseball cards, art, cookware, dvds; I have none of these (or very few in the case of dvds). I play guitar, but haven’t bought a new guitar since 2001. One could argue that my iPod is materialistic and unnecessarily expensive, but I actually think that the iPod saved me money. Before going digital, I would buy countless cds for one or two songs. Now I just steal those songs off the internet! I’d even say that prior to owning the iPod, I’d buy about 30 cds a year. Since then, it’s more like three cds a year. So take that, sucka.

But I have longed for some time for a mobile device that will give me a) optimal service; b) primo text messaging; c) the ability to email; and d) web browsing capabilities. Also, I wanted something that would make me look cool in front of women, like a real high roller or some shit. This is not a joke, either. It makes me kind of sad to admit it, but part of the reason that I wanted a pimped-out cell phone was so that I could look hip. Please, kick my ass now.

A few posts back, I asked what you all thought of T-Mobile’s Sidekick. I didn’t know much about the Sidekick, but I knew that lots of celebrities used them. And as I get farther and farther away from "Internet Quasi-Celebrity" and closer and closer to "Poorly Respected Writer Who Gets Very Drunk at Parties in New York and Los Angeles and Spends All Night in the Bathroom", the Sidekick seemed like a reasonable option. But alas, you all said otherwise, panning the Sidekick for, well, just about everything.

So I did a little research on my own to see not only what was out there, but also what was feasible given my current cell phone status. I had Sprint and I wanted out (I have bemoaned the horrible service of my carrier Sprint very often here, so I need not rehash it here, even though I rehash the same fat/drunk/getting no ass jokes every week). But I am still under contract with Sprint until next May. To break that contract would cost $150, money that could be spent on better things, namely my two favorite seasonal winter habits: gambling and vodka. I have also been picked up phone sex as an interest of mine, presumably because the cold weather is keeping me in. At least that’s what I tell myself. But I digress�

So one day last week while ambling around Manhattan, I wandered into my local Sprint and saw it: the Treo 650. As soon as I saw I laid eyes on it, I knew it had to be mine. And so I grilled the guy at the store about my contract, the cost, etc, and told him I’d think about it and left the store. Of course, I did this only to seem like a smart consumer. When I left the store, I knew only one thing for certain: if I didn’t get that Treo, I would surely die.

This past weekend, I returned to the Sprint store with my posse in effect. It was the same crew that joined me as the Baldwin Brothers for Halloween � my roommate Brian and my buddies Bill and Joe in from Boston. I wanted them to come with me for moral support as I made such a rash and impetuous decision. They wanted to come with me so that after I made said decision (specifically, after my credit card was charged), they could say, "Dude � why did you do that? You don’t have that kind of money!" That’s what friends are for.

One of the requirements of the purchase was that I had to get a new number. I’d rather not get into the details of this, which involves a complicate mathematical formula taking into considering rebates, new activation discounts, and new contractual minutes. The bottom line is that it would be much cheaper for me if I got a new number, dig?

Before going to the Sprint store, my buddies and I had breakfast/lunch at LoSide, a nice lil’ hipsterish diner that opened on Houston Street a few months back. There, we discussed the possibilities of picking my own number and what I should choose if I were allowed to do this. I originally thought that 646-MULGREW would be best, because it’s easiest to remember (646 is one of the NYC cell phone area codes). Then, Joe suggested something like 646-RAPE-ASS. Brian had a slightly scary but unfortunately funny idea of 646-I-EAT-PEE, but then Bill put it all together with something stunning in its simplicity: 646-FUCK-YOU.

646-FUCK-YOU was going to be my new number. Undoubtedly so. I called the number (which translates to 646.382.5968) and � mother of pearl! � it was out of service. I presumed that this meant no one was using it, so I further presumed that it then must be available. I was so excited to get to the Sprint store that I couldn’t even finish my eggs benedict (well, ok, I could finish my eggs benedict � and most of Brian’s "Urban Cowboy Hash" � but you get it).

(Also I got a cookie to go. As a reward for such a good idea.)

I wasn’t entirely sure how the whole picking your own number process worked, but I knew it could be done. I mean, businesses have custom numbers all the time, so why couldn’t an individual chose one for his/her private line? I assumed that I’d have to pay a fee in order to get a custom number, and after mulling it over I decided that I was willing to pay around $1500 for 646-FUCK-YOU. Surely, the joy of telling my friends, my family, and women I met in bars that my number was FUCK-YOU was worth any price. And yes, I know that women don’t customarily ask me for my number in bars unless its part of an insurance claim report, but FUCK-YOU is still awesome.

I practically ran to the store. Well, I did my best impression of running, which looks like a cross between humping the air and "I’ve been shot in both hamstrings." When we arrived, I ran right up to the phone when the girl asked, "Can I help you?" I blurted out, "I want this phone!" with the intensity of a retard asking for more pudding.

And so it began. If you’re not familiar, getting a new cell phone is a long process. I was in the chair opposite the sales girl for maybe 30 minutes, as she asked for information and clicked things on her computer. We learned a lot about each other in that time. She was a 19 year-old from Brooklyn in her sophomore year at the College of Staten Island. She was studying sociology, but wanted to be a lawyer. She hadn’t decided which kind of law, though; she had a real estate license, so could probably do real estate law, but she wanted to "change the system." When I asked what she meant by that, she said, "Like, you know, cops? The cops are, like, supposed to protect you, but they don’t, you know? That’s just wrong." This leads me to believe that her boyfriend/brother/cousin must have gotten caught dealing and so now she hates cops. At least she was kind of cute, with dark hair and light eyes, but she had one of my pet peeves: some chunk, no chest.

Look, I like girls with some meat on their bones. This is mostly for health reasons, as I don’t want to crush my lady or bruise any of her ribs during one of our vigorous bouts of lovemaking. Also because since I’m a big guy myself, so I don’t want to date a girl that going to make us look like the number 10 when we stand next to each other. That just ain’t cool. But it’s mainly because I like boobies (have I mentioned this before on the site? No?). Typically, "healthy" girl equals big boobies. However, some girls have the "some chunk/no chest" syndrome, which is exactly what it sounds like: though they do have some meat to them, they have small boobies. This makes me sad, seeing as (I would imagine) one of the best thing about being a lil’ chubby to very chubby girl is massive mambas. It’s kinda like the equivalent to how guys who are big and fat don’t usually get messed with or picked on because even if they secretly are pussies, others are intimidated by their size. But healthier women without boobs = sadness. Mostly for me.

Having said this, I still would have married this girl in a heartbeat and spent the rest of my life making her moderately happy because was most helpful when I told her that I wanted a custom number. I told her that I would pay whatever it costs and whatnot, but she said that she couldn’t give me a custom number, saying that when a new number is activated, she gets a list of possible numbers to choose from. And that’s it.

I was crushed. I wanted 646-FUCK-YOU so bad that when I heard it wasn’t going to happen, I think I blacked out for a few minutes. Horrible, horrible, horrible. Not yet ready to throw in the towel, I instead sat in the chair and sulked, saying things like, "Man, I was really hoping to get that custom number" and "That sucks � I’m pretty bummed about not being able to pick my number" and sighing heavily. Finally, she broke down and asked, "Well, what is the number? I can check to see if it’s here." Realized that this was the point of no return, I told her, "I really want it to be 646-FUCK-YOU."

To my surprise and delight, she laughed. I was in love. She cross-checked her available numbers, but FUCK-YOU wasn’t available. I was sad. But then the floodgates opened.

Me: "Ok, what about 646-PISS-ASS? I would also take 646-COCK-ASS, 646-I-LUV-ASS, or 646-GIMME-ASS."
Her: [typing away] "Nope. What else? And �GIMME-ASS’ is eight numbers."

Me: "I know, I’m trying here. Um, 646-CHICKEN?"

Her: [typing away] "No. Next?"

Me: "Ok, ok. 646-EAT-SHIT? 646-BIG-POOP? �Poop’ and �shit’ are interchangeable, really."

This went on for a solid fifteen minutes. When my dad was 26, he had been working full-time for eight years, had a two year old son, and a wife of three years. I’m 26, and I’m spending my Sunday afternoon hungover in a cell phone store trying to customize my number around vulgarities so that I can buy a phone that represents 5% of the cost of my dad’s first home. God bless America.

Eventually, we couldn’t find anything suitable (sad, I know), so I went with something "easy", though I’m not quite sure how easy my new number is. I said goodbye to Sprint store girl and left. It was sad. More for me, less for her.

But the good news is that I got the Treo and I absolutely love it. I love texting and making calls and most importantly, I love walking around New York City using it in front of people. Of course, I haven’t figured out how to email or use the internet on it and I more than likely never will, but that’s not important. What’s important is that I got a self-esteem boost because of a purchase. And anything that ups my self-esteem, no matter what the economic, physical, or emotional cost, is a good thing.

Amen.

(But I really would have liked to have gotten 646-FUCK-YOU. I’m sorry, but it’s going to take me a while to get over this. We’re just going to have to work through it together.)