Articles Archive for Year 2006
In grade school, I had perfect attendance in six of eight years. I missed one day in third grade because I spent the night throwing up; when I woke up at 11 and realized my mom kept me out of school, I was furious (nerd alert!). Then in fifth grade I got a nasty case of the chicken pox and had to take a whole week off. That time around I was more forgiving of my mom for keeping me out of school, since I was just starting to figure out that yes, girls are pretty, and yes, maybe I’d like to touch some of them under their shirts, so no, it was probably not a good idea for me to go to school covered in red bumps and smelling like rice pudding.
(The red bumps were from the chicken pox, the rice pudding scent because I loved rice pudding – see below.)
Aside from those times, I never missed a day of school. While this was in large part because I was – for the most part – a healthy child, it’s also because my illnesses had a way of timing themselves. I got sick in summer more than anyone else I knew, but the real time that sickness reared its ugly head was during what should have been my favorite time of year: Christmas.
In keeping with 2006′s theme as "The Year of Nostalgia," I was sick over Christmas. Kind of. I actually didn’t sick until I woke up on Christmas night (technically the 26th) at 4:38am. I’ve spent the past 2.5 days alternatively shivering and sweating, consuming nothing but Theraflu and ice cream. Merry Christmas.
But today I feel better, if not tired, as my sleeping cycle is all screwed up. And now my task is to write something (semi-)entertaining about a Christmas that was, by most accounts, pretty ordinary. Yes, I drank until 5:30 in the morning on Christmas Eve, and yes, I was privy to an inordinate amount of drunk driving (which I don’t condone, by the way), and yes, I have to get my mom a new computer because her current one does not have the proper operating system to run her new iPod but also doesn’t have enough memory to hold songs, but for the most part, it was a lovely little Christmas. Sorry, but that’s how it is. Maybe I’ll do something more entertaining involving a missing puzzle piece and a Navy vet, but I can’t promise that.
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How about them Eagles, boy? That’s the best Christmas present I could have asked for right there – a thorough whipping of the Cowboys. I don’t want to push our luck so I’ll leave it at that, but I feel pretty happy. Maybe that’s just the booze talking, but I feel pretty good.
(Until Atlanta destroys us on New Year’s Eve and we get to go into Seattle, a city I like but a team I hate. That’ll be awesome.)
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Little Italy is absolutely unbearable this time of year.
It’s not even that the streets are packed (which they are), but that the people packing the streets are unfamiliar with the basic concept of walking: place one foot in front of the other, repeat. Traffic in my neighborhood has been heightened to two single file lines, each walking in step in the opposite direction. So when you’re carrying your dry cleaning, a six pack of Sam Adams Cherry Wheat, and $40 worth of rice pudding (god I wish I was joking about that last one) and in the course of your three block walk home several of the tourists in front of you stop suddenly and turn around to look up at the street and restaurant signs, there results near-fatal accidents (the fatalities not arising from the accidents themselves, but from the vicious punches in the face and/or neck that you inflict upon the moron tourists after almost falling over them over and over again).
The only redeeming quality of the unbearable foot traffic from a social observation point of view is that you get a prime glimpse of guidos, past and future. By this I mean that there are dozens, possibly hundreds, of Italian American families on a night out that contain: one late 30′s/early 40′s alpha male Father wearing leather jacket and jewelry (gold chain, rings), possibly showing chest hair and definitely with hair slicked back; one submissive female Mother, caked with every drop of make-up the Sephora has to offer, screaming after her children and occasionally getting yelled at by her husband about where the car is parked/where the restaurant is/"Let me carry the bag"; two Children – at least one male – wearing expensive sneakers and mini-versions of their parents jewelry, running roughshod on the street, and fighting each other.
As much as I despise them, I don’t think I’ll ever stop being fascinated by Eye-tals. And at least they walk faster than the other tourists.
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Book pick
The Restless Sleep: Inside New York City‘s Cold Case Squad by Stacy Horn
I’m going to make this really simple for you: if, like me, you like murder shows (Cold Case Files, Law & Order, The First 48 Hours, etc), then you’ll love this book, which is, as the title suggests, a look inside NYC’s Cold Case Squad. The author follows around individual detectives working on cold cases and the result is fascinating: not only does she get in-depth into the specifics of the various cold murders, but she also provides insights into the bureaucracy of the NYPD and the Cold Case Squad and does a great job profiling the men and women involved in the cases.
I guarantee that if you start this book, you will finish in under a week. If you read a lot, you will knock it out in two or three days. Highly recommended.
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Six Songs
"Hip Hop Is Dead" Nas
As my frat boy friends in Seattle would say, this track is hella tight. Actually, the whole album is pretty solid, and I admit that I’m very hot and cold with Nas. The first time I heard this song I was in the passenger seat of a car driven by a drunk buddy, speeding around the streets of Philly at 4:30 in the morning. Also it was raining. And he was texting. It was not a good scene. But a good song.
"Everything’s Turning to Gold" The Rolling Stones
I haven’t featured a random-but-awesome Rolling Stones song in a while, so here you go.
"Slaveship" Josh Rouse
I don’t know who I’m going to marry (if I had to guess, I’d probably say my old roommate Brian), but this song will be played four times at my wedding: twice during cocktail hour and twice during dinner – not in a row, but spaced out. It is the sweetest and catchiest love song just about ever. Last week I told you that "Sexy Sadie" was my favorite song; this is in the top five.
"Good Houses" Madeline
My mom and I were driving back to NYC on Tuesday and as I lay sick and shivering in the car, this song came on one of the local college radio stations. I nearly shit myself – and not just because I was sick. I was pretty moved by it, so much so that I came home, googled the lyrics, found the name of the song, and bought the album on the spot. That is some powerful stuff right there. You can listen to the mp3 here. Sad and spooky and sweet.
"Good Feeling" Violent Femmes
I can feel myself getting lazier as I listen to this song. I mean, no one is trying hard here. Which is probably why I enjoy it so much.
"Can You Please Crawl Out Your Window?" Jimi Hendrix
Look, Bob Dylan is a genius and deserves every heap of praise, um, heaped upon him. Most would agree that he is one of – if not the – greatest lyricist of all time. But he’s not one of – if not the – greatest guitar player of all time. So when happens when you put lines like:
He sits in your room, his tomb, with a fist full of tacks
Preoccupied with his vengeance
Cursing the dead that can’t answer him back
I’m sure that he has no intentions
Of looking your way, unless it’s to say
That he needs you to test his inventions.
With the guitar stylings of James Marshall Hendrix? You get Jason, lathered up and half-masturbating in the shower, singing very loudly and sort of swaying, smacking his belly to the drum beat, maybe crying a little bit (but in a good way). Yeah, it’s that powerful.
(Oh, and Dylan’s original version is pretty solid, too.)
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Happy New Year to y’all. If you live in the Philadelphia area, be sure to watch the Mummers Parade on New Year’s Day and look for Froggy Carr in the Comics. Last year, I was interviewed on TV. This year, I hope to be arrested on TV. Wish me luck.
But I wanted to share two emails with you. Here’s the first:
Hey i really like reading your blog. You have some great stuff there.
Was curious about one post where you said you saw Sarah Michelle Gellar while waiting for her car. Do you know what she was wearing or whether she was smoking? I heard she does smoke but is pretty self conscious about it. Also wondering whether she had blonde hair when you saw her or her new brunette style.
I get one or two emails a month asking me specific questions about when I waited in a valet line next to Sarah Michelle Gellar once in LA – and they never fail to creep me the fuck out. They all ask questions like this: what she looked like, what she was wearing, what kind of car she drives, was she with anyone, etc. I have no real comment on this except "Ew, gross." Hey, if I have to feel creeped out, then you have to, too.
[I should add that this email, like the rest of the emails I've gotten asking for information about her, are not coming from 12 year old girls who like Buffy, but by men, probably men who live in basements of the houses in which they grew up.]
The second email made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside and even made me cry a little. It comes from Justin in NYC:
I love your shit; seriously, I love it. Thanks for all of the laughs.
Side note: Muslim Ron and the Juggernauts is under your copyright being that it is featured content on your site. I have a brief query. I am in the process of forming a band; rather, I have formed a band. We gave a brief performance at Juilliard last year and are confirming details for another performance next year. In jest we referred to our ensemble as Muslim Ron and the Juggernauts, the result of further consideration and contemplation has created the desire in my heart to officially christen our musical endeavor with the title listed above.
Might I receive your gracious permission to name my band using your copyrighted text?
Wow. I feel like a father giving his daughter away on her wedding day. I’ve been in love with the band name Muslim Ron and the Juggernauts for years, but I always knew I’m too lazy to form my own band and use this name. Since I can’t marry my own daughter, I have to give her to a good man, or, in this case, some guy named Justin who emailed me.
Yes, Justin, you can use the band name – consider this "express written consent." I wish you and the rest of Muslim Ron and the Juggernauts success and stardom and I expected some serious returns in the groupie department should you hit it big.
(And not cast-off groupies – sexy ones. Dig?)
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The Allen Iverson trade…makes me sad.
Look, I know that he had to go. I’m not mad about that. Hell, if I were as talented as he is, I wouldn’t want to play for the Sixers either.
And I’m thankful for everything he gave the city. Through thick and thin, the city loved him because he had balls. Philadelphians love balls.
This is why I’m sad to see him go. The greatest Philadelphia sports moment of my lifetime was not when the Eagles beat Atlanta to advance to the Super Bowl in 2005, but when the Iverson-led Sixers beat Shaq and Kobe in Game One of the 2001 NBA Finals. Iverson scored a whopping 48 points in that game and the Sixers won in overtime – in Los Angeles. It was a stunner, since even Philly experts were predicting not just a Lakers victory, but a sweep. And here comes Allen, bouncing around the room, freaking brothers every way like MJ…he was incredible. I watched the game down the shore with my girlfriend at the time and I actually teared up a little bit, so close was I, was the city of Philadelphia, to a championship. It was one of the best nights of my life, and then my girl and I had sex 1.5 times. Shortly afterward, the Sixers lost the next four and the girl and I broke up. Strikes and gutters.
As for the trade itself, I’d like to point out something about those two first-round draft picks that people in Philly seem to be overlooking: THOSE PICKS ARE IN THE 20′S. Yeah, everyone says it’s the deepest draft in years, but drafts are such a crapshoot that I saying this year is deep is not comforting to me at all. And yet all my Philly friends are pointing to those picks like we’re going to land the next Tim Duncan and Steve Nash, when the odds of even one of those two 20-something picks working out are less than 10%. Justifying the Iverson trade by saying that we got two first-round picks is like bragging to your friends that you’re dating a cheerleader who actually only has one eye. Yeah, she’s a cheerleader and yeah, that’s kinda hot, but dude – she’s got one eye. It’s important to keep things in perspective here, something Philly fans (myself included) often have trouble doing.
So how it stands now is that Allen Iverson, a stalwart of Philly sports and for years one of (if not the) best shows in town, is gone. The Sixers are either the worst of second-to-worst team in the NBA. The Flyers are either the worst or second-to-worst team in the NHL. Pat Gillick’s big offseason additions to the Phillies have been Freddy Garcia (ok) and Adam Eaton (a fly ball pitcher going to Citizens Bank should work out really well) on the pitching side and Wes Helms (?) and Rod Barajas (???) for offense. And of course, on Christmas Day, I’m going to get the worst gift of all: a 34-16 beating of the Birds by the hated Cowboys.
…
Can I switch allegiances? I know it’s frowned about, but I think I can make a pretty good case for becoming a fan of another city’s teams. I’m not asking you to answer now – just think about it.
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A belated, public thanks to the good folks at the Letter D, 1-2-3 I Love You, and Slack Lalane for holding down the fort while I was on vacation. I thanked them privately already, but wanted to do so here once again. Terrific job.
Also, some notes about emails I’ve gotten about the pictures from my vacation (Set One and Set Two):
- Yes, I know my friend Annie is hot. Please stop MySpace messaging her, you lonely perverts.
- That applies to all of my MySpace friends. It’s ok to be creepy to me, but leave my friends alone, please.
- I do not look like a lumberjack in some of the pictures.
- I’m sorry that you think my beard is gross.
- I like my hat.
That is all.
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I few weeks ago, I posted the video to Eric Prydz’s "Call on Me" and mentioned that it got me all riled up. Then one of you jerks emailed me to say that all the girls in the video are actually transsexuals, that this was Eric’s like joke on the world.
Thus began the most confusing several minutes of my life. I googled this like a mother fucker, searching just about every incarnation of "Prydz", "transsexual", "video", "call on me", and "is jason mulgrew gay", and couldn’t find any evidence to back this up.
(I even showed the clip to my friend Nicole, who exclaimed, "They have hips!")
So for now, we’re operating under the assumption that all the girls in the video are actually girls. If they are, in fact, transsexuals, all I ask is that you not tell my dad that I enjoy(ed) this video. It’s just too close to the holidays. Thank you for your cooperation.
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Similar to Six Songs, I’ll occasionally be recommending a Book Pick to you all. Perhaps it will be one I’ve read recently or an old favorite, fiction or non-fiction, but I’ll try to switch it up.
Book Pick
Road Work by Mark Bowden
An eminently readable book by the author of Black Hawk Down, Road Work is a collection of twenty stories written through the course of the journalist’s career, covering topics ranging from a day in the life of Saddam Hussein to crooked Philadelphia cops to Al Sharpton’s presidential run. Despite its length (460 pages), I read this book on one cross-country flight and two days. This is not a testament to my speed-reading ability, but to Bowden’s way of presenting a story. A great fucking read, and one of the best non-fiction works I’ve read not just this year, but in a long time.
Lazy reader’s bonus: The stories cover such a variety of topics that if you’re not interested, you can skip to the next one. For example, I don’t give a fuck about Al Sharpton – I think he’s a major asshole – but I was so entranced by the way Bowden presented his stories that I read the piece anyway (which only strengthened my belief that Sharpton really is an asshole).
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Six Songs
"Sexy Sadie" The Beatles
This is my favorite song. It is absolutely perfect. It is without flaw. When I first listened to it, it was the most magical thing I’ve ever heard. When I last listened to it, it was the most magical thing I’ve ever heard. That is all there is to say, really.
"Poison Lovers" Steve Earle and Siobhan Kennedy
Do any ladies out there want to sing with me? We’ll put on cowboy hats, smoke a shit-ton of weed, do our music thing, then lay around eating pancakes. Please don’t reply all at once.
(Oh, it’s a really sweet song, too. But sad sweet, not happy sweet.)
"Soul and Fire" Sebadoh
My buddy Eric, who knows so much about music that it kind of scares me, recommended this song to me while I was out in LA. It’s tremendous…it has this incredible sadness juxtaposed with these dirty guitars and power chords that leaves a feeling of, "You know what – it sucks now but it’ll be alright" taste in your mouth. Or maybe that’s just hoagie. Whatever.
"Dead Funny" Archie Bronson Outfit
The song was recently recommended to me by the girl with whom I had the worst sex of my life (and believe me, I’ve had a LOT of bad sex in my life, but this was the worst). This is really her fault and not mine. Not so much because she was bad, but because she didn’t give me the proper heads up. If she had said early in the night of the copulation, "Hey, I think we should do it later," I probably would have tempered my drinking a little bit. Instead, when she decided to make her move at the end of the night, I had already smoked a bunch of times; drank countless beers, a half bottle of vodka, some vanilla extract, and a liter of kerosene; and ate at least two whole chickens in the form of boneless buffalo wings. So really, what was she expecting? Antonio Fucking Banderas?
She and I were (and still are) friends and I’ve been begging her for ages for another chance to prove that while I’m bad, I’m not "caveman sex" bad (read: strictly to get the job finished, featuring lots of hair and gross noises, and maybe a stray punch of two before eating something undercooked), but she has resisted. However, she recently sent me an email saying she might consider it if I were to perform a choreographed dance to this song. For some reason, she finds this hysterical.
The point: if any readers in the NYC area are dancers, please contact me. I need some help.
(I can’t have no one going around talking about how bad of a lover I am. It’s ok when I do it – hell, it’s even charming – but not when anyone else does.)
"Une Annee Sans Lumiere" The Arcade Fire
I hated this album when it came out. Now I love it. It’s so ambient it’s a little frightening (and I don’t mean that like "I’m frightened how much ambience this album exudes"; I mean "I’m frightened when I listen to this album"). This is probably my favorite track. It’s dark, sexy, and desperate, just like me.
"Big River" Johnny Cash
While on vacation, I listened to Johnny Cash’s "Complete Live at San Quentin" quite a lot and decided that I was going to learn the guitar parts for every song on the album when I got home. Then I got back to NYC and my guitar and learned that I am the worst country guitarist in America today, and possibly in American history. It’s frustrating because it sounds pretty easy but the timing is so weird…it’s really kind of infuriating that I can’t figure it out. Not only is this track (probably) my favorite on the album but it’s also the first track, and is as great as an opening track on any live album there is – a real romper with a guitar line that gets you out of your seat and your fist in the air. And there is absolutely no fucking way I can play it. Crap.
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Once again, Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays. Have a wonderful (and safe) weekend. Remember, I both love and am in love with you.
(We’ll be back next week.)
Ever since I graduated college, Christmas has been more of a chore than anything else. I have to take off work, commute home on trains packed with people, and try to convince my family that I’m doing more with my life than taking naps at work and getting drunk in dark bars four nights a week. I mean, does that sound like fun?
(I mean, the taking naps at work and drinking in dark bars is fun, but explaining it…not so much.)
But the real reason that Christmas has sucked since graduation is that because for the first time in my life I was expected – nay, required – to buy gifts for others.
I don’t mean that I didn’t buy gifts for my family members before. Of course, I did – I’m not an ungrateful child. But before the gifts would be crappy, usually a box of chocolates for my mom and a pack of smokes of my dad. So basically I spent the first 22 years of my life trying to fatten up my mom and kill my dad.
I don’t enjoy buying gifts because there is a lot of pressure in gift-giving. Now that I’m working and expected to buy decent gifts, I want to buy my family (and in the past, previous lovers) gifts that are awesome and incredible. I concede that this is more true in the case of previous girlfriends, as my mom would have the same reaction if I bought her a Lexus or flowers ("Oh – how nice! This wasn’t expensive, was it?") and my dad would give the same response whether I gave him a new wrench or the Philadelphia Eagles ("…") (then, "Thanks, Ron.").
But in a way, gift-giving is a kind of competition, and I want to win. I’m sure this is an unhealthy way to approach giving someone a present, but I usually don’t do things with either my physical or mental health in mind. Besides, my desire to be the better gift-giving results in someone else getting a really sweet present, so it’s not all bad.
Gifts are dangerous because giving one is also a form of evaluating the recipient. When you give a friend or a lover a gift, you’re saying, "This is what you’re worth to me." Maybe an example will help. Say you’re dating a girl long distance. On her birthday, you take two days off work and fly out to spend a very long weekend with her, even staying in a swanky hotel. One day while you’re at the hotel and she’s at work, you fill the room with flowers and get a birthday cake and wine to surprise her when she gets home. Then you give her a digital camera (that you spent weeks researching and cost you more than a month’s rent in most major American cities) and take her out to dinner a few nights, all to celebrate her birthday weekend. All this means that you probably like that girl, that you value her highly.
Then, for example, say two months later as your birthday approaches, she keeps saying that she can’t fly out to see you but you think she’s setting you up for a surprise. But when the day of your birthday rolls around, you get a FedEx tube in the mail that contains a 1) t-shirt and 2) a beer poster, two gifts that are perfectly acceptable to receive if you are dating a homeless person or high school junior. But since you are dating a girl of means equal to yours, these gifts probably mean that the girl likes…your digital camera.
(And it doesn’t make you petty to complain about this, because you know it’s not about the cost but the effort. It makes you bitter, immature, pathetic, and ultimately impotent, but not petty. And at least your friends get a kick out of reminding you about the $2000 beer poster rolled up in your closet, as they are dickheads.)
The point is that gifts matter more than most people will let on and should be considered very carefully. While there is no objective standard to what makes a great gift, the perfect gift is the right combination of thought, effort, and to an extent, cost (what – don’t people like nice things?).
Now the good news: this does not apply to me at all this Christmas, because I’m single (surprisingly, right?) and my family has told me exactly what they want.
My Dad: Sneakers
It’s always difficult to buy for my dad. He has several likes, but I’m unfamiliar with many of them. For example, we’ve already touched upon his devotion to cigarettes, which I partake of only in strip clubs. He loves his truck and all things auto-related, whereas I know so little about cars that typically at gas stations I pop the hood of the car and spray the shit everywhere. He also loves sports, but doesn’t like to go to games and isn’t into memorabilia. So there’s not much to work with.
This year, my brother and sister and I asked my dad what he wanted. His response? Sneakers (me), socks and t-shirts (my brother), and a membership at the local firing range (my sister). I’m not sure if it’s a good idea for a man who takes 15 pills a day to be firing a gun on a regular basis, but I guess we’ll see about this. And my sister drew that one because, really, what better present can daddy’s little girl get her dad than a membership to a gun club?
My mom is a bit opposed to this:
Me: "So dad wants a membership to the firing range?"
Mom: "He’s crazy. He can’t be firing a gun." [Editor's Note: my dad has a very bad back, hence (most of) the pills]
Me: [making shit up] "Well, that’s not entirely true. You can get, like, a small caliber weapon or something."
Mom: "Yeah, but it’s not like he’s going to be shooting…um…shooting…"
Me: "People?"
Mom: [frustrated] "No, Jas, but it’s not like he’s going to be hunting bears or anything."
Me: [incredulous] "Dad used to hunt bears?"
Mom: [completely exasperated] "I don’t know, Jas…"
But hey – that’s my sister’s battle to fight. I already got my dad’s sneakers – size 10.5, black New Balances, per his request. One down, three to go.
My Mom: iPod
My mom actually did not say that she wanted an iPod; I convinced her. She sees that all three of her kids have one and how much we listen to them and she’s always liked gadgets, so I got her the green nano.
The problem is that I’m entering a world of pain with this gift. She’s already asked me four times if I can put music on it for her so she can listen to it right away, and each time I’ve patiently explained that you can’t just throw music on there, that it is a process. Also, she asked me if she could somehow hook my sister Megan’s iPod up to her new iPod to get music. When I told her that that was not possible, she then asked if she could hook up her new iPod to my iPod to get music.
(Quoth a brilliant man, "Parents just don’t understand.")
My brother Dennis: cash
Really, the sweetest gift of all.
My sister Megan: cash
The sweetest gift of all, part two.
[Quick aside: In college, my buddy Conor and I used to joke about getting each other a card with $1000 in twenties in it for Christmas. It'd be like something out of "Goodfellas"; we say "Merry Christmas", hand the cards to each other, and count out the stack of 20's. I'd still like to do this, but my friends are so untrustworthy that if I were in the same room as them with $1000 in my possession, I would probably never come out alive.]
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Right now, you’re probably thinking, "So Jason, what do you want for Christmas?" Or maybe you’re thinking, "I don’t even know why I read this website." Whatever. Since the second wasn’t a question, here’s the answer to the first:
A sweet wallet
Though this isn’t the reason why I want a wallet, I once read somewhere that women in NYC look at two things to determine a man’s worth: his watch and his shoes. I don’t wear a watch, as I think (for the most part) they are tacky. As for shoes, I am way too straight to spend more than $150 on a pair of shoes. Sorry. This is non-negotiable.
I’ve been carrying a wallet since I was 12, so that’s 15 years. In those 15 years, I’ve had maybe four wallets, which I carried until they’ve fallen into tatters. All four wallets were purchased at rest stops along the New Jersey Turnpike or Mass Pike, and cost a combined $20.
Since $20 for 15 years of wallets is not that bad, I think it’s time to splurge and get myself a nice new one. Sure, I don’t even know where they sell nice wallets (maybe a nice rest stops?), but I’ll figure that out later.
A cleaning lady
My buddy Kyle came up to stay with me this weekend and gave me a serious talking to about the cleanliness of my apartment. I personally think the apartment is pretty clean – it’s not like there are rats running around or pubes in the fridge or anything – but apparently, it’s not up to Kyle’s standards. Normally, I wouldn’t care what Kyle thinks of my apartment, but then he said something that struck a chord: "Dude, there’s no way you could bring a girl back to this apartment."
Well, that raised a few red flags.
So I’m going to get a cleaning lady. I figure, best case scenario I get a clean apartment and someone to have sex with for an extra $30 a week. Worst case scenario, I get robbed. I’m a little lonely right now (it’s tough around the holidays) and have been a gambling god lately, so that’s a risk I’m going to take.
A beard trim (possible)
Lisa from Philly, who’s totally awesome, wrote me an email when I was ranting about the steel wool-like rattiness of my beard telling me that I should go to a nice barber shop and get it trimmed, as it’s an ancient, manly art. That is a perfect gift for me.
But there’s a catch: I’m pretty sure I’m shaving the beard. I’ve threatened this before, but I was thinking of starting the New Year sans facial hair. I mean, I can always grow it back in a few weeks and sometimes it’s nice to be clean-shaven, if only to make sure I haven’t developed any major skin rashes or deformities under the beard.
So the jury’s still out on this one. If I don’t shave it, I’m getting the barber-style trim. Otherwise, no trim. Although maybe it’d be nice to go someplace other than Supercuts for a haircut. Whatever.
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But that’s about it. I’m a simple man with simple needs. And probably an STD. But we’ll get into that later.
Good luck with any last-minute shopping and, if I don’t write tomorrow, Merry Christmas. I love you all, but in very different ways. And you know exactly what I’m talking about.
There are very few things that I am unequivocally opposed to: cats, interracial relationships, the band Kiss, people who give attitude to waiters and/or tip poorly, and kissing women after blowjobs. But there is something that I hate more than even these odious things: working hard.
(On second thought, I actually don’t mind kissing women after they give blowjobs, since at least that means I’ve gotten a blowjob. Unless, of course, said woman – well, girl, really – gave my old roommate Brian a blowjob and then in her drunken state mistakenly wandered into my bedroom looking for a make out session. But that only happened, like, four times. And it cost me $27. So it’s not like I didn’t do the right thing.)
Just as I got back from vacation last week, my manager went on vacation. Since then, my life has fallen into a downward spiral of deceit, manipulation, dangerous sexual activity, and hard work. This is why I’ve been MIA lately. Not because I write this at work (how foolish would that be!), because when I get home from work at 10pm, I barely have the strength to undress myself, fill up the tub, and stick the bar of soap in my ass, let alone write a post.
All this hard work is because my manager and I specialize in the same area, so when he goes away, the work of that specialization – and by default much of his managerial work – slides to me.
(Think of is this way: my co-workers and I are like the superheroes in the League of Justice with our different areas of specialization. There’s a Green Lantern, there’s a Batman, Wonder Woman, etc. My manager is like Superman. I’m kinda like Superboy. So I have similar powers as my manager/Superman, but am far less effective and much less intimidating. Did Superboy ever get a hold of the reins in the League of Justice? No, because he would run that shit into the ground – which is precisely what is happening in my department right now. I would not be surprised if when my manager returns to work, the whole building is on fire and I’m standing outside eating a cup of soup, wearing a blanket and watching fireman and people rush by, saying things like, “Man, that got out of control pretty fast!” and “I thought everything was going fine!” and “This chowder is delicious! It’s so rich!”)
What’s worse is that the hard work has been stressful. Normally, I’m not phased by a couple of thirteen hour days. But, despite the fact that it’s the holiday season, there’s been an unexplainable tension in the air, which I attribute to the fact that it is the holiday season. Last week was a long, shitty week and this week hasn’t proved any better.
But at least I had an awesome Sunday.
On that glorious day, I woke up with a sexy broad in my bed, won $1400, watched a great football game, and finally conquered my nemesis: the Famous Bowl. Now, let’s focus on the three of those facts that are true.
Woke up with a sexy broad
(Just checking to see if you’re paying attention – she wasn’t that sexy.)
Won $1400
I’ve mentioned before that this season I took part in the annual survivor pool run by my buddy Hal (who asked that I mention on here how awesome his pool is and tell the ladies that yes, he is single), along with 70 or so other people. All one had to do is pick one team to win each week, no spreads. If they lost, you were out of the pool. If they won, you advanced to the next week.
The catch: you couldn’t pick the same team twice. So that means that theoretically, as the season progresses, you will have picked the good teams first, so that by Week Ten or so you’re picking middle of the road teams to beat teams that are toward the crappy end of the road.
This past week, I was one of only three of the original seventy people left. I analyzed which teams my opponents had yet to pick and guessed that this week they would both pick the Seattle Seahawks over the San Francisco 49ers. This was the game with the largest spread that they had left.
(However, you don’t know who the other participants have picked until after the games have started. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be fair.)
So my choice was simple: on my assumption, I could go with my opponents and take the Seahawks, who I also hadn’t picked. This would guarantee that I’d at least pass to the next week: if the Seahawks lost and all three of us had picked them, we’d all move on; if they won, same thing. However, while taking the Seahawks would guarantee that I wouldn’t lose, it would also guarantee I wouldn’t win.
Enter option two: I could take a different team, hope for an upset by the 49ers, and hope even more my team won. Since my balls, though closer to peas than to grapes, are hairy and full of life and danger, I decided to man up and take the Baltimore Ravens over the Cleveland Browns, as they were the best team I had left. Fuck the Seahawks and playing to advance – I was going all or nothing, baby!
Since I’m not a good storyteller and kinda gave it away, you can probably guess what happened. I was correct in assuming my opponents took the Seahawks. I took the Ravens. The Seahawks were stunned at home by the 49ers, who scored 21 points in the fourth quarter to take the victory. I spent half the Ravens-Browns game, which was not televised nationally, checking the scores on my computer, then the other half glued to a TV at the bar my friends and I went to to catch the late Eagles-Giants game. Though it was closer than I would have liked, Baltimore won 27-17. And I won $1400.
Fuck, yeah.
While I can’t say I’m surprised, since I’ve been having a MONSTER gambling season and know pretty much everything about football (did I mention I’m in the championship game in my main fantasy league next week?), $1400 – cash – is a lot of fucking money (and yes, I realize that I shouldn’t be writing this because of tax considerations, but no, there’s no way I’m reporting it).
Aside from work, which as I mentioned has been a fucking disaster lately, things have been really good for me lately, a trend I thought was culminated in my win in the survivor pool. So to stay on the good side of karma and to make my friends like me more, I bought all the drinks and food at the bar during the Eagles-Giants game. I know, I know – you wish you were friends with me. But be careful what you wish for. Because I’m pretty lonely. So if you want to hang out, just email me. I just want someone to talk to. Maybe I could sleep over your place. Whatever.
Watched a great football game
After the $1400 payday, I was certain that the Eagles would be crushed by the Giants in the 4pm game. Having been a Philadelphia fan all my life, I thought this even before I won the survivor pool, but my win made me even more certain the Eagles were fucking toast.
But I’ll be damned – the Eagles played rather not-so-bad and beat the hated Giants! I can’t really get into much more in-depth analysis than this, since I was pretty well fucked up during most of the game, but it doesn’t matter! They won! Fuck yeah, again!
What’s more unbelievable is that now the Eagles – to use one of the most asinine sayings in sports – “control their own destiny” (how do you control a destiny? isn’t it by nature beyond one’s control?). If the Eagles beat Dallas and Atlanta, they win the NFC East crown. Five weeks ago when Donovan McNabb went down, part of me was kind of glad – at least now I didn’t have to stress while watching games. Yet now the Eagles are two wins away from the NFC East title and a major fucking collapse from missing the playoffs.
(And the way the NFC is this year, all you have to do is get in and take it from there. What a fucking mess. I’m fairly sure there are bar teams in major cities that, if properly inspired and soused, could give the any of the NFC teams trouble. What a fucking disaster.)
But of course none of this matters. See, what God likes to do to Philly fans is give them just enough hope to keep them hanging on only to break their heart. I’ve written before that what Daniel Patrick Moynihan said after the assassination of JFK – “To be Irish is to know that in the end, the world will break your heart” – could easily be applied to Philly fans, especially Eagles fans. Well, guess what – I’m both Irish(-American) and a Philly fan, so I’m expecting some major bruises over the next two weeks.
So I’d better enjoy this week while it lasts.
Conquered my nemesis, the Famous Bowl
For those of you who haven’t turned on an American television in the past nine month, KFC is hawking something called the Famous Bowl. Never mind the inherent arrogance in debuting something and calling it “famous”, but these bowls appear, depending on how much you weigh, either as an example of everything that’s wrong with America or heaven on earth. Why? Four reasons: a pile of mashed potatoes, corn, cheese, gravy, and fried chicken pieces.
(I count only four reasons because no one, at any point in time, can find anything wrong with cheese. It’s perfect. So shut up.)
For months, I’ve been both repulsed and intrigued by these bowls. I’m still fat and celebrate all things fat, but this was pushing it even for me. All that fatty food in a single bowl? Why not put chicken fingers in milkshakes or butter on your cheesesteaks? If I learned anything from that time in November ’99 when I tried to combine my three loves simultaneously – eating, having sex, and shitting – it’s that there is such thing as too much of a good thing. The KFC Famous Bowl seemed like it crossed that line.
(Actually, that butter cheesesteak idea sounds pretty good. I’m going to have to remember that.)
But flush with cash and victorious feelings and filled with nine pints of Guinness, the siren song of the Famous Bowl was calling me from 14th and 2nd, only one block from where my friends and I had watched the game. We had been drinking all day and knowing that I had a miserable day/week or work ahead, I wanted to call it an evening. Entrée KFC.
After consuming part of the Famous Bowl in the cab ride home and the rest from the comfort of my couch, kitchen, and tub, I have this to report: the KFC Famous Bowl deserves whatever fame and fortune it has, because it is totally fucking magnificent. Sure, it looked like throw up even immediately after the angry woman behind the counter served it to me, but that didn’t stop me. I was going to eat that Famous Bowl even if I had watched one of the poors in the kitchen scooping the mashed potatoes with his/her bare hands.
And I was rewarded for my perseverance and daring. Simply put, the bowl is dynamite. I was a little scared at first, intimidated by what I was facing, but after a few bites I found myself standing in my kitchen, dancing, listening to “It’s My Life” by No Doubt, mixing the contents of the bowl all together so it looked like gruel, and happily eating away. Fucking fabulous. Bravo, Colonel – you’ve done it again.
But be warned: this is not for the meek or faint of heart. Just as it took serious balls to go for the win in the survivor pool was I when guaranteed not to lose, so it took real cajones to take on the Famous Bowl. Lesser men, namely my friend Kyle, who was visiting from Philly, did not dare to attack the Famous Bowl, opting instead for the 10 piece bucket (which, for the record, I ate most of). But to the victor goes the spoils, and I know I saw a look of jealousy on his face when I was dancing in the kitchen to No Doubt and eating the Bowl. Jealousy or disgust. Because I also had my penis out this whole time. So probably the latter in retrospect.
—–
The moral of this story is that no matter how difficult life may be, either at work or with your significant other or your family or the government, as long as you womanize, gamble, drink, and overeat, everything will work out for you. If you learn one lesson from this here blog, I hope this is it. Because then I can die a happy man.
(In three months. Because I’m going to be eating a lot of those Famous Bowls over the next couple of weeks.)
But while Seattle was a true "vacation" (if you can call what I did there a vacation), LA was a working vacation. I use the term "work" very loosely; I realize it’s very different to spend nine hours a day doing M&A research (which is what I do normally) as opposed to sitting on a balcony overlooking the Hollywood Hills, laptop on the little table next to you, drinking wine, and having conversations like:
Me: "Can we say ‘jerkoff?’"
Writing partner: "No, but I think we can say ‘jagoff’ – do you have any interest in jagoff?"
Me: "I mean, I love the word, but I’m not in love with it."
WP: "You know, I’ve heard the word ‘douche’ a lot this season."
Me: "Douche? Really? I had no idea we could say that! You just made my day!"
WP: "I like douche, too. I mean, I really like ‘dick’, but I’m pretty sure we won’t be able to say that."
Me: "Yeah, I love dick. And I mean that in every sense of the word."
So while I wasn’t really working in the onerous, god-I-want-to-shoot-myself way, I still had shit to do that required I have a blood alcohol level of no higher than .11 during the day, which was a major fucking bummer for me.
[Quick aside: In senior year of college, my friends and I had a breathalyzer and we thought a fun game would be to see who could sustain a blood-alcohol level of at least .08 for the longest amount of time. The only exception was that after you woke up, you had two hours to get your BAC to .08, which is the legal limit in most states. Otherwise, you had to be at least .08 all day, every day. Then someone, actually my girlfriend at the time, if I recall correctly, said that we might die if we tried that. So we didn't. I am very stupid when I am in love.
A few years later, post-college, my buddies got me another breathalyzer for my birthday. Sans girlfriend this time, I and my buddies came up with another plan. We would take the breathalyzer out to bars and charge people $1 to blow in it. We would then record their score and take their contact information. At the end of a designated period of time - a summer, six months, a year - whoever had blown the highest BAC would win all the dollars we collected from people. I told my dad about this and he thought it was the greatest idea he'd ever heard. But then my roommates and I thought about it and decided that it wasn't. Say, for example, the cut off was September 1 for the highest BAC contest. Do you know how much fucking booze my friends and I would drink on August 31 to break the record? I mean, good lord. One of us would seriously have a 50/50 chance of dying from alcohol poisoning, and I am not exaggerating in the least when I say that. I watched my old roommate Ben drink 23 beers and four glasses of wine - for fun. I can't imagine what he'd do with $2300 at stake. Goodness gracious.]
But aside from the work, that doesn’t mean that I didn’t enjoy my time in LA. I truly *heart* LA. I am moving there in 2007 (in some capacity – I might be bicoastal for a bit, so please insert your favorite bisexual joke here). There are two things that LA so dear to me.
The weatherYes, you’ve heard about how great the weather in LA is a million times. I have, too. But I’ll tell you, nothing prepares your body for it quite like being there. I may be more unaccustomed then most, being born and bred in the Northeast, but my god – waiting for a cab at LAX at night in December when it’s 62 degrees with little humidity, I mean, just wow.
So yeah, the weather is great, even though it did rain like a mother fucker on my Saturday night. But let’s move on to the better stuff.
The womenI know this is debatable – even though I don’t see how – but Los Angeles has the most beautiful women on the planet. My LA friends, most of whom are ex-New Yorkers, say that NYC has the most beautiful women in the world. To this I respond: you are absolutely incorrect. 100% fucking wrong. Why? Because it all comes down to numbers.
On the 1 to 10 scale of hotness, 1 being John Goodman eating beef jerky in a Turkish bath and 10 being Orlando Bloom, Kyan from "Queer Eye" or the guy who works in the Starbucks at Allen & Delancy (take your pick), I consider myself a 6. I’m not the worst-looking guy in the world, and what I lack in upkeep of my body or a basic hygiene routine, I more than make up for with my willingness to spend hundreds of dollars on appletinis and cosmopolitans and my shameful obsequiousness to the opposite sex.
(I’ve actually always considered myself a 6, but polled my friends in Seattle when we were discussing the topic. Brian said 6, Ben 5.5, and my buddy Matt gave me a 5. However, he noted that the 5 only pertains to Seattle, where apparently people take care of their bodies. Matt assured that in NYC I’m probably a 6 and in Philly I might be as high as 14. So thanks, Matt.)
In NYC, a 10 is a rare sighting. Hell, a 9 only comes along once in a blue moon. Usually, there are plenty of 8′s roaming the streets, but because competition is so fierce for them, they are not only impossible to get but impossible even to approach. Of course, I’m no expert on this subject, since in most social situations my friends and I find a corner to hide in so that we can throw beer cans at each other in peace, but trust me – the 8′s in NYC know they’ve got it goin’ on. The result is that a guy like me usually goes home with a 2 or 3 (examples: girl with facial hair, girl with major speech impediment, pirate).
In Los Angeles, you can spot a dozen 10′s just by walking around on a Wednesday afternoon. We’re talking legitimate 10′s – women that make you stop in your tracks, do a double-take, let out an audible "Wow", and make you thank the Lord and his son Jesus that you have a pair of testes. I was shocked. Totally fucking shocked – and I’ve been there a half dozen times before. And it’s not like I hung out on movie sets or at porno shoots or anything. Sure, there are beautiful women driving around in BMW’s and shopping on Rodeo Drive but there are just as many 10′s eating in Subway or working at the Cold Stone.
(Also, can you tell where I spent most of my time eating?)
The point is that because of the sheer volume of beautiful women, the social-sexual dynamic is all fucked up. It’s the complete opposite of NYC: attractive women become more approachable, because they must adapt or die.
Which is why I think I could really succeed in LA. I could feed that niche market out there, since there aren’t a lot of guys like me in LA: Irish Catholic, chubby, pale, bearded and completely unwilling to drink and drive. I imagine that the women out there get tired of the same tan, open-shirted, athletic, douchy guy who talks about how he once hung out with the jagoff from "Entourage." I mean, that’s gotta get old, real quick.
But I promise you that I will have no grand delusions about my future success with LA women. Is the hot girl working in the Cold Stone waiting for Richard Gere? Of course she is. But is she going to meet him? Nope – not working in the Cold Stone. Do you know who’s she going to meet? Me – standing there asking for a medium cake batter and oreo with a smile on my face, a $10 tip in my hand, and a lifelong promise that there is a less than 85% chance that I will cheat on her. What more can a woman ask for?
The problem with love and our generation is that we have abandoned the lost art of settling. I intend to bring this art back. Los Angeles, 2007. Let the settling begin.
(Here are my pics from the trip, including a grand total of two from Los Angeles – both from the hotel room. I’m sorry but I’m not a big picture-taker, especially because my camera is only slightly smaller than my thigh. So deal with it.)
Nothing like Pauly Shore getting punched in the head by a redneck to help get you through humpday.
[youtube]GtrBZJ9pYC0[/youtube]
God – comedy clubs have been gold mines recently!
(And thanks, Lara. Even though I’m puzzled as to why, exactly, this video reminded you of me.)
[UPDATE: I've learned that this is a fake, which makes me both sad and impressed. Sort of how I feel about life in general.]
My behavior in Seattle was absolutely despicable. A gross display of obesity, drunkenness, and insensitivity.
Naturally, it was one of the best weekends of my life.
Travel, problems
The reason for this trip was a reunion. 2002-2003 were arguably the best years of my life, as I slogged through some treacherous post-break up/quarter-life crisis waters with the help of a nasty vodka addiction, my roommates, Ben and Brian, and my buddies Jeremy and Brendan. The five of us made quite a crew together, getting drunk, smoking cigarettes, womanizing, and circle jerking (which, coincidentally, are the same themes harkened to by Bruce Springsteen in the song “Glory Days”).
Fast forward to 2006: Brian and I no longer live together (I’m in Chilita, he’s in Brooklyn). Jeremy is still in NYC, as is Brendan (well, Hoboken), although the latter is a shell of his former self due to his many adult responsibilities. Ben moved back to his hometown of Seattle in 2005.
A few months ago, Jeremy was contemplating a move back to the Seattle area, where he is also from. At that time, Brian, Brendan and I decided that we would fly to Seattle for a weekend to celebrate a reunion (and circle jerk). We selected the first weekend of December for this trip.
Jeremy ultimately decided not to move back to Seattle. Additionally, because he would be in Washington State only the week before for Thanksgiving, he backed out of the trip. Understandable, since four cross-country flights in consecutive weekends is a little much. Jeremy: out.
That left Brendan, Brian and I heading to Seattle to go visit Ben. Two days before we were to finally book the tickets, Brendan backed out, saying he couldn’t take the one day off required for the trip (being a grown-up stinks, apparently). Brendan: out.
Instead of four of us flying together, it was just Brian and I. Knowing that Brian isn’t exactly, como se dice ”on top of shit”, I took special care to ensure that he would not only book the flight, but book the correct flight. I booked my flight and made him an itinerary consisting of the same outgoing flight (because I was going to LA after Seattle, we wouldn’t fly back to NYC together). I haven’t flown with anyone for a while, so I was looking forward to spending a six hour cross-country flight with a friend, for a change. He booked it and we were ready to go.
On the day we were to leave, Thursday 11/30, Brian and I had this conversation:
Me: “Dude, if you can get to my office by 3, I’m taking a car out to the airport so you can ride with me for free.”
Brian: “Nah, I don’t think I’ll be able to get out that early, so I’ll go on my own. What terminal is it again?”
Me: “I don’t know – whatever Delta is.”
Brian: [three seconds of silence] “What? Delta?”
Me: “Yeah, I think it’s like Terminal 3 or something.”
Brian: “I’m not flying Delta. I’m on American.”
Somehow, despite the fact that I emailed Brian the itinerary, meaning all he had to do was enter his credit card number (I even offered to buy the flight for him and have him pay me back), he booked the wrong flight. I was scheduled to fly on Delta leaving JFK at 6:00pm. He was scheduled to fly on American leaving JFK at 6:10pm.Â
Ever the optimist, I tried to rearrange my flight, but it would have cost me $600. Brian is a good man, but $100 an hour for his company is a little much.
So instead of spending six hours on a plane getting drunk with my buddy, making the other passengers uncomfortable by talking endlessly about about how many women we’ve slept with, including rating them on a 26 point scale that includes such criteria as “Comfort Level with Semen”, “Willingness to be Captured on Cell Phone”, and “Heiney Play: Yea or Nay?”, I flew to Seattle alone, next to (arguably) the world’s largest Hasidic Jew, ten minutes in front of Brian.
Great start to the trip.
Seattle: Strong booze…
Brian and I had both been to Seattle before, so there was no need to do any touristy stuff. Still, Ben took the day off on Friday and the three of us headed downtown and to the
market to walk around. FINALLY, it turned 1:30pm and we gave ourselves the go ahead to start drinking.
We ran into the closest beer-serving establishment, a restauranty place called Von’s. There, they bragged about serving the world’s strongest beer, a dark ale that clocks in at 8% alcohol. The three of us decided to try one.
Five hours later, we were getting a ride home from Ben’s buddy Jason (Ben couldn’t drive, as he had thrown up twice already by that point, so Jason had to come downtown to get us and Ben’s car, something he was thrilled about). When we got back to Ben’s place, we tried to pull it together as well as possible, since that night we were joining my friend Annie to celebrate her birthday. Thus, the red bulls (and vodka) flowed like wine. Â
(Which, for the record, also flowed in abundance both then and later.)Â
…and beautiful women
There are some very beautiful women in Seattle. I knew this already, having been to the city before, but I re-learned it when out there most recently, specifically when we were out for my friend Annie’s birthday. I don’t recall which bar we were at, since at this point I was focused on talking without spitting on people, but it was a nice low-key unpretentious place.
Some of the beautiful women in Seattle are also doctors. Maybe, hypothetically, you spend much of the evening talking to a beautiful doctor, having a good time, fantasizing about how your life is now set because you have finally found someone who can both provide you with drugs and sleep with you (well, give you drugs and sleep with you without you feeling ashamed and waking up on a couch in Queens the next morning). But even though you are enjoying the conversation with the beautiful woman/doctor, you still have to pee, so you excuse yourself to take care of your burgeoning bladder.
And then maybe when you come back from the bathroom, you notice that your doctor-bride is now talking to your buddy Steve. You think nothing of this, because even though by your own admission Steve is devastatingly handsome and quite successful, he has a very serious girlfriend. So you let them talk and play it cool.
But what you underestimate is Steve’s ability to talk the balls off a bull. You also underestimate the importance that women place on looks, and as times passes, as you try unsuccessfully to catch your doctor-bride’s eyes which are locked on Steve’s like tractor beams, you realize that your doctor-bride is falling in love with the fitter and handsomer but ultimately harmless Steve. Perhaps you try again and again, at first subtly and then not so subtly, to win her attention back, but can not do so. You have lost.
So maybe then you spend the rest of the evening getting so drunk that you pee the bed.
I peed the bed
At the end of the night, I was very drunk and tired and beaten because of a woman issue that I’d rather not get into. I could either sleep on the air mattress on Ben’s living room floor, laying inches away from Brian on the couch and his wolverine-like breathing, or spend the night in the guest bedroom of Annie’s nice-smelling and clean house. In the easiest decision I ever made, I went to Annie’s.Â
Then at some point during the night, as I lay unconscious on the bed in her guest bedroom, I pissed all over myself.
I normally sleep in a boxers and t-shirt, so when I woke up at 10am completely naked, I knew something was amiss. At first I thought that perhaps Annie had slipped into the bedroom and had her way with me, but I knew that was not the case; whenever I make love, the room often smells of watermelon and sulphur for days afterward, and this room did not smell like that at all. It smelled more like piss.Â
I sat up in bed and with bloodshot eyes saw my boxers and undershirt strewn in the middle of the floor. It was at this point that I knew what had happened. Now it was just a matter of telling Annie, which I really, really didn’t want to do.
The good news was that it seems that the boxers and undershirt took the burnt of the storm and the bed was pretty dry, almost surprisingly so. It’s possible – and the guys in Forensics are still working on this – that in the middle of the night I stood up and peed on myself, because the bed was just that dry. But I didn’t think that would matter much to Annie. What’s worse: “Um, I peed in your bed” or “Um, I stood up in your bedroom, pissed all over myself, stripped down, left my piss-covered boxers and undershirt on your floor, and then slept naked in your guest bedroom”? Kind of a push.
Thank God and baby Jesus that I know Annie so well, that she has a sense of humor, that we’ve made out before, and that I have enough money to buy her a significant Christmas present, because she was understanding when I told her what happened. Of course, prior to coming clean, I called Ben, told him what happened, and asked him to come and get me from Annie’s place before she woke up. This plan was foiled when Annie walked out of her bedroom and caught me – balls-ass naked – standing in her living room looking for a piece of mail for her address to give to Ben (for whatever reason, I thought finding the mail would only take a second and so didn’t need to put on my jeans or shirt). I probably would have told her what happened even if she didn’t catch me in all my glory shuffling through papers on her coffee table. Although, I probably would have done it differently, like maybe approaching her in the kitchen and calmly explaining what I did, as opposed running into the bedroom and shouting it through the closed bedroom door over her shouts of “Oh my god, Jay! What are you doing! Why were you naked! Oh my god, Jay!”
Let’s just move on. It’s still way too soon to talk about this.
(I realize that this snippet just made me about 38% more unmarriable, so for the record, that’s the first time I peed the bed since December of 2003. I am not a bed-wetter. I had been drinking strong beer all day long, suffered a defeat in the woman department, and was in an unfamiliar place. That’s the perfect storm right there.)
New bar tab record
I spent Saturday watching football back at Ben’s, being hungover/pissy, and getting made fun of, which I took in stride. There is nothing to report about Saturday day expect eating an inordinate number of tortilla chips. I would conservatively put the number of tortilla chips consumed around 220.Â
Plans were a mess for Saturday night, but it appeared that we would be going out in the Belltown neighborhood of Seattle. Brian, Ben and the others took one cab into the area to scope out one bar, while Annie and I took another cab there and stopped at the Belltown Bistro, another restauranty place, one that I am apparently required to visit every time I go to Seattle. Our plan was to wait there to hear back from the others.
Ben and Brian returned from the other bar and said it was like the opening scene from “Miami Vice.” I have never seen “Miami Vice”, but I imagine I would not do well in a place that reminds one of that movie. So we decided to have a few drinks at the Belltown Bistro and review our options.
Five hours later (again), after some friends had joined us and as the bar was closing, the bartender brought over my bar tab. I had been buying some drinks for friends but didn’t think I was being ridiculous about it. Worth nothing is that I had been drinking whiskey all night and was basically turning into a werewolf, but still, how much could the bar tab be? This was Seattle, after all, not New York.Â
Bartender: [handing me the check] “I like to ask – how much do you think you tab is?”
Me: [pondering]: “Um, I don’t know – maybe $120?”
Bartender: [shocked] “God, I’m sorry.”
The damage? $274. Two hundred seventy fucking four dollars. My previous record was some time in May of 2003 and in the $260′s. But that was in New York, where drinks are more expensive. Spending $274 in Seattle is like spending $390 in NYC. Just unbelievable.
This set off a series of strange events during which I tipped the bartender $46 (meaning the tab was $320 total), sent my friend Claire a series of unintelligible text messages (including a number of pleas for a genre of erotica I invented on the spot called “text sex”), and then almost got in a fight with a random black guy at the bar who that night Brian had met, befriended, and told to spray me with his cologne (which he did). Just weird, weird shit.  Â
The wine drinking contest
But then it really got weird on Sunday.
Brian was leaving Seattle on Monday, whereas I was staying until Tuesday. We should have been content to spend the day watching football and nursing our hangovers, but then Brian made a fatal error. He mentioned something about a wine drinking contest. I picked up the idea and ran with it and shortly we were at the local liquor store, buying eight bottles of wine (four for each of us, two red and two white).
The competition was not a contest per se. Brian described it thusly: “It’s more of a presentation – look at us, look at the lives we lead, look how we enjoy luxury and the finer things in life, like this wine here.”
And really, we didn’t expect it to be too big of a deal. Looking at it, four bottles of wine – especially if drinking all day – didn’t seem like that much booze. Brian and I are nearly professional drinkers, so we didn’t think we’d have a problem with it.
Big mistake.
There is no way that I can accurately recollect or portray the events that took place that day. Not only because I was very drunk – probably one of the top ten drinking performances of my life – but because things just got so fucking weird.Â
To wit, Brian, who almost finished his third bottle, spent the night at a hotel near the Seattle airport. His flight wasn’t leaving until 2pm the next day. Yet at 8pm, bombed, he said, jokingly, “That’s it – I’m finished”, put on his jacket, gathered his things, and then left. We thought he was kidding until he called us from a cab en route to the airport, and then again from his room at the SeaTac Airport Doubletree. The next day he had no idea why he had done this, nor why he had ordered the 24 hour porn pass at the hotel (the latter is more explainable than the former, I think).
But at least he didn’t harm or involve others. Previously, I used to think that my most dangerous accessory when drunk was my penis. But it has now been surpassed by something much more devious (and also much, much larger): my cell phone.Â
When I’m drunk, I like to text message and call people. I have a very short attention span, so when I’m not talking to someone or the center of attention, I go to the phone. Also, I’m your typical Irish Catholic drunk in that I get maudlin and sentimental when drinking and miss people when I’m not with them, so I like to check in and say hi. This gets especially dangerous when I’m on vacation and in a time zone three hours earlier than most of my friends.Â
On this particular night, I unleashed a torrent of communication the world has never seen before, which I am both alternatively embarrassed and proud of. I don’t even want to get into it, but the crown jewel of the evening was when I spent almost an hour talking on the phone to an ex-girlfriend from six years ago WHO IS NOW MARRIED.
I want to stress: it’s not like I wanted to hook up with her.  That would have been a geographical impossibility (also, she’s MARRIED). It’s not that I’m still in love with her, since she wasn’t that serious a girlfriend in the first place (I would say mildly serious). It’s just that she responded to one of my gazillion text messages and after we messaged a bit I called her. And from what I remember, we had a lovely conversation and she’s doing very well (and probably reading this right now). But the point is, I don’t remember much. Probably for the best.
(Author’s Note: Last night, my phone was not working. I called Sprint to figure out why. My phone bill was $391. I don’t even know how this is possible, since I was talking on Sunday night, but that mother fucking phone was definitely shut off last night for several hours.)
In the end, Brian and I learned an important lesson: no one wins the wine drinking competition. Which is why we can only have it once a year.
(For the record, I almost finished my fourth bottle, but passed out before I could bring it on home. I haven’t had wine since.)
(Well, I haven’t had too much wine since.)
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After Brian left, things wound down. I spent most of Monday eating, reading the paper, and writing in the 14 Carrott Cafe, a little place near Ben where I ate breakfast every day (the special Lake Union Scramble was tremendous, as were the pancakes). Then on Monday evening, Ben and I went to the Ram, a nice little sports bar where we had beers and burgers and I screamed like a lunatic while watching the Eagles beat Carolina (seriously, people looked at me like I had some mental deficiency – I thought Seattle had passionate fans?). On Tuesday morning, I took a cab to the airport, where I spent seven hours because of a canceled flight, but let’s save that for later.
Seattle is a lovely city. Great bars, good vibe, attractive women – and I have a lot of friends there.  I would almost move there, if it wasn’t so fucking far and the weather wasn’t so terrible. But I certainly will be back. And I can only hope that when I do return, Annie will have fitted her guest bed with plastic sheets (which will be her Christmas gift this year).
[For some pictures of the trip, please see Ben's website.]
[Next, Los Angeles recap.]
[Also, it’s good to be back.]
While I’m on vacation, I’m letting some associates, friends, and two lovers steer the ship for me. That means there will be guest bloggers this week. Today’s is from Ace Cowboy of Slack LaLane.
I’m not sure where The Artist Formerly Known As Tubbs Muldoon is today, though I’m betting he’s some place where hoooagies are sold. But when Uncle Jase asked me to fill in for him on this here vanity exercise of a website in his absence, I immediately obliged. I mean, a chance to bring my brand of attempted humor to a built-in audience of millions? Well, accepting the gig was just a no-brainer, a total Schiavo.
But then I started to panic, my brow beading up in sweat, my hands shakier than Muhammad Ali operating a jackhammer. Not only did Jason ask me to fill in for him during my worst period of comedic writer’s block (I’ve been slacking on my own blog really badly of late, much to the dismay of my reader), but I’ve also just recently accepted the fact that I’m not very funny in a traditional sense. By any typical humor rubric — with a 1 being rectal lesions and a 10 being hooker rape — I’m about a Richard Marx’s Hold On To The Nights. That’s no gouda. So I started to freeze up backstage at the thought of this cameo…
Then things got even worse: The Letter D kicked off Mulgrew’s guest-blogging extravaganza by setting the bar pretty damn high. How on Earth am I gonna follow this cat’s lead? But I soon realized that I’m a white man, and if The Letter D can do something well, I can and will succeed at this endeavor as the superior being I am. That train of thought switched on the cartoon light bulb, making me realize that what I’ve been looking for has been staring me in my pale face this whole time, the common denominator, the tie that binds us all together: casual-to-mildly overt racism.
So I know the following humorous anecdote may seem like filler to some of youse, but rest assured, it’ll contain a bigger payoff than if you had simply read my completely original drivel. This is a joke my father sent me via the electronic mailing system about a year and a half ago, and every once in a while I read it to remind myself how funny it is that I get e-mails like this from my pops all the time. But, hey, it totally beats the off-color jokes about blowjobs that my grandmother sends out from time to time, no joke. So without any further (Freddy) ado, I present to you this joke about robot caddies…
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A man goes to a public golf course. He approaches the man behind the counter in the pro shop and says, "I would like 18 holes of golf and a caddie."
The man behind the counter says, "The 18 holes of golf is no problem, but all of the caddies are out on the course. What I will do for you is this. We just got 8 brand new robot golf caddies. If you’re willing to take one with you out on the course and if you will come back and tell me how well it works, your round of golf is on me today."
The golfer obviously accepted the man’s offer. He approached the first tee, looked at the fairway and said to himself, "I think my driver will do the job." The robot caddie turned to the man and said, "No sir. Use your 3 wood. A driver is far too much club for this hole."
Hesitantly, the golfer pulled out his 3 wood, made good contact with the ball, and the ball landed about 10 feet to the right front of the hole on the green. The golfer, delighted, turned to the robot and thanked him for his assistance.
As the golfer pulled out his putter, he said, "I think this green is gonna break left to right." The robot then again spoke up and said, "No sir. I do believe this green will break right to left."
Thinking about the last time the robot corrected his prediction, he decided again to listen to the machine. He made his putt and birdied the hole, thanks to the robot and his advice. But his luck didn’t end there. His entire game was the best game he ever played, thanks to the assistance of the new robot golf caddie.
Upon returning to the clubhouse, the man behind the counter asked, "How was your game?"
The golfer stated, "It was, by far, the BEST game I ever played. Thank you very much for letting me take one of your robots. See you next week."
A week passed, and excited, the golfer returned to the pro shop. Upon entering the pro shop he turned to the man behind the counter and said, "I would like 18 holes of golf and one of those robot golf caddies, please."
The gentleman from behind the counter turned to the man and said, "Well, the 18 holes is no problem. However, we had to get rid of the robots. We had too many complaints."
Confused, the golfer cried, "COMPLAINTS? Who in the heck could’ve complained about those robots? They were incredible."
The man sighed and said, "Well, it wasn’t their performance. It was that they were shiny silver metal, and the glare from the machine was blinding to other golfers on the fairway."
The golfer said, "So then why didn’t you just paint them black?"
The man nodded sadly and replied, "We did. And then four of ‘em didn’t show up for work, two filed for unemployment, and the other two robbed the pro shop."
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Mulgrew will be back shortly, and soon you’ll return to your regularly scheduled programming of food, dick and body hair jokes. Me, I wait around for the weekly Six Songs, the only redeeming quality about this blog or Jason in general. See I dig music, dig it like Russell Hammond on a Topeka rooftop, and since the segue door is closing here, allow me to do what I did on the [redacted] blog this week and cash in my favor from Muldoon right now.
If any of youse enjoy live music — rock bands, GoodGod funk, [in Cosby voice] the jazz music, classics, the popular rock band Phish — head on over to a fairly new blog we recently launched called Hidden Track. Like Men’s Wearhouse, our slogan is also "You’re gonna like the way you look." Nah, I wish. But go there anyway.
Have a good weekend, and if anyone wants to send me pictures of their boobs like they do Jason, I can be reached at slacklalane@yahoo.com. I’m just kidding…I only like cock shots.
While I’m on vacation, I’m letting some associates, friends, and two lovers steer the ship for me. That means there will be guest bloggers this week. Today’s is 123 I Love You.
When Jason asked me to guest post I was immediately in. I wrote back to him as quickly as possible, letting him know how glad I was that I finally had a massive audience to see the mind-blowing nude pics that I had my cousins take of me over Thanksgiving.
I’m sorry, was that too much too fast? We’re just getting to know each other here, so why don’t we start slow. Let’s start with the words first, and then we’ll move on to the pics.
(You just scrolled down to the bottom of this post to see if the nude pics were actually posted, didn’t you? I appreciate your interest, and I would have done exactly the same thing, but I decided that I just have far too much respect for the internet to post naked images of myself on it.)
I am a high school teacher. This supplies me with a lot of material for blogging. For example, I’ve devoted quite a bit of space to describing the complex series of emotions that I go through when my students walk in on me when I’m sitting on the toilet. I really should expect it by now, because just before the student barges in, I always hear giggling voices outside the bathroom door saying "Do it! Just do it! It’d be hilarious!" I’d always thought that they were just encouraging me to wipe properly.
I should really consider getting that lock fixed. This and finding a suitable kidney donor for my mother are my number one priorities at the moment.
It just struck me now that perhaps I should use this opportunity to ask for the kidney donor, but since my life motto is "live, laugh, love," I’ve decided to post something on the lighter side. But if anyone out there has a spare kidney kicking around, get in touch.
I try to use dating as a source of blog material, but it’s hard to meet women, and not only because I am plain-faced and poor. I work mainly with men, and there are only three women who teach at my school – one is the lesbian gym teacher, the other is a very religious woman who is trying to convince the other teachers that I am the devil, and the other is another lesbian who is also trying to convince the other teachers that I am the devil.
There is also a person who works in the cafeteria who may or may not be a woman. I’m not sure. It’s an Asian person who is either a guy with an exquisite pair of breasts or a girl with a 5 o’clock shadow à la Bruce Willis. I’m not ruling this out as a romantic possibility, however. At the moment, this individual is the best thing I have going for me. I just pray that it has a vagina.
Now, I haven’t written about dating for a while, but this doesn’t mean that I’ve been too busy to go on random dates with strange women that I’ve turned up after hours of scouring the internet. That’s not true. I’ve met plenty of strange women over the past couple of weeks. Today I thought I’d describe these women (well, if you want to nit-pick, one technically wasn’t a woman, but it was still a date, so I’ve included it).
I have a 1-to-10 scale that I use to rate the quality of the dates. 10 means that the conversation is so good that I end up spontaneously combusting into orgasm, and 1 means that the date goes so horribly wrong that someone ends up dying, losing a limb, contracting the rabies virus, or a little bit of all three. I’ve never experienced a 1, but I have gone as low as a 3 (the police are called and a restraining order is later filed). I’m not going to say which one of us filed the restraining order though. I’m tricky like that.
Here we go:
Date #1:
Ranking: 7
Looked like: The saucy, outspoken white woman from "The View" (not Rosie)
A very nice girl. Nice personality, nice looks, nice laugh. She and I seemed to hit it off. Unfortunately, having only a double-digit IQ, I thought I would appeal to her more if I waited for her to send me the first post-date message, and then wait for a week before sending a response. I did this, and she still hasn’t written back. Oh well. I hope she’s found a handsome and muscular man to satisfy her sexually.
Date #2:
Ranking: 3
Looked like: Laura Ingalls from "Little House"
Looked like Laura Ingalls. Wore a cape and a blue and white cameo brooch. Said "oh dear" a lot. Seemed to have a skin-flaking problem. She got so nervous after one of these skin flakes drifted onto my Starbucks brownie that she accidentally spilled her coffee onto my lap. The burn and the tenderness remain. She won’t stop e-mailing.
On a side note, the burn is beginning to look a lot like the Toyota logo. Maybe eBay has a market for this kind of thing?
Date #3:
Rating: 6
Looked like: Chris Hansen, the famous host of television’s "To Catch a Predator."
I say this date looked like Chris Hansen because it was Chris Hansen. I happened to stumble onto the set of "To Catch a Predator." I watch the show regularly, and who would have thought that they’d go to Murphy, Texas twice! Anyhow, I gave this date a 6 because even though I was humiliated in front of an audience of several million people, I got to meet a major celebrity who really seemed to take an interest in what I thought!
Date #4:
Ranking: 7
Looked like: A goddess
Gorgeous and extremely interested in me. This always makes me very suspicious. But before we get any further, no, she was not actually a man, and no, she was not gay. Let’s just say that she was extremely experienced. Her dating history – which she constantly talked about – sounded like the resume of a seasoned diplomat. She spoke of her experiences with Iranians, Nigerians, Italians, Canadians, and she even had a story about an Eskimo. She never actually told me that she’d slept with all of these guys, but her stories about meeting them nearly always ended with the words, "And then we went back to his place, you know what I’m saying?"
Now, I’ve fantasized about this kind of woman before. A lot. But I’ve found that when this kind of thing actually happens, it’s never quite as exciting as it seemed in your imagination. This is probably how most people feel when they ask someone to pee on them for the first time. It starts off sounding all awesome and kinky, but in reality you just end up ruining your favourite sweater and wanting to get home. At least, so I’ve been told.
So, the moral of this post is this: If you break up with someone and you’re looking to start seeing what’s out there, don’t let anyone get your hopes up by telling you that there are plenty of fish in the sea. Actually, there are fish, but they are the ones that will make you feel queasy – even if you cook them properly.
I like to think that, if I’d put a little more effort into it, I could have come up with something better than that crappy fish metaphor to end this post. Especially since I am an English teacher, and I get paid to teach others about metaphors and similes.
On that melancholy note, I now think I’ll retire to my study and enjoy a glass of port.
And by "study" I’m talking about the broken milk crate in the corner of my room, and by "glass of port" I am basically referring to diluted contact lens solution.
While I’m on vacation, I’m letting some associates, friends, and two lovers steer the ship for me. That means there will be guest bloggers this week. Today’s is The Letter D.
While Uncle Jason is on his West Coast swing, no doubt power lunching with the Weinsteins and doing lines of blow off the silicone-laden breasts of wannabe starlets, he’s passed his golden keyboard on to a few guests. It’s like when you turn in to Letterman and somebody else is sitting in the host chair. We all love those shows, right? Right? Anybody?
So who am I? As mentioned above I write The Letter D, which Jason was kind enough to list as an “Awesome Blog .” I’m a freelance (read – largely unpaid) writer and dabbler in stand-up comedy. I’ve seen Prince’s penis.
I came across this blog randomly. Like a lot of you, I was on the Internet killing time at work, googling “Hot Guatemalan Amputee Porn,” when his previous site on Blogger came up as the top search result (I think this was because of his now classic post from August 17th, 2004, “Man, I Love Hot Guatemalan Amputee Porn.”)
I can’t say that I really know Jason. I’ve never met him or actually spoken with him, but we read each other’s blogs and occasionally e-mail each other pictures of our penises (usually capped with festive party hats).
Most people who are funny are bastards deep down, usually from some deep insecurity or prior emotional trauma. I think it was legendary funnyman Henny Youngman who said “Show me a guy who tries to make people laugh and I’ll show you a guy who was touched inappropriately as a child by a man wearing a Chuck E. Cheese costume.” But Jason appears to be a decent guy, as opening up his pride and joy to relative strangers would indicate.
Either that or this is all some devious plot to get back at those of you who piss and moan when he doesn’t post for awhile. He can now say, “Shut up, out I’ll have D come back and guest blog!”
I’m sure it’s one of the two.
Kids, Don’t Do Prescription Drugs:
One of the benefits of being a soulless drone of the capitalist machine is that you generally have access to health care insurance. This means that instead of having to score mind altering substances from the local self-employed alley pharmaceutical rep, I can get the functional equivalent from a pharmacy, paid for by my HMO. God bless America.
Shortly after graduating from law school, I went through a phase of profound dissatisfaction with my life. I did everything that I was supposed to do – finished school, stayed out of trouble, and managed not to knock up that girl at Baskin-Robbins. I’ve been a responsible person. But no matter what, I realized that I was never going to have sex with Tyra Banks. Enter depression.
I asked my doctor if he could recommend an anti-depressant. I thought that he would suggest that I see a therapist to work out my issues rather than relying on a chemical crutch. But who has the time for all that? Fortunately for me, he had whored himself out to the pharmaceutical industry and wrote out a prescription for Paxil without asking me any questions. In retrospect, he probably would have written me a prescription for Rohypnol and birth control pills had I pressed him.
He told me that it would be a few weeks before I started to feel any different. And he mentioned that there may be some side effects, including those of a sexual nature.
I found out what those side effects were about a week or so on Paxil. I was having a sexual encounter with my then girlfriend when I realized that I wasn’t even close to “arriving.” This went on for about fifteen minutes or so. I’m usually already in REM stage sleep by that time so I was in uncharted territory. But I kept going until I felt like one of the people in the first episodes of “Survivor” who have to start a fire by furiously rubbing sticks and rocks together. So I stopped. Sure had I kept on going, she may have actually had an orgasm herself, but hey, I had other shit to do.
This problem continued even when I tried to…ahem… take matters into my own hands. There I was, frustrated as all get out trying to complete the task at hand, but to no avail. I tried everything, watching porn, mood lighting, listening to Anita Baker, watching the video where Hulk Hogan bodyslammed Andre the Giant in Wrestlemania III. Nothing worked.
I did a little research and saw that one of Paxil’s side effects was the inability to reach orgasm. Are you kidding me? How did the FDA ever approve this? How was depriving me of the one thing that I actually enjoy in life supposed to cure my depression?
I went back to the doctor to awkwardly describe my dilemma, which included a fair amount of pantomime. He described the condition as “retarded ejaculation.” That seemed like an insensitive term to me. I didn’t even know that retarded guys couldn’t ejaculate. I mean, it’s probably for the best for the gene pool and all, but that’s just sad.
I stopped taking Paxil. It took a few days to clear my system. But when it did, and in a truly a magical moment, weeks of frustration were dealt with. Old Faithful immediately comes to mind.
And that is the story of why I didn’t get my security deposit back that year for my apartment.
I read once that about 60% of health care costs for prescription drugs are for anti-depressants. One, that seems awfully low. Two, that means that there is a significant portion of the population that can’t achieve orgasm. Which, in retrospect, explains the last few presidential elections.
The moral of the story is just say no to selective serotonin uptake inhibitors.
One thing that important people do is name projects. For example, if one is given a research assignment, your employer will not refer to it as "that research assignment I gave you." Instead, it often gets a code name, like Project 007 or Project Buttons. Most of the time, the project code name has nothing to do with the project content. For example, my friend Chrissy, who works at an ad agency, once told me that her big project of the year was named Project Gypsy. From the name of it, you may think that this project involved Eastern European transients and/or Stevie Nicks, but it didn’t: it was a presentation to a cheese company. "Gypsy" was the name of the woman in charge’s dog. So she named it Project Gypsy.
Since I’ve been at my current position for three years now and I have clawed (read: haphazardly jumped) my way up the corporate ladder, I have recently found myself in the position of being the one who names the projects. I like this. What’s more, the projects I work on – even those I work on with others – are relatively unimportant in the grand scheme of things, which means no one is paying attention to the project names. So I’ve been having some fun with them.
(Of course, I can’t tell you the nature of the work that I do, because I’m not an idiot. But the good news for you is that you probably don’t want to know anyway, since it is so incredibly boring.)
Some of my recent project names:
Project Shush Yo’ Mouth (named after the LeBron commercial when the LeBrons are playing basketball and the old one says, "I’ll be all over you like white on rice, like flies on shush yo’ mouth!")
Project Bobbysox (named after my favorite porno, which has the single greatest sex scene in film history: Nikki Tyler and Stephen St. Croix on the forklift – wow!)
Project Frost (named after the masturabatory/handjob technique known as the Robert Frost, which I discussed here.)
I am dangerously close to naming something Project Merkin, but then I realized that I like and want to keep my job, so I don’t know about that one. But hey – at least this keeps me entertained during the day.
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I was watching Seinfeld last night and I’ll tell you – after Kramer’s little meltdown, it’s just not the same.
Please do not think I’m racially sensitive or politically correct. I enjoy casual racism, but since my aunt is Japanese, I once hooked up with a half-Puerto Rican, and I own a Randall Cunningham jersey, I can get away with pretty much anything I want, as my bases are covered.
But Kramer – wow. What is most appalling about his diatribe is that he says that a) he isn’t racist and b) that was the first time he ever used the n-word. Um, no way, bro. I mean, I realize the guy couldn’t come out the next day and say, "I’m sorry I yelled those things, but I am indeed racist. And I fucking love it." But Kramer’s PR people should have come up with a better excuse than "I’m not racist." Why didn’t he do what Mel Gibson did and claim he was fucked up on booze/drugs? Why didn’t he say, "I learned earlier that day that my wife wants a divorce and just snapped?" Even if he went on Letterman, spit out some gibberish, then stood up and pissed himself, at least people would have remembered him as being mentally ill, not a grade A racist. I mean, anything would have been more believable than "That was my first time." Because that sure didn’t look like his first time.
I’m trying to think of examples or comparisons but can’t come up with any. But there’s no way that you go from being a black-people loving, happy go-lucky guy to screaming the n-word at the top of your lungs in front of 150 people.
Anyway, it was terrible thing and blah blah blah, but what concerns me most if that I’m having trouble watching Seinfeld. Every time I see Kramer open the door and barge into Jerry’s place, I visualize him screaming, "HE’S A N****R!" Or yelling at George, "Fifty years ago we would have had you upside down with fork up your ass!"
I only hope that both I and the black community can forgive Kramer for this, but it isn’t going to be easy. Just as Kramer can make amends with the black community by meeting with black leaders and making a (sincere) public apology, maybe he can come to my apartment, take shit out of my fridge, and act like a goofball. But until I get that call, no more Seinfeld for me. Which makes me sad.
(Oh, and I’m sad about racism, too. Can’t forget that.)
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I love cereal. Big time. It’s fucking incredible.
But hear me now when I say this: the good people over at Honey Bunches of Oats will change the world with their newest creation – Honey Bunches of Oats with Cinnamon Clusters.
I have never in my life tasted cereal as good as this. Never. I don’t have anything else to say, aside from that if you see this cereal in your local grocery store and you don’t buy it, you will regret it for the rest of your life. No lie.
(You’re welcome in advance.)
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Are there any Philadelphia Eagles fans in Seattle? Maybe I should rephrase that: are there any Philadelphia Eagles fans in Seattle reading this?
My plan was to stay in Seattle until Monday, at which point I’d fly down to LA. However, I decided to stay in Seattle until Tuesday afternoon, as the Eagles are playing in the Monday night game against Carolina.
(I could have made it down to LA for the game, but that would have meant that I’d have to wake up early to fly - remember, MNF starts at 5:15pm out there – and I didn’t want to do that.)
So are there any Eagles fans in Seattle or can anyone tell me a good place to watch an Eagles game in Seattle? Preferably around EastLake (Eastlake? East Lake?), where I will be staying? Even though the season is over for them, that doesn’t mean I’m going to abandon them, and I still plan on watching the game, even if I am in Seattle.
If you can help a hopeless Philly fan with a good bar, preferably an Eagles bar, drop me a line at jason@jasonmulgrew.com. Thank you in advance.
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Quick book recommendation for you: The Feast of Love by Charles Baxter.
Because I sit in the shower for an average of 1.2 hours per day reading (long story), I read a lot of books. I’m not bragging, because it’s actually quite sad; a 27 year old single man living in the greatest city in the world should not spend any time in the shower reading books, but that’s just how I roll.
Anyway, this is the best book I’ve read in months. Moving, captivating, imaginative – everything. Many times I had to pull myself away from the book to let out a "Wow", so moved was I by the writing. Tremendous.
And now onto the music.
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Six Songs
"Welcome to the Working Week" Elvis Costello
There is a 85% chance that this was discussed in the movie "High Fidelity", but if I had to make a Top Five list of greatest first songs on debut albums, this would slightly edge out "Good Times Bad Times" on Led Zeppelin I. Elvis says, "I’m here, I’m pissed off, and oh yeah – fuck you."
"Crazy for You" Madonna
I wrote a while back that in my childhood, this is the song I assumed people listened to when they had sex, and now I, as an adult, want to have sex to this song. I got a pretty good response from a number of you saying that you felt the same way, but at the same time I think that many of you were joking or thought that I was joking. Well I listened to this song about 40 times in a row last night and I want to repeat in all seriousness: I want to make love to this song (while this song is on? during this song?). I can not be any more serious here.
And I’m not even talking about my typical sex session, which is preceded by a lot of vodka, features two solid minutes of sweat, hair and apologies, ends with a fist pump and a request for a high five, and is followed by days (in some cases, weeks) of guilt and shame. I’m talking about love-making: rolling around on the sheets, messing up each other’s hair, fingers in each other’s mouths – all in slow motion in a room with a lot of candles. That’s what I’m talking about.
Mark my words: I’m going to get a girlfriend and I am going to make this happen. I realize that this might be difficult; my girlfriend may think it’s too corny or funny to go through with it, but women from Cambodia don’t have much of a sense of humor – pretty much she’ll do anything I ask in return for a warm place to sleep and some pocket change for shiny bracelets and costume jewelry. So I’m not concerned about that. I just better buy the candles now, so I’m ready.
"Where Did Our Love Go?" J. Geils Band
When I first learned that my old college roommate Mike was a self-described "huge J. Geils fan," I thought "What the fuck?" But they have some pretty good tunes, my favorite being this cover of The Supremes song, which is, dare I say, rollicking. Much respect to bands or artists who cover songs and infuse them with their own style; this sounds like a J. Geils original. And if after listening to this song you don’t want to hang out with Peter Wolf (lead singer of the band), then you are truly socially awkward.
"Call on Me" Eric Prydz
Speaking of artists that recreate songs, this is a cover of my boy Steve Winwood’s "Valerie." When I was in England the February before last, this song was everywhere, particularly in the University of London Union (ULU) pub where I spent my days drinking cheap beer, eating cheap food, working on my projects when they weren’t even projects yet, and watching the snow (it snowed a little bit every day). When I wasn’t watching the snow, I’d watch the TVs that were positioned around the bar and the video for this song, which is so, so nice that I have to include it here.
[youtube]cBoNN_icCDk[/youtube]
Not bad, right? This came on so often – and got me so riled up – that whenever this song comes on my iPod, I’m brought right back to that pub, with the pints and the snow and the spandexed, sweaty ladies dancing on the TV.
I love nostalgia.
"Busby Berkeley Dreams" and "All My Little Words" The Magnetic Fields
I recommended these two before but did so at the end of a giant 3000 word post and didn’t give them their proper due. For the former: is it me or is there something incredible about an extremely gay man with an extremely deep voice sitting at a piano and singing a sad song that starts "I should have forgotten you long ago/But you’re in every song I know"? For the latter, if you want to know what hopelessness sounds like, check this song out ("I could make you pay and pay/But I could never make you stay"). Two profoundly depressing songs – and you know that I know my depressing songs. I’d have to think about this a little more, but of the 22 suicide-inducing songs on my "Sad as Fuck" playlist, these may be the two saddest. This is about the strongest endorsement I can give. If you don’t download them, well, you’ll probably be a much happier person. But if you like sad music, you’re doing yourself a disservice by not checking these out.
(And yes, I realized that I raised the bar so high that no song could live up to this hype, but whatever.)
"Sexx Laws" Beck
Very hot and cold on Beck, but I don’t want to end this installment of Six Songs on such a sad note with the above Magnetic Fields songs, so here’s something that’ll make you happy. If you’re not already in the shower crying.
*******************
In Seattle from Thursday night, 11/30 to Tuesday afternoon, 12/5. Then in Los Angeles from Tuesday afternoon, 12/5 until Sunday afternoon, 12/10. But fear not: I will be checking in or otherwise you will have something good to read on here, so check back if you like. I mean, I’m not going to beg you – hell, I’ll be on vacation getting fucked up and sleeping until 2pm – but I’m just saying.
And I promise to take lots of pictures and do lots of stupid things.
[Have a good weekend.]
It’s the holiday season, which means it’s time for one of my least favorite holiday traditions: the Lexus "December to Remember" commercials.
If you’ve watched even one hour of television between Thanksgiving and Christmas over the past four years, odds are you have seen one of these commercials. The premise is simple: either a husband or a wife wakes up on Christmas morning to see a brand new Lexus, fitted with a big red bow, parked in their driveway. Then the husband or wife, who is gorgeous, will smile, hug, and then presumably make love to his/her spouse, who is also gorgeous. Everything is happy on this Christmas day, thanks to Lexus. Gorgeous, rich people. Happy holidays.
I don’t know if it’s because I spent a portion of my childhood beating up my little brother so that he’d be the one going to the store and using the food stamps instead of me, but these commercials make me want to punch these rich fucks right in their smug faces. I mean, who gets a brand new Lexus for Christmas? A new Lexus? Really? Couldn’t find anything you liked at Zales, mother fucker? The nicest gift I’ve ever gotten was an iPod, which I bought for myself on credit – and I’m pretty fucking rich now. But a Lexus? Are we fucking serious?
Are these commercials aimed at the .0003% of the American population that can afford to give a $70,000 gift on the holidays (or $30,000, if you stoop to pre-owned)? It’s not like I watch Masterpiece Theater here, folks – I mostly stick to reruns of Seinfeld and King of Queens and sporting events. And I have seen these commercials hundreds of times over the years. And each time they fill me with such rage that the joy of my holiday season is threatened.
I should probably stop now, lest I pick up my keyboard and start smashing it against the wall. But am I alone on this? Is it because I have a deep-seated resentment for the wealthy, having grown up poor? Or is it because I’m self-loathing, because I am now rich and smug? Or maybe it’s because I’m jealous, because instead of getting/giving a Lexus and fucking my hot wife this Christmas, I’m going to watch my dad eat a cigarette to entertain my little cousins and then drink so much that I pass out in the bathroom?
(Author’s Note: I’m actually not rich at all. But because I accidentally leave lights on in my mom’s house and threw out a half gallon of milk that was eight dates passed its expiration date in my dad’s fridge, my parents think I am. Also, I’m keep writing "I’m rich" to impress any women readers. It gets lonely around the holidays.)
I don’t know – if it’s me, I’ll stop complaining about it and try to work my way through it. But I get really upset by these commercials. And I can only hope others out there do as well, if only to convince me that I’m not crazy.
(That being said, if any of you would like to buy me a Lexus for Christmas, I promise I will cherish it forever. Then we can make love in the living room. Happy holidays.)
I’m keeping a positive attitude because I had a spectacular Thanksgiving break and this Thursday I’ll be getting on a plane to head to Seattle, where a little bird told me it’s been snowing (and by "a little bird" I mean "some big dude named Ben"). After that, it’s a week in Los Angeles at a hotel that I simply cannot afford but have booked anyway. During this vacation, I plan on doing very little aside from things that make me happy, namely eating, drinking, sleeping a lot, and, God willing, making out.
But I still have to get through these next few days before the vacation starts. So let’s focus on what just happened as opposed to what’s going to happen. These past few days have been awesome because of three reasons.
Drinking is awesome.
Normally on these here site, I try to take bragging about boozing and make it an art form. Anyone can talk about the stupid shit they did while drunk, but I (in my humble opinion) take this up a notch by not only telling what I did when drunk, but also by throwing in a big word or two, using a ton of run on sentences and parentheses, and comparing my penis to a diminutive household object. Not to mention all the casual racism that’s bandied about. This is what makes me special, and this is what makes you keep coming back.
But there can be no elegance or art when I talk about the drinking of the past few days. It was simply dominant, and part of me is a little surprised that I am not in a hospital or a prison right now. I got home on Wednesday night, dropped my shit off, and went straight out on the "Whacked on Wheels" drinking tour, wrapping up at 3am (drinking hours: 8pm-3am). On Thanksgiving night, I stayed up drinking and playing cards until 4:30am (drinking hours: 7pm-4:30am). On Friday, I woke up, showered, then started drinking at 2pm on the Black Out Friday pub crawl, and drank until the bars closed (drinking hours: 2pm-2am). I had a brief respite on Saturday afternoon, which I spent laying in bed collecting myself, before heading out for my friends’ wedding reception, getting home that night just before 4am (drinking hours: 7pm-4am).
I have spend the past few days hydrating myself and praying. Because I know that the damage I did to myself over Thanksgiving break will pale in comparison to what’s going to go down in Seattle and LA. I ask you to pray for me as well.
Almost winning a lot of money is awesome.
I am having a tremendous NFL season in terms of gambling. I’m so happy about this that I share with you here, even though it certainly means that over the course of the rest of the season I will lose 90% of my games because of bragging and will have to sell large portions of my skin and/or marry a Ukrainian man to pay off debts.
I typically only bet on two or three games a weekend for modest sums, never more than a night’s worth of drinking (because god forbid I have to give one of those up). For whatever reason, I’ve been really on the ball. I haven’t kept a record, but I have to be around 75% right so far this season.
Additionally, I’m in two season-long pools. In one, every week I pay $10 and pick six games with the spread. In order to win, you have to go 6 for 6. There are 80 people in this pool, meaning $800 a week is a stake. If a Sunday passes without a winner (which is does more than half the time), the pot rolls over, so you are playing for $1600 or $2400. Twice in this pool I have gone 5-1. Yes, I realize this means nothing since I haven’t won anything, but my powers of prognosticating sort of give me a boner.
I’m also in a Survivor pool. Each week, you have to pick a team to win. The spreads do not matter – the team only has to win. If you pick a team and they lose, you’re out of the pool for the season. The catch is that once you pick a team, you can’t pick them again. For example, in Week One I picked Indianapolis, so I wasn’t able to pick them again.
At the start, there were 80 people also in this pool. As of Saturday, I was one of five left. I picked the Cowboys this week, who won on Thursday. Someone picked the Panthers, who lost during the 1pm games on Sunday, so it was down to me and three others. These three others picked the Chargers to beat the Raiders, a 4pm game.
I wasn’t paying attention to the game, but I got a call from a buddy to tell me that at the start of the 4th quarter, the Chargers were losing 14-7. If the Chargers lost the game, all three people who picked them would be out and I’d win the $1600. Violating the number two rule of gambling (the number one rule being, "Don’t write about your hot streak on your blog"), I started thinking about how I’d spend that $1600, mostly fantasizing about cocaine and milkshakes, which surprisingly go very well together and also make for great names for a pair of dogs.
And of course, the Chargers came back to win 21-14, meaning the four of us advance to next week. Again, I know I shouldn’t be happy because I didn’t win shit – if anything, I should be pissed off for coming so close and losing – but something about predicting the future really gets me excited. I’m a simple man: all I want is a nice sandwich, a strong drink, some soft boobies, and almost winning money. It’s amazing how little it takes to make me happy.
Getting recognized is awesome.
[DOUCHEBAG ALERT: I'm going to sound like a major douchebag in this portion of the post. But I'm really hard up for material. You have been warned.]
When I started the blog, I didn’t want to put any pictures of myself up. Not because I wanted to be anonymous – the site address was my name, after all – but because I felt it was, for lack of a better word, lame. Sure, the site was about self-promotion, but I have pretty low self-esteem and don’t want to post pictures of myself for thousands of strangers to look at and judge. I think people who do have sites and put pics of themselves all over the place are lamest of the lames. It’s one thing to make a grab for attention, but another entirely to make it so obvious.
(Forget that I started calling myself an "Internet Quasi-Celebrity" when 40 people read this site. That was a long time ago.)
But then I got a MySpace page and realized, slowly, that pics aren’t a bad thing. And this isn’t because after posting pictures of myself I got a tremendous uptick in the number of booby pictures I received from you all (well, not entirely because of it). Maybe it was nice to show my friends and I having fun, if for no other reason than you know I’m not (totally) lying. So no, pics are not all bad.
Then, over the course of the past two weeks, I was "recognized" by people I don’t know, people familiar with the site, five times. It happened twice last weekend in Boston, both times at the BC game, and then three times over Thanksgiving: Wednesday night in Penn Station before traveling to Philly, Sunday afternoon in line for a taxi at Penn Station, and then Sunday night while getting takeout from the greatest Thai restaurant in the world, Sea.
I know I shouldn’t say anything about this at all; that it’s much cooler to ignore it and play it off like it’s no big deal. But I mention it here because a) it is pretty awesome; and b) it is very awkward. Awesome because, I don’t know, it’s kinda cool to have a stranger come up to you and say, "Is your name Jason?" Awkward because, I don’t know, it’s kinda weird to have a stranger come up to you and say, "Is your name Jason? You’re right – you do suck."
Also, I didn’t really handle it well. I was so startled when a woman approached me in Penn Station on Wednesday that I barely made sense:
Her: "Is your name Jason?"
Me: "Um, yes."
Her: "That’s what I thought. I read your site."
Me: [flustered, suddenly alarmingly perspiring] "HANDJOB!"
Her: "What?"
Me: "I AM NOT A MONSTER!"
Her: "I don’t know – "
Me: "CHIPWICH!"
Eventually, I calmed down enough for the woman, Patricia, to spend ten minutes with me telling me how she stopped reading because she got sick of hearing about my old diet, that having a beer gut is sexier than reading about working out, that she was concerned that I was going to start wearing Diesel jeans. I told her that I’m no longer dieting or writing about it, so she should come back to the site. Then I implied – perhaps not so subtly – that I had time to kill before my train left. Then she implied – not very subtly at all – that she was going to contact the Amtrak police. We parted. Sweet girl.
The taxi line on Sunday night was even better, mostly because there was a stunningly attractive women behind me in line when another woman came up to me and asked who I was. Although I was more prepared this time and it was a much briefer meet-and-greet, I wanted to turn to the hot girl behind me:
Me: "Yeah, she’s a – I feel embarrassed just saying this – but she was a fan of mine."
Girl: "Really? What do you do?"
Me: "I write a blog."
Girl: [unimpressed] "Oh."
Me: "But I also, um, play professional baseball."
Girl: [unbelieving] "That’s cool."
Me: "And I - geez, this is even more embarrassing – I model my penis in various publications."
Girl: [gathering things and walking away]
Me: "I also own hotels, and, uh, various properties, and – I just really want to talk, that’s all…"
********
So my task is simple: make it to the airport on Thursday. At that point, I can load up on the Xanax, pass out on the plane, and wake up in the great Pacific Northwest, an area of the country that I love. Let’s all hope that the next few days pass without incident, binge, fight, or accident. Because, after Thanksgiving break, I really need a vacation.
Love,
Jason
The Up
I like visiting Boston, but there is nothing relaxing about it. If anything, it’s more like a weekend-long physical challenge than a vacation. And if you’ve been reading as of late, a physical challenge is about the last thing I’m ready for. The word I’d use to best describe me over the past two or three weeks: tired. Runner-up: jaundiced.
(Long story short, when I was drunk last weekend I ate a bunch of tacks. I think I messed something up in there pretty bad. Or I just have hepatitis. Whatever – I’ll figure this out after the holidays.)
Though I was greatly looking forward to it, I knew this weekend would be difficult. The main event of the weekend was a BC football game, a game which started at noon. This meant tailgating would begin at 9am. Since my friends and I don’t have the presence of mind (or the willpower) to take it easy on the night before an early game, I figured we would be hurting come morning.
And I was right. We were out until 2am on Friday night and when that alarm went off at 8am, I contemplated blowing the whole thing off, turning over, and spending the next several hours lying on my buddy Bill’s futon, wondering how often his naked ass is on it. But since was the last BC home football game of the season, I sucked it up, showered and soon was tailgating.
And then I made miracles happen.
My friend Meg used to rock this concept called a "glorious day." It’s a pretty simple concept: spend one day, one whole day from morning until night, getting bombed for no reason. Basically you just clock in and go to work. Obviously, it’s a travesty that she has not yet won the Nobel Prize for coming up with this idea.
And while Saturday wasn’t a glorious day because there was a reason for the drinking (the BC game), it was glorious in just about every other way. As a matter of fact, it was probably one of the top ten performances of my life. I drank from 9am until after the bars closed at 2am. Seventeen fucking hours - straight through, no breaks, no nap, no dinner, not even really any food. There was not a ten minute stretch of time in those 17 hours that I did not have an alcohol beverage of some kind in my hand. This is not an exaggeration.
And it’s not as though anything incredible or story-worthy happened. It was a workman-like performance: "I’m here to get fucked up and that’s what I’m going to do. I don’t need to eat or even talk to anyone, as long as I have my booze." Magical.
I did have a little help in the form of five well-placed (sugar free) red bulls throughout the day, which provided a nice lil’ kick in the ass to keep the party going. But that’s not cheating. And it could have been worse. It’s not like I was huffing or anything. Or at least it’s not like I was huffing a lot.
And I realize that this might sound a little scary and/or sad – that I’m reveling in the fact that I got completely bombed without anything exciting happening. But I don’t care. Sometimes one needs little tests to prove his worth, little reminders that he was once and is still capable of great things. That is exactly how I feel about Saturday. And I have no qualms about this.
Then there was Sunday.
The Down
To paraphrase Jerry Maguire, I’m not going to do what you think I’m going to do, which is flip out and maybe tear my own beard hair out. Not on here anyway, since I already did that yesterday and it made me tired.
Instead, a few issues about the Eagles’ game before I get to the big one:
- When a team makes fundamental mistakes (i.e. tackling, dropping passes, penalties, bad snaps, etc), it is the fault of the coach. These players are, in the parlance of our times, grown-ass men. They did not make it to the NFL without knowing how to tackle, how to catch, how to not commit fouls. It is the job of the coaching staff to whip them into shape, so that errors like these don’t happen. This staff is not doing their job.
- I can not say this enough: the Eagles have the largest offensive line in the league but can not convert on a 3rd and 3 or under on the ground. That is kind of a big problem. Worse, there is no obvious solution (is it that Westbrook is just too small? Are they a bunch of 330 pounds pansies on the line?).
- Teams that can not stop the run are teams that do not win championships. I don’t have the energy to get too into it, but think about it on the most basic level: running plays eat time off the clock, they keep defensives honest, and they are not reliant on one person (meaning if your QB isn’t "feeling it", which is the case for McNabb 20% of the time, the team can still move the ball). Also, as someone who has played professional football for years, I can tell you that when a defense is getting run on, it’s demoralizing. It’s one thing to get lucky and complete an 84 yard bomb for a TD; it’s another to get your mouth smashed for 5 yards a carry, over and over again on long, sustained drives. If you can’t stop the run, you can’t win. The Titans had over 200 yards rushing – three minutes into the second half. Not very good.
But of course, none of this matters now.
I am destroyed by the events of Sunday’s Eagles game. There is no other way to say it. It is disconcerting that this season is now lost. But what is more damning is that the window for an Eagles championship may potentially be closed. Donovan McNabb will be 30 on Saturday. He has eight to twelve months of recovery on the knee which he throws off. Oh, and not to mention that his greatness, while no longer based on his running, is still in large part because of his mobility and elusiveness. So that might be a problem with the knee.
Now we have (I’m assuming) Jeff Garcia coming in as a backup. Better than Mike McMahon? Sure. Better than Koy Detmer/AJ Feeley? We’ll see. Optimists will point out that Garcia is a three-time Pro Bowler. But Jeff Garcia is a Pro Bowler like I was once one of People’s "50 Hottest Bachelors" - they further away we get from it, the more we ask ourselves "Did that really happen? My god, that must have been a mistake or some sort. That just doesn’t seem right at all."
(By the way, my apologies again to Katie and Lisa, who didn’t know me, didn’t read this site, and didn’t know what I look like, but were dragged out to hang out with me by a friend who I do know on the assurance/based on the incentive, "But he was one of People’s "50 Hottest Bachelors!’" The poor girls figured they’d get a night on the town with a good-looking guy. What a mistake. I will take to my grave the look of disappointment on their faces when they met me and saw what I actually look like. The closet analogy I can think of is you as a virgin getting a handjob from Jenny McCarthy in her prime, only to have her stop just before you’re finished and pull off a mask to reveal that she’s really your dad in disguise: abject and unfathomable horror, shock, and sadness – and whole lot of nausea. A small part of Katie and Lisa died when they saw me and were so profoundly let down, and for this I will never forgive myself. Know this, Katie and Lisa. Know this.)
The problem is that the Eagles’ offense thrives (or rather, thrived) on the big pass play. No one in the NFL throws the deep ball better than Donovan McNabb. Now we have Jeff Garcia, who can throw the football maybe 10 yards farther than I can. Even in the prime of his career, his was known for his weak arm. Now he’s 36 and has played in seven games in the last two years. Hmmm…
But again, none of it matters. Optimists will point out that we’re only one game out of the division lead, while rational people will say: at Indy, Carolina, away at the NFC East, Atlanta. Before, I would have been happy with 3-3 in that stretch. In order to make the playoffs, we need at least 4-2. Realistically, I say we go 2-4. You know, if we’re lucky.
The good news is that my Sundays have just gotten a whole lot less stressful. I will still continue to watch Eagles games of course, but it’s different now. The McNabb-led 2006 Eagles seduced me into thinking that they could be a very good team. I don’t think I will be able to say the same about the McNabb-less 2006 Eagles.
(But who knows? God really, really owes us. Big time.)
(In the interests of journalistic integrity and full disclosure, yes, Nicole and I have made out before. But it was a long time ago in college and only happened two or three times over the course of two years and there was no funny stuff. Plus, I’ve pretty much made out with every single one of my female friends at least once, so there’s no weirdness in that for me. They might have weirdness about it, as well as a great deal of shame, anger, and self-loathing, but that’s really not my concern. But I think it’s important to make out with your friends, not only because making out is fun and totally awesome, but also because you need to find out if there’s anything more there than just being friends. Thankfully, since I have about as much sex appeal/boyfriend potential as most modern day pirates, I’ve been able to make out with my female friends and remain friends.)
(God, making out really is awesome. It’s a shame I’m so fucking terrible at it. I mean, does this look like someone who is good at making out?
I don’t think so.)
(The saddest thing about that picture: it’s not posed. At least, I don’t think it was posed, but I did a lot of drugs that weekend in Maine.)
Last night was my turn to pick and Uncle Jason was in the mood for some good ol’ fashioned red meat. Even though I was a month-long (kind of) vegetarian, I am a confirmed carnivore. There is nothing – nothing – like a nice hunk of dead animal, still slightly bleeding, simmering before you in its own juices, begging to be consumed. Protein, baby, protein.
Since I know about three restaurants in New York City (and two of them start with "Ye Old") and Nicole is a borderline foodie, I asked her to recommend some steak places. She did and I spent a glorious afternoon perusing websites and menus, contemplating which we’d go to. But then when I saw our eventual restaurant, I knew it was the one immediately – you can’t walk away after reading "crisp goose fat potatoes" without making a reservation.
So Nicole and I dined last night at the fortuitously named Strip House. And the verdict? Wow.
I’m not going to be able to describe how good the food was with any flair or accuracy, but I think you people know that. So let’s just go with it.
I got the shrimp scampi appetizer, which was good but didn’t make me pee my pants. Nicole got the lobster bisque, which tasted like a giant bowl of lobster-flavored butter. This is a good thing. A very good thing.
We each got a filet, hers 10oz, mine 14oz. In retrospect, it was probably the fourth best steak I’ve ever had in my life, although at the time I thought it was number two. (In case you’re wondering, number one was at Ruth’s Chris in NYC, number two was at The Palm in Boston, and number three was at El Gaucho in Seattle.)
Being my number four steak of all time is nothing to slouch about and it was fucking delicious. But what got me most (aside from the lobster bisque) were the side dishes. In addition to the crisp goose fat potatoes, which were good but didn’t quite live up to their incredible name (though I can’t blame them), we got creamed spinach and creamed corn. Know that I do not exaggerated when I say that because of these two creamed dishes, I am a different person. The creamed spinach was so wonderful that I’m convinced that if one were to bathe in it once a month, he or she would become immortal. It’s that fucking powerful. And the creamed corn…good lord. It comes in a small casserole dish and has a baked top, but underneath is the wonderful goodness of corn, cream, and lil’ chunks of pancetta, which I have recently learned is fancy bacon. I never knew so much could be done with corn. Tasting that creamed corn was a high, not unlike the feeling you get after you sneeze or after you’ve held in your pee for a while and then peed. That kind of high. Like sneezing or peeing, but in corn form. I know – I’m blowing your mind right now.
But these dinners are about more than just food. And no, I’m not talking about the booze, although there was plenty of that last night (I am on a huge red wine kick right now). You see, Nicole sees me as sort of a charity case and is trying to class me up (or maybe "gay me up"). I think that Nicole realizes that God didn’t bless me with a loaded deck, and so she’s trying to smooth out some of my rough edges. I’ve repeatedly told her that what I lack in social graces I more than make up for in my paranoia, but she’ll have none of it.
So during these dinners, she and I typically spend a lovely evening talking about our relationship problems; hers going something like, "So what does it mean when a guy [does/says/emails/texts/looks a certain way]?", while mine usually start, "So I’m getting really sick of normal porn – what do you think about people dressed as cowboys and Indians having sex? Would you still be friends with it if I liked that stuff? Oh, and the cowboys and Indians are in wheelchairs. That’s important."
Specifically, one of last night’s lessons was about giving and taking compliments. Nicole says that I don’t take compliments very well, and she is correct. I don’t know why this is, but it makes me uncomfortable and sometimes defensive and even angry:
Mike: "Hey, cool shirt."
Me: "Geez – just remember to zip me up and you’re done blowing me, Fagbert. Christ. Have you told your parents yet or are you going to wait until you bring Bruce home for the holidays?"
or
Mindy: "You look nice today."
Me: "Show of hands – how many people here gave Mike herpes? Raise it higher, Mindy, raise it higher!"
Maybe this is a self-esteem issue, but I’m not a psychologist. But what I’m apparently supposed to do is say "Thank you" and move on, so I’ll work on that.
However, I think that I give compliments very well. Well, that’s not exactly true – I think I give compliments very well because I give them like a person with mental disabilities. For example, I very rarely say "You look beautiful" to a woman. Instead, I will say something like, "Your hair smells like raspberries." I will mean this sincerely and as a compliment, but often times this makes me look a little weird and possibly dangerous. Nicole knows of my struggles firsthand, since once in college while very drunk and in the presence of a bunch of guy friends, I told her that she has "nice colors" (her hair is dark, her skin is light and she has green eyes). I meant this completely seriously and innocuously, but to this day I’ll be around buddies and one of them might say, "Dude – check out the colors on that girl!" But what’s better: for a guy to deliver some cheesedick line and probably not mean it or for a guy to blurt out the first thing that comes to his mind and completely mean it, even if that first thing is "Your perfume reminds me of carrot cake" or "When you touch my hand, it makes me want to plant a flower" or "I feel warm because you look so nice"? Yeah, I thought so.
Finally, Nicole and I ended the meal with cheesecake. But not just any cheesecake, but the biggest fucking slice of cheesecake the world has ever seen. An article framed on the wall of the restaurant from Forbes said, "The cheesecake may just be the most monumental, unforgettable serving of anything anyplace" and that’s a pretty accurate description. Gigantic and creamy, it tasted like having sex with a beautiful Scandinavian women who has a very pretty face but is morbidly obese. But she’s also very nice. A little needy, but very nice.
Then we went out, had a couple of drinks, I got drunk, begged Nicole to stay out drinking, she said she couldn’t, I walked home listening to my iPod and almost threw up on the way. So pretty much it ended like three or four nights of every week end.
But another successful dinner is in the books. I laughed, I learned, and I had a good meal – a terrific night be any standards. Next month, Nicole picks the place, so I’m sure it’ll be somewhere where I have never heard of 60% of the things on the menu. But I’ve already picked out a discussion topic: "So, long story short, I was dating this girl and one night after we hooked up very drunk, she passed out and woke up to find me drawing a map of Europe on her back. She was so freaked out, she never talked to me again. She’s gay, right? Also, I was wearing her bra when she woke up. But I don’t see how that’s relevant."
Because Friday was a bad day, things got a little out of control on Friday night.
And the sad thing is, I’m not exactly sure how. The only thing I remember is waking up on Saturday morning with a random blonde in my bed and one of the top ten worst hangovers of my life. The rest – the night before, the afternoon after, hell, everything up until about 24 hours ago – is blurry.
If you were able to trudge through the nine pages of sports stuff I posted on Sunday, you may have read that I did not go to Boston this weekend, despite having every intention of doing so. I packed on Thursday night, lugged my suitcase and 30 pound laptop to work, dropped an egregious $110 on a 6pm train ticket, and was very much looking forward to Beantown. Knowing that my train would put me into Boston at 9:30pm and I’d have to hit the ground running, for the train ride I bought some little bottles of alcohol which I call nips (but I think that might be racist): three of Maker’s Mark (since they sell ginger ale on board) and three of vodka (to split among the two cans of Red Bull I had in my luggage). I was going to get a little, maybe a lot, loose on the train. All day I was sending emails and talking on the phone with my Boston buddies about the weekend’s activities. I was getting excited.
I was busy at work on Friday but manageably so. And by about 3pm, it appeared that I had cleared my plate and would be able to sneak out 15 minutes early to make sure I’d catch that 6pm train. Boston here I come! Fathers, lock up your daughters! And maybe any very feminine-looking animals, just to be safe!
And then disaster struck.
Without getting too into it, I was ordered to reorganize a project that I thought was finished at about 3:30pm. I wound up working until 7:30pm. The last train to Boston left Penn Station at 7:30pm and wouldn’t get in until midnight, so that was out. I debated taking a bus, but then I realized: what’s the point at arriving at 1am on Friday night, only to come back on Sunday? New York to Boston is around 4 hours, usually more. That’s a lot of traveling for one day in the city.
(Also, buses are for poors.)
So, disgusted with myself and my job, I bagged the trip. I intend now to go to Boston this weekend, and am taking a half day Friday to ensure I’m out of the office and on a train. Instead of leaving for Boston at 6pm on Friday, I should be there at 6pm (hopefully). Now that Boston is back on this coming weekend, I won’t have a weekend in NYC again until January 6 (with jaunts to Boston, Philly, Seattle, and LA coming up, then three consecutive weekends in Philly, one for a drinking tour and two for the holidays), which makes me a little sad, but whatever.
On Friday night, after this great Boston defeat, I was determined to get fucked up. Like, really fucked up. I had two vodka red bulls, a bottle of white wine, and then three cans of PBR – and then I went out. It was my buddy’s 27th birthday "bar crawl" (read: we went to two bars) and things got really out of control: beers, shots, possibly some pain pills, whatever. I don’t remember much of the evening, but I had a fucking blast. To wit, the next day, sometime in the afternoon, I found a bar tab from a bar at which I put my card down. The bill was $35. For whatever reason, I decided to tip $25. My math skills weren’t on point that night however, and under total I wrote "$80." I have no idea what I was actually charged. Also, I don’t remember going to this particular bar. At all. So there’s that.
I was so hungover on Saturday that I did not go out on Saturday night and instead stayed in and watched six hours of shows about prisons (which was actually pretty awesome). Just before bed I had a glass of a nice Chilean red (in honor of Pablo Neruda, whose memoirs I am reading right now), a half milligram of Xanax (in honor of my father, whose love of pills I inherited), and a shot of NyQuil to wash it all down (that was just for me). I slept for 11 hours. It was fucking incredible.
But the missed Boston trip, my hellacious night of boozing, and my downright dangerous and bizarre consumption of sedatives the following night are not the issue. The bigger issue, the one which concerns me most, is that my employer is trying to turn me into a real employee, not just someone on the payroll who makes personal phone calls, checks his fantasy teams all day long, and writes scurrilous poems about his future ex-wife during staff meetings. And nowhere is shift from work slacker to professional stud better exemplified than the electronic leash that is now at all times around my neck. Yes, I, Jason Mulgrew, have been given a blackberry.
Make no mistake: though I love shiny things, I did not want this blackberry. Not only because I already have a Treo, but because I understood the implications on the blackberry – if you have one, your employer can contact to 24 hours a day and expect you to answer. My co-workers and I were asked if we would like blackberries and I subtly protested, trying not to sound too much like a slacker, saying that I didn’t think I needed one (which I really don’t) and voicing concerns about the departmental budget (which, on my list of things I’m concerned about, ranks about as high as "I hope my ex-girlfriend is having consistent, non-self-induced orgasms").
But there was no resisting, since every member of my department was "rewarded" with a blackberry. Not only that, when the IT guy brought me the blackberry for the first time, it was though I was expected to start squealing like an five year old on Christmas who just got "Grease" on video (you know, like I did in 1984). Oh, ok – so you expect me to be happy now, Mr. IT Guy? Is that it? I’m supposed to be glad that I will literally carry my work with me all the time now? Really? You know what will make me happy? Making out with someone who’s not after my money. Or just making out with someone. Whichever comes first. Asshole.
As I type this, I have a blackberry clipped to my belt. Yes, I am rocking a beltclip. I know, I know – you’re probably thinking, "My, how the mighty have fallen!" or "Man, is this post almost over?", but please, believe me, I have no choice in the matter. Everyone at work wears their blackberries on their belts. Company man that I now am, I must to. Judge if you must, but know that it pains me.
(And the beltclip blackberry is only an in-work type of thing; as soon as I leave my office building, I take the blackberry off and bury it (and the beltclip) somewhere on my person. Although I can definitely see myself taking the blackberry out at bars and typing away on it, trying to look important in front of women. And then I can see myself taking out my Treo and typing on that at the same time as the blackberry, making myself look doubly important. And then I can see some guy coming over and punching me in the face, because I’m acting like a fucking douche.)
The good news is that so far I haven’t received any emails that required urgent attention while I was out of work. The truth of the matter is that I do not expect to receive such emails, but just the thought that my employer expects to be able to get in touch with me at all times and wherever I am, well, it just really fucking pisses me off.
(By the way, if any of my co-workers or superiors are reading this, I’m totally kidding. I love the job. Seriously. And not just because it’s bonus season.)
And there are some positives, aside from being flashy, to the blackberry. For one, it has a game called Brickbreaker on it, which is some sort of Pong-type derivative. This is great because it allows me to both look busy and do nothing at the same time. In meetings and lunches, I’m sure I’ll whip out the blackberry and play away, while everyone around me thinks I’m just really busy. I’ve actually already done this twice, with great results (top score: 5450).
But this blackberry thing is going to take some adjusting. I’m not really a good worker. This blackberry might force me to become one. And what’s that whole thing about what happens when an irresistible force meets an immutable object? That’s right – fire. I don’t mean as in "to lose one’s job", I mean, real actual fire. As in, I’m going to light one. Soon. So watch out.
(Except if my co-workers and/or superiors are reading this. Then by "fire" I mean "passion to excel." Excel for that holiday bonus. Which I really need, since I’ve decided to surprise my family by putting in a pool. Also, I need it because I apparently spent $80 at a bar on Friday night that I don’t remember even being at. So gimme that bonus. Please.)
Because Bill Simmons is a hero of mine, because the game is on national TV and so my friends and I aren’t going to Red Sky to watch it, and because I’ve never done it before, below is a running diary of the Redskins-Eagles game. I have no idea if I’ll post this or even complete it, but I’m sitting alone in my living room and feeling a little lonely. This should keep me occupied.
Dick Stockton, Moose, and Tony Siragusa on the field will be our announcers. Let’s get into it.
1:04pm: And we’re off – the 3-5 Redskins vs. the 4-4 Eagles. Simply put, the season is over for the loser of this game. 60 degrees, thunderstorms, and wind should make for a hostile environment. Dick Stockton has just pointed out that Mark Brunell is 4-0 against the Eagles. Funny, I still like our odds against Mark Brunell.
1:05pm: That was nice: Antwaan Randle-El just looked like Barry Sanders, with the Birds missing three tackles on third down. Way to go boys. Glad to see we’re improving right away from the problems from our last game.
1:07pm: Nice stop of a third down screen pass, forcing a punt. It seems in the few plays I’ve seen that the front seven are breaking the Skins line, but it’s early. Very, very early.
1:09pm: Pretty cool Heisman commercial for Nissan, with animals chasing the truck with the Heisman Trophy in it. It took me about two full minutes to realize those animals were college mascots. Did I mention I took Xanax last night?
1:11pm: McNabb just threw a pass directly at Redskin Marcus Washington, which he dropped. First heart palpitation of the day.
1:11pm: McNabb runs for the first and a gain of ten. No idea why he doesn’t do this more.
1:12pm: Westbrook runs for a gain of seven. Very niiiice. How about a shot downfield on this first down to keep the D honest.
1:13pm: Wow – I think they were listening, as a flea-flicker goes downfield, but into triple coverage and incomplete.
1:14pm: Beauty of a play action pass to Westbrook which he takes to the house, brought back because he just stepped out of bounds around the 30. Mother fucker. The Birds are moving the ball well and the announcing team is correct – the Skins aren’t swarming to the ball and look lackadaisical.
1:16pm: I’ve seen two Jessica Simpson Direct TV commercials and I want to kill myself. Watching her mouth in those commercials makes me want to do one thing: punch it. Yeah, she’s hot, and of course, I’d fuck her, but…well, there is no “but.”
1:18pm: 3rd and 1 on the Redskins 22 and the Birds can’t get the first. It’s horribly frustrating that the Eagles o-line averages 330 pounds and I have no faith in any situation that I shorter than 3rd and 3.
1:18pm: Akers drops a 37-yarder, Eagles up 3-0. Good for my fantasy team and my real time, which is nice.
1:20pm: After the first score, I start thinking about food options. Two things I can’t get off my mind: nachos and fried calamari. I would go with wings but with the beard as scraggly as it is, I’ll be picking caked on sauce out of my beard until Wednesday. Hmm…
1:23pm: These KFC famous bowls, which are layered mashed potatoes, fried chicken, gravy, and cheese…I mean, who are the ad wizards that came up with that one? And more importantly, how much do they weigh? Nothing says “I’ve given up” quite like “Can I please have two of the famous bowls to go?”
1:24pm: Just learned that that is a possibly that the game might be delayed because of “thunder.” Yeah, you have to watch out of that thunder, with all that noise and such.
1:26pm: The Skins come out for two runs and get a first, then Darwin Walker is tagged for a 15 yard facemask. The Skins are into Eagles territory. Yes, Mark Brunell in Eagles territory. Steel yourselves.
1:28pm: Birds bite on the fake sweep, Brunell bootlegs and passes to Cooley for a wide open first down. Skins inside the 30.
1:30pm: 3rd and 18 from the 37 for the Skins. 22% chance the Eagles fuck this up.
1:30pm: Michael Lewis comes untouched on a blitz, Brunell throws it away. Punt team comes on. Nice stop of the drive there for the Eagles, sloppy early on but tightening up. To celebrate, I’m going to have my first beer of the day.
1:32pm: Mmm..Sundays are made for cans of PBR. In a related story, I’m not wearing pants right now. And I’m leaning toward calamari. I should probably mention now that I didn’t go to Boston this weekend, but we’ll get into that later.
1:34pm: OH BABY! McNabb hooks up with Stallworth for an 84 yard touchdown! I am standing, cheering, and I have a half-erection! 10-0 Eagles!
1:35pm: That’s what I like about this team – their big play capability. BUT you can not live and die by big play capability, just as you can’t live and die by the 3 in the NBA. At some point, you have to be a bruiser. And yes, I know we’re up 10-0. I’ll stop now.
1:36pm: Third Jessica Simpson commercial. How can a girl from Texas do such a bad Southern accent? It’s like a black person with a little dick and a college degree.
1:38pm: Just showed troops in Iraq, Eagles fans, celebrating. God I love Eagles fans.
1:40pm: As the Packers go up on the Vikings, it’s time to review my picks for the week: Chiefs +1, FALCONS +8, Ravens +7, Saints -4, VIKINGS +5.5, and Cowboys +7. If the Vikings had won by 6 last week, I would have won $1600 (went 5-1, needed to go 6-0), a big reason I got bombed by myself last Sunday. This week, not looking so good early on.
1:42pm: Wow – once again, the Skins convert on a third down and are into Eagles territory. This team is so inconsistent with tenacity it hurts my heart. Or maybe that’s just the booze.
1:43pm: End of the first, 10-0 Eagles, Skins driving.
1:46pm: Uh-oh, Clinton Portis was just taken into the locker room with a hand injury. Not a problem for the Skins, since Ladell Betts seems like he’s doing just fine.
1:47pm: Inconsistent – great stop by the Birds on a 3rd and 3. Now 4th and 4 at the 35. Skins going for it. 71% chance Skins make it.
1:47pm: First down Skins, passed to Betts in flat for 6. Didn’t see that one coming.
1:48pm: Randle-El almost gets tackled in the backfield, then throws the ball to Cooley in the end zone, which is broken up at the last minute by Brian Dawkins, who’s down as we go into commercial. Let me take a moment to pray for his health. Gorgeous play and the reason why he’s probably my favorite Eagle.
1:51pm: Dawkins back in. Whew. Portis’ return is questionable. Whew. Dick Stockton has just told us that the Skins have already rushed for 71 yards. Yikes.
1:52pm: Skins go for 48 yard field goal on 4th and 10. No good. Nice to see Novak’s right back to his old sucky self after last week.
1:55pm: With the ball back, Westbrook makes a bruising run for 11 yards. Prior to this year, I was down on Westbrook, precisely because he isn’t your typical north-south runner. And while I still, like I said, don’t trust him in a 3rd and 3 situation, it seems like he’s made a number of north-south runs this year, which I like.
1:57pm: TOUCHDOWN EAGLES! McNabb hits Reggie Brown for a first down, who gets hit and flips it to Corerll Buckhalter, who takes it in for a 55 yard touchdown. My only question: is that a pass, i.e. does McNabb get credit for that? I have a big fantasy matchup this week. Either way, you’ll be seeing that on ESPN quite a lot over the next 48 hours.
2:01pm: It’s at this point that I might start thinking about gloating, but I only have two friends who are Skins fan. One is my buddy G-Wop, who moved to Egypt three days ago. The second is my agent Joel, who basically controls my career. So it doesn’t look like I’ll be sending any “good game so far” text messages today.
2:03pm: Cincy up 21-0 on the Chargers. Great news for my survivor pool (my pick this week: Carolina). Cleveland up 14-0 on Atlanta, also good. I’m one of 19 or so left out of 80 and the pot is a cool $1600. And Uncle Jason needs some new shoes.
2:04pm: Redskins have to punt after a snoozer of a drive. Thinking a lot more about the calamari, but realized I only have $7 in my wallet. Since the calamari place doesn’t take credit cards (I think), I might have to wait until after the game, which is about as devastating as it gets.
2:07pm: Westbrook runs for 12 yards, Sean Taylor hits him four yards out of bounds. What a fucking criminal. Have I mentioned that I hate DC? I really do. I hate that city. Sorry, DC peeps.
2:08pm: Portis out with a broken right hand. Normally I would be on my fantasy site before even typing this, but Betts is one of the most owned backups in the game. Speaking of fantasy, McNabb is listed as having one TD, so the hook and ladder doesn’t count. Fuck.
2:09pm: Eagles go three and out, looking lazy. This is what I don’t like – there’s a lot of time left, the Skins have been moving the ball well, and the Eagles come out for this drive looking flat. They have to continue to ram the ball down their opponents’ throats, and they simply don’t do that.
2:11pm: Lot of hype this week about the Saints. I’m starting to think Pittsburgh wins that game outright. Not liking my pics for this week right now (Miami up 13-0 on KC).
2:13pm: Brunell connects to Brandon Lloyd for 43 yards, their biggest play of the game. Ball on the 18. Not concerned.
2:14pm: Fourth time in the first half the Skins have been in the Eagles territory. Maybe a little concerned about that. By the way, beer #2 is more delicious than beer #1.
2:17pm: On 3rd and 6 from the 18, Mark Brunell throws a pass into three Eagles, his first “What the fuck?” moment of the game. I can’t wait for the next one. Novak comes on for the field goal.
2:17pm: The 32 yarder is good – 17-3 Eagles. Yawn.
2:22pm: My dad and I usually talk over halftime about the game, but he just called me early, with about four minutes left in the half. He, like I, feels good about the game, but we are both concerned about them playing soft. They haven’t played a whole game all season and tend to get lazy. After giving up a field goal, they just went three and out after getting great field position thanks to a nice runback and 15 yard facemask. Not enjoying this right now…
2:26pm: 3rd and 22 for the Skins from the Eagles 12. Chance of success: 4%.
2:26pm: Betts run goes nowhere and the Skins are forced to punt. After the punt, the Birds get the ball on the Skins 45 with 2:31 left and one timeout. I like our chances for some points before the end of the half.
2:30pm: McNabb is 3-11 for 121 yards. And we’re up 17-3. And the Skins have 81 yards rushing in the half, most without Clinton Portis. What the fuck?
2:31pm: The crowd boos as the Skins blitz, McNabb gets hit and throws the ball away. The Eagles hold the ball for 20 seconds and go three and out. That was pretty fucking disgusting. Take away an 84 yard pass and a 55 yard freak play and this game is 3-3. I’m starting to feel a little ill.
2:36pm: After a great tackle in the open field by an Eagle (couldn’t see who) that would have brought up fourth down, Darwin Walker gets called for another face mask that is OBVIOUSLY a five yarder but is called a fifteen yard personal foul. This is great. Redskins now on the Philly 40. Thank god we’re talking about Mark Brunell here.
2:41pm: Skins can’t convert on a 4th and 6 and the Eagles take over at their 40 with 48 seconds left. The way the Eagles have been moving the ball, the Skins definitely should have punted. My guess: we walk away with a field goal. But McNabb is not exactly known for his clock management skills.
2:42pm: Reggie Brown picks up a first and the Eagles spike it in Skins territory. Alright baby – let’s move here.
2:44pm: After the spike, incomplete, incomplete, punt. Good job, boys. Way to go into the half with momentum (three consecutive three and outs from midfield or Skins territory). Getting disgusted. Big time. Also, I’ve put on pants. It’s getting cold in here.
2:45pm: Skins take a knee and we go into the half. Time for a break.
2:59pm: Second half under way and we’re into the third beer. The Eagles get the ball and I’m hoping Andy gave them a tongue lashing for their sluggishness. Also, it’s now pouring in Philly. We’ll see how that affects the game.
3:00pm: Reno Mahe with another great runback, ball on Skins 49. One thing that’s unique about this game is that there have been no turnovers. Perhaps the rain might cause of fumbles or picks. And I think I’m getting a little drunk. That Xanax is still in my system, I think.
3:03pm: On 3rd and 4, McNabb goes to the endzone for Brown and there was NO WAY that wasn’t pass interference, with a Skins defender punching over Reggie Brown’s shoulder a full second before the ball arrives. The call is incomplete. Nice pickup, refs.
3:05pm: God, how fucking good is Wendy’s? They are definitely my favorite fast food burger, with Burger King in a distant second, and McDonald’s in a very, very distant third. However, when drunk and looking to hang out with poor people, nothing beats White Castle. Can you tell that I’m hungry?
3:06pm: Coming back from commercial, Eagles go for it on 4th and 4 and get six in a pass to Stallworth. That’s very unlike the Eagles. Ball on Skins 18.
3:07pm: On the run, McNabb dumps it to Westbrook near the sidelines on the two, which is either complete, incomplete, or a fumble. Hard to tell.
3:08pm: The play is called a complete pass and Gibbs challenges. If anything, it looks like a completed pass and a fumble to me. I certainly hope the refs don’t agree. We go to commercial while the refs review.
3:13pm: After an eternity, Westbrook is called down by contact before the balls comes out. Play stands and Skins charged with a timeout. I still think it looks like a fumble, but that’s why I’m drinking on my couch and not reffing this game. 1st and Goal at the 2 for the Eagles.
3:15pm: After Westbrook is stuffed and McNabb can’t get it to Schoebel, 3rd and Goal. Not liking this…
3:16pm: Buckhalter loses a yard, 4th and Goal from the 3. Again, good job Eagles. They should have gone pass-pass-pass, as they don’t have the personnel and the field is too wet to run on.
3:17pm: Akers hits 21 yard field goal, 20-3 Eagles. Officially a three score game now. Drinking beer very fast and feeling a little sexually aggressive.
3:21pm: After a weird and delayed illegal formation call, Akers has to re-kick, now a 26 yard field goal…
3:21pm: …and the Eagles call a timeout before the kick gets off. For whatever fucking reason. I think Andy just likes to use one timeout a game just for kicks. Love that clock management, Andy. Keep it up.
3:23pm: Akers hits the FG, 20-3 Eagles with 9:13 left in the third. This game is getting interminably boring. If I had DirecTV, I’d be flipping to other games now (at least when the Skins have the ball).
3:27pm: There’s a Mike Sellers in the NFL? I thought there was only Larry Sellers. And of course, there’s always Arthur Digby Sellers, which will be the name of my dog if I ever get one.
3:28pm: After Mike Sellers picks up the first, Cooley picks up a 19 yard reception and the Skins are once again in Eagle territory.
3:28pm: Santana Moss makes his second catch of the game, a slant for 8. He now has 11 yards receiving, so he’s really helping my fantasy team this week. I’ll just wait for the week he has 200 yards and 4 TD’s.
3:30pm: OH BOY! Sheldon Brown takes a interception for 70 yards for a touchdown! I knew that there’d have to be some turnovers! After the extra point, 27-3 Eagles with 6:10 left in the third. Time to open beer #4 and possibly text message agent Joel. Possibly.
3:32pm: But now here’s the problem: with such a big lead, the Eagles are going to play JV ball for the rest of the game, save for a drive or two. So while I’m happy that they have such a big lead, I’m about to be treated to a real snooze-fest and a lot of three and outs coming up.
3:35pm: In other news, Chad Johnson has 9 catches for over 220 yards and at least two touchdowns. Wow. Hope I’m not playing against him this week (in fantasy, not in real life).
3:37pm: Skins don’t convert on a pretty important 3rd and 8 on their own 42 with 4:04 left in the third. The punt rolls to inside the Eagles five.
3:38pm: I really don’t care about McNabb’s line of clothing, “Super Five,” thank you very much. Still, it was a fairly non-obvious plug. And yes, I’m feeling pretty good and there is a greater than 30% chance that I will go out boozing after this. Hopefully not alone, like last Sunday.
3:42pm: After getting the ball at the 3, the Eagles are now at the Skins 45 and moving the ball well after an 18 yard grab by Stallworth. He and McNabb seem to be very in sync. The third quarter ends with the Birds up 27-3.
3:45pm: SD, Atlanta, Jacksonville, New England, and KC are all creeping back…no good for the Survivor pool.
3:48pm: On 3rd and 6 near midfield, the Eagles had the ball to Westbrook for a lame 4 yard gain. They’ll punt. I’m pretty much daydreaming now and focusing on getting drunk – and there’s still 13 minutes left in the fourth quarter.
3:51pm: The SD-Cincy game is now 42-38 Chargers. I don’t know what the over/under on that game was, but I’m guessing it wasn’t 80. LT has four TD’s today, 18 on the season. Again, I hope I’m not playing him. And I told you to take him if you had the first overall pick in your draft.
3:53pm: Dick and Moose are saying that Dhani Jones is “celebral” and “cut from another mold.” I think this means “gay.” They just played his voicemail message and it’s so awkward and weird I’m not even able to make a joke about it. Dhani, maybe you should focus less on your weirdness and other activities and stop being a sucky linebacker?
(Actually, he hasn’t had too bad of a year.)
3:55pm: By the way, 4th and 14 and the Skins are punting. Nine minutes left. It’s going to be a long nine minutes.
3:56pm: I gotta say, I like the Bud Light commercial with the rubber floors. However, I don’t know any attractive women who drink Bud Light, so that kinda irks me. I know more attractive women who drink PBR than I do Bud Light.
(OK, so I don’t know any attractive women. Don’t be a dick.)
3:57pm: Dick and Moose are calling Tony Siragusa their staff meteorologist and Tony’s acting so offended that I’m pretty sure he doesn’t know what “meteorologist” means. Now he’s bitching about how cold and wet he is, and doing it with a serious chip on his shoulder. Just hang in there Tony – you’ll be eating some cheesesteaks in no time.
3:59pm: Cheesesteaks! That’s what I should get for dinner! I am more than a little excited about this.
4:02pm: (And yes, that’s really all I have to say as the Eagles are marching down the field through a series of runs. Nothing much going on in the actual game.)
4:02pm: The Jets have beaten the Pats. Two people are gone from my survivor pool.
4:03pm: Westbrook makes a nice 22 yard run to the Skins 31, making sure to stay in bounds for the second consecutive play. I’m developing a crush on him.
4:05pm: McNabb makes a nice shuttle pass to Westbrook to move the ball inside the Skins’ 20. Two minute warning. At least the lame duck time is moving quickly.
4:08pm: Dick has informed us that LT has15 touchdowns in his last five games. Wow.
4:09pm: The game will end inside the Redskin’s 16, with the Eagles kneeling on the ball. Eagles win, 27-3 and go to 5-4. The Skins fall to 3-6. Thank you for sticking around and I promise I’ll never do this again.
(But hey – 3500+ words on a Sunday ain’t that bad.)
Now, tonight, I will be the #1 Bears fan in the country.
The key phrase there is "to ladies." I did not get a single email from a guy saying that pool sex was bad (I didn’t get any emails from dudes about the subject either way). Which means that the male readers of this site either:
a) are having sex in pools but do not care whether or not their lady partner is enjoying it;
b) are not having sex in pools;
c) are not having sex at all.
If hope it’s a or b. Because some dudes reading this site have to be having sex. Otherwise, I’ll just be sad.
(To clarify, some dudes reading this site have to be having sex - but not with each other. Not that that’s not cool, but I felt like I left that a little open and wanted to clear it up.)
Also, speaking of emails received from Tuesday’s post, I got a, um, lovely email from the ex whose office we had sex in. That was unexpected; I’ve been used to writing personal things on this site for a while now and not getting called out on them. But I deserved it, and I just want to say, Honey, it was only a joke. It’s all in good fun and it was truly a lovely evening. And my bird was not comparable to a wet dish rag that night. That is a device we writers use called hyperbole, which is not, I learned recently, pronounced hyper-bowl. At any rate, I hope all is well and again I’m sorry about the whole you-not-having-an-orgasm-in-five-months thing. But you know how I fear what I don’t understand, and the whole women and orgasms thing both confounds and scares the hell out of me. So it’s really not my fault; it’s more yours and God’s. I’m glad we’ve settled this. And if you want to get a cup of coffee or something, let me know. I’m a little lonely right now. But not any better at giving orgasms. Just so you know.
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I was in a meeting this week in which I’m pretty sure I heard someone use the phrase "scatological development", as in a "scatological development in the M&A landscape of Europe" or some similar boring work talk. I did a double take.
When I got back to my office, I went to dictionary.com to make sure my understanding of what "scatological" meant was correct. And it was. The word "scatological" means one of three things: of or relating to the study of excrement; marked by an interest in excrement or obscenity; or of or relating to excrement or excremental functions. Hmmm…
Not be a vocabulary snob, but methinks the person speaking did not mean to refer to the M&A landscape of Europe as marked by an interest in excrement or obscenity. I’ll admit that I’m not 100% sure that the word scatological was used, but as a connoisseur of poop-related words, my ears certainly perked up after it (or something like it) was said. I looked around the room and no one batted an eye, but that’s not unusual – no one really bats an eye in these meetings.
So while it is awesome someone may have accidentally referred to mergers and acquisitions as poopy, this is a sad story, since I will go to my grave never knowing the truth and always wondering what really was said.
Trouble. Scatological trouble.
(And if I’m wrong and there’s another interpretation of the word or a word that sounds similar to scatological could have been used more appropriately, please let me know.)
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I will be taking this show on the road over the next few weeks. I’m heading to Boston this weekend to hang out with friends and get drunk in a field during a BC football game, which I will not watch one second of. The good news is that it’s a night game, meaning we tailgate from 4 to 7, then once the game starts, I go to a bar with my other buddies who don’t care about BC football, and we get housed. It’ll be great.
(Then of course there’s the matter of me arriving in Boston via the Acela at 9:30pm on Friday night and starting the drinking somewhere around Stamford, CT so I can hit the ground running. I love Fridays like those.)
Over Thanksgiving, I’ll be in Philly and I face one of more difficult stretches of drinking in recent memory. I have the second annual "Whacked on Wheels" drinking tour on Wednesday night, Thanksgiving on Thursday (duh), the third annual "Black Out Friday" pub crawl on Friday night, and then my friends Jimmy the Muppet and Danielle’s wedding on Saturday. Woof. What’s the over/under on pounds I can regain and points I can add to my blood pressure? Right now I’m at 195 and 120/90. I wouldn’t be surprised if at the end of that bender I’m 208 and 140/110. Mark it down.
Then, the first weekend of December, I’m making my triumphant return to Seattle, where I’ll be from Thursday, 11/30 to Tuesday, 12/5. My old roommate Brian and I are flying out to hang out with our old roommate Ben, who now lives in Seattle and may never come back to NYC again. Originally, my friends Jeremy and Brendan were to come as well, but Jeremy, who is from the West Coast, will be out there the week before and Brendan is too grown up to take a day off from work to have fun with his old friends. So it’ll just be the three roommates, getting drunk and saying weird things to each other and complaining about the weather.
Finally, from Tuesday, 12/5 until Sunday, 12/10, I’ll be in my third favorite city: Los Angeles. God, I love LA. This is a partial business trip, but the good news is that I’m much funnier when I’m hungover. Therefore, my plan is to have meetings and do work during the day and then get shitcanned at night and tell every woman within earshot that I have a development deal. Because, this time, I’m not leaving LA without a wife, or at least an aspiring actress girlfriend with fake boobs.
There you have it. Wish me luck, because I’ll need it. This is going to be a true test.
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If you live in the NYC area, are thinking of growing a mustache, and would like to hang out with some cool guys (and gals) and help kids in the process, I urge you to check out Mustaches for Kids. All the info in on the website, but November 16 is clean shaven day, so check it out fast. All you have to do is grow a mustache for four weeks (the rules clearly stipulate no Hitler mustaches) and get your friends to support you with a couple of bucks for the Children’s Hospital of New Orleans.
I was asked to participate last year but was already growing a mustache for a different project. I have to say that I don’t think I will participate this year, only because I’m growing my beard out and have been for some months. However, I hope that by pimping the charity on here my karma balances out. So check it out.
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I don’t really have a fifth item here, and I need six (including music below), so let’s hand it over to a guy who’s a pretty good writer, Vladimir Nabakov. Here is one of my favorite passages not only of his, but of anyone’s:
There are some beloved women whose eyes, by a chance blend of brilliancy and shape, affect us not directly, not at the moment of shy perception, but in a delayed and cumulative burst of light when the heartless person is absent, and the magic agony abides, and its lenses and lamps are installed in the dark. Whatever eyes Liza Pnin, now Wind, had, they seemed to reveal their essence, their precious-stone water, only when you evoked them in thought, and then a blank, blind, moist aquamarine blaze shivered and stared as if a spatter of sun and sea had got between your own eyelids. Actually her eyes were of a light transparent blue with contrasting black lashes and bright pink canthus, and they slightly stretched up templeward, where a set of feline little lines fanned out from each. She had a sweep of dark brown hair above a lustrous forehead and a snow-and-rose complexion, and she used a very light red lipstick, and save for a certain thickness of ankle and wrist, there was hardly a flaw to her full-blown, animated, elemental, not particularly well-groomed beauty.
If you’re saying "Wow" to yourself right now, there is a chance we may marry. If you’re saying, "What the fuck?" but are hot and willing to sleep with me, there is a chance we may marry.
Alternatively, if I had to describe the fictional Liza Pnin, now Wind, I might write something like:
She was hot, with a corpulent bosom that set ablaze the hearth of my loins. Chubby ankles notwithstanding, I longed to look deep into her eyes of blue, blue like a bottle of Bombay Sapphire gin, while I laid on top of her during love making, my chest hair steel wool, her breasts two mounds of mashed potatoes caked on a old dinner plate I was destined to clean. After I had ejaculated and removed myself from her skin, she would pull her brown hair back into a tail of pony, shake her head, and look at me with those Bombay Sapphire eyes, full of sadness and murder and softness. Often when I was high, I thought she was a cat.
Eerily similar, right?
(This passage is from Pnin, by the way.)
(That is, Nabakov’s passage is from Pnin. In case you couldn’t tell, I just made mine up. Surprisingly, it’s not published anywhere – yet.)
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Six Songs
"Someday Some Morning Sometime" Wilco and Billy Bragg
Wow.
(That’s really all I can say, aside from we may have a new favorite – yes, favorite – song. Find this now.)
"Goods" Mates of State
Whoa – oh! I have to admit, I hate the ending of this song, but that’s probably only because the first half is so awesome. I’m becoming a big fan of the boy-girl singer groups (Mates of State, New Pornographers, Stars, etc). If you know of any more, send them on over.
"Rise Up With Fists!!" Jenny Lewis and the Watson Twins
There is no other way to say this: I think I’m in love with Jenny Lewis. I’ve been in love before and I know what it’s like and I’m pretty sure this is it. I mean, she is, just…spectacular. I just want to, I don’t know, be around her. Isn’t that what stalkers say just before they get serious?
(I’m a little concerned that one of the most popular Google image searches bringing people to this site is "jenny lewis tits", since I wrote about how hot she was here. I hope that doesn’t hurt my chances with her. And yes, I realize I’m delusional. But I’m harmless. I think.)
(And by the way, I didn’t mean to ruin this song by being creepy. It’s a really beautiful song. The first word that comes to mind to describe it is "rich," even though I’m not sure why.)
"Shining Star" Earth, Wind & Fire
If you listen to this song while you get ready in the morning, your day will be at least 61% better. My goodness, does this get me going. Why aren’t there more bands like Earth, Wind & Fire, the Jackson 5, and Sly and the Family Stone these days? Seriously, can a bunch of black people, preferably related, get together and start making some dance-friendly funk? I mean, I would buy that and a lot of other people would, too. This kind of music never goes out of style.
Christ. I should work in the music industry.
"You Part the Waters" Cake
If I had to make a list of my top ten albums, Cake’s first album, Motorcade of Generosity, would be on that list. There are some real gems on that album, and this probably isn’t even my favorite song on there. Still, this gets my hips shaking and I love the lines, "You’ve got your grand piano/You don’t even play piano!/I’m the one who plays piano!" Nothing sums up a spoiled bitch of a lady quite like that (aside from maybe the title, that is).
"Sweet Leaf" Black Sabbath
Fuck yeah. This is especially appropriate since I heard this week that Christopher Walken has agreed to play Ozzy Osbourne in the film adaptation of Motley Crue’s (kind of) autobiography, The Dirt. The thought of Walken as Ozzy nearly gives me fits – especially having read the book – so I don’t think I’ll be able to seriously offer any insight on this for the next two or three months. Right now, let’s just rock out. And imagine Christopher Walken singing this song. Wow.
I’m having a really shitty day today, mostly because my computer keeps crashing and I keep losing work. While this is clearly not my fault, I am to blame to a certain degree.
My dad used to have a dog named Mugsy (which was actually my dad’s nickname growing up, which is weird; that is, naming a dog with your own nickname, the equivalent of me having a dog called Larry Awesome or Nass or Boner or HD or That Guy From the Dorm Who Masturbates in the Laundry Room). Mugsy was the dumbest dog in the world, and when we were kids, in an act that now seems like animal cruelty but back then was good ol’ fashioned fun, my dad would light his lighter in front of Mugsy. The dog, a mixed black German Sheppard, would saunter up to the flame, sniff it, burn himself, and then run away whimpering in pain. Seconds later, he’d come back into the living room and the scene would repeat itself again: dad ignites lighter, dog sniffs it and burns himself, dog runs away. Over and over again. And we laughed and laughed and laughed at the dumb dog. In a related story, I think this was just about the time the God decided to turn up my bodyhair growing meter to 11. He hasn’t turned it down since.
Apparently, I have a little bit of Mugsy in me. I’ve been balls deep in data today with shitloads of spreadsheets and word docs open on my computer. As soon as I turned the pc on today, I knew something wasn’t right. Still, I barreled ahead, taking care of business. Because that, and making personal phone calls, is what I get paid to do.
(Well actually not so much that second one.)
And then the computer crashed for the first time and I lost a bunch of data, since I didn’t save it. I yelled, or rather yelped, restarted the computer, and continued working. And then it crashed again. And I lost a bunch of data again, because I didn’t save it again.
Then guess what? Crash-lose-yell-restart once more. Then crash-lose-punch the air-restart. It’s getting to the point that I think I have a serious mental condition or some sort of block that prohibits from hitting CTRL+S while I work.
Anyway, I realize that was a horrible fucking story, but that’s just the point – I’m in a horrible mood now because of my computer problems. So in an effort to cheer myself up, I started trolling YouTube and found one of my all-time favorite Chris Farley’s SNL skits, which I wanted to share with you all, since I care about you (now don’t you feel like a jerk for thinking, "Will he shut the fuck up about his stupid computer problems already?").
So here’s the clip. I hope it makes your day a little bit better. It has helped me, but only momentarily until I lose another hours worth of work. Fucking broke-ass computer.
[youtube]ghcbIx-3KAQ[/youtube]
Because I have no girlfriend or nothing much to do, I spend a lot of my time thinking and strategizing. This is how I pass most of my days and nights.
For example, last week I set an important goal for myself: before next summer is over, I will have sex in a pool. For as many virgins as I’ve had sex with (“Jason Mulgrew’s Genitals: Custom Made for Virgins Since 1979â€), my list of crazy places I’ve had sex is woefully inadequate. I’ve never had sex in a car or on a beach or on a roof or in a bar bathroom or anything. Weak, I know. I did have sex in an ex-girlfriend’s office once, but that was so thoroughly planned that it became something more to survive and get over with than something to enjoy. Also, I couldn’t get an erection, so I’m not sure if it even counts. Although technically, I was in there for a little bit, but it was kinda like stuffing a wet dish rag into a shot glass. But I digress…
[I should clarify about one thing: I don’t mean that virgins are typically kinky and willing to do it in the parking lot of a Walmart, but I mean that my best sexual bragging point is that I’ve had sex with many more virgins than any of my friends, which I attribute to my less-than-intimidating genitals. Add to that that I’m all nice and funny and most women are pretty sure that I have no STDs, because, you know, you need to have sex to have a sexually transmitted disease, and all these factors combine to mean that I’ve been with more virgins than most Shahs. Which I am more than cool with. Because really, from the girl’s point of view, it can only get better after doing me, as that’s about as low as it gets, you poor thing. You poor, drunk, non-English-speaking thing whose brother is waiting outside in the hallway to shiv me.]
But hear me now: by the end of next summer, I will have done it in a pool. Of course, there are several obstacles to this. First, I have to find a pool, which are typically hard to come by in New York City. Then I have to actually get in the pool, something I haven’t done since 1987, the last year I had more hair on my head than on my back. And lastly, I have to find a woman willing to have sex with me in a pool, which will probably be the most difficult part. My only hope is that by next summer I will have won the lottery or have killed someone famous, making me fuckable to someone. Keep your fingers crossed.
Another thing I’ve been thinking about lately is whether there is any song that could give me an orgasm while listening to it without touching myself. If you know me at all, you know that music really gets me going. And also if you know me at all you can probably guess that I have an issue with what doctors call “hair-trigger ejaculation.†Logic would then follow that out of the millions of songs out there, one could probably get me off, just by hearing it.
After much thought, I decided that if I were on mushrooms and the wind was just right, I could probably get off to The Format’s “Time Bomb†without touching my bird. It’s not that this is my favorite song or anything (although it is most awesome), but there is a lot of stuff going on in this song (harmonizing, yelling, cymbals, piano, etc) and it’s all good. Also, and I don’t know if this will make a lot of sense, but it is paced at about the same rate that I make love: it start outs with a yell, then gets moderately fast, there’s there a small break, then it’s faster than before, then it repeats (which I can not do immediately but definitely a few days later after I’ve recovered). Of course, this song doesn’t end with some mozzarella sticks, but otherwise it’s nearly identical to my love-making steez. [Nevermind that the lyrics repeat: “Oh no/Was it worth it?â€, the answer to which, in my case, is invariably, “For $60? Not really.â€]But unfortunately, I don’t have any way of getting mushrooms, since I haven’t done them in forever (it’s been over two months). Therefore, I decided late last week that getting off sans touching to “Time Bomb†must remain a hypothesis for the time being and I should refocus my energies on the sex in the pool thing, while keeping an ear out for other songs that might make me climax without any physical interaction.
[Do I focus on finding the pool first or the woman first? Since I’ve been focusing on finding a woman for, oh, fifteen years and have not had much luck, I should probably look for the pool first. It’s about time I change course.]
But then on Friday night, with the sadness of my “Time Bomb†defeat still fresh on my mind, something strange and magical happened.
On that night, I went all the way out to Brooklyn to see Joseph Arthur in concert. I typically don’t go to shows for a number of reasons that I won’t get into right now, but I was so moved by his latest album that I figured I should go (you’ve heard this before). Also, my buddies Brian and Jeremy wanted to go and I was assured in advance that the place, Southpaw, sold Bud bombers for only $4. Jason and Larry are very into Bud bombers right now (photographic evidence here). I had just about one of the busiest and most stressful weeks of my life last week (which should be topped by this week) and by Friday I was a disaster: hungover, tired, and miserable. Work itself on Friday was almost unbearable and I did more actual work between 5:30pm and 7:30pm than I typically do in a month. Ugh.It is becoming more and more clear to me that if I am to survive the next two or three months, I am probably going to have to start doing some serious drugs, namely cocaine. I really don’t want to start becoming a cokehead, for a number of reasons. First and foremost, I should (theoretically, finally) start getting paid for my projects very soon. Picking up a cocaine habit just as I’m getting an influx of cash is probably not the best idea, since I am horrible with money (three weeks ago I came close to buying an apartment in Brooklyn before I realized that – wait a minute – I have no fucking money, and if I bought the apartment I would be legally bankrupt in under a year). Not to mention there’s my ego, which would only be fueled by the cocaine. And lastly and most damningly, people over the age of 25 who are not famous and do cocaine are just fucking gross.
(For the most part.)
(But on the other hand, if I were to immerse myself into a circle of cokeheads, I’m pretty sure I’d be able to find a girl who’d had sex with me in a pool. Hell, I might even be able to find a girl who would have sex with me in a burning car, depending upon the cokehead circle. Maybe I should reassess…)
So instead, I’ve turned to an equally dangerous drug to keep me afloat and focused: diet coke. I know, I know – you should probably start praying for my soul tonight before you go to bed. But the good news that it’s working. The diet coke is free in work and keeps me alive and functioning all day, until I get home and replace the diet coke with red bull and vodka. I now have between four and six diet cokes a day, in an effort to make my heart the size of a watermelon. On the Friday before the Joseph Arthur show, at the end of a most exasperating week, I had so many diet cokes that I lost count, but historians put the number conservatively at fourteen.
The point is that when Brian and I arrived at Southpaw for the show, I was so filled with caffeine that if you listened closely enough you could hear my body humming. And after a shitty week, I was looking to get fucked up – really fucked up. And then Joseph started playing. And the perfect storm was upon us.
I can’t say this any clearer: this guy fucking rocks. I went into the show knowing only his latest album Nuclear Daydream and most of the songs from another of his albums, Our Shadows Will Remain. So while I consider myself a fan I’m no die-hard by any stretch. Yet by the third song, between the music and the caffeine and the booze, I was basically hypnotized. By the fifth song, if Joseph had yelled, “Hey everyone – let’s shave our heads!â€, I would have been bald in under three minutes. By the ninth song, he could have asked, “Who wants to eat some glass?†and the bar would be out of beer bottles in no time. This is the only way I can explain how awesome this was.
And as I said above, with each song, I – and the rest of the crowd – got more into it. To be clear, all of these songs weren’t rockers either; there were a number of slow songs mixed in, something that usually bothers me at shows (when I’m rocking, I want to keep rocking). But it was almost like the band knew when to slow it down for a song or two, lest certain members of the audience start spontaneously combusting.
But when the band went into the rockers, they doth rocked. All night I found myself growing increasingly agitated, excited, and most importantly, aroused. During the encore, my eyes were closed, I was double fisting Bud bombers, and I was feeling it – without the use of any psychotropic drugs. Amazing, simply amazing.
And then it happened. To start what would be the last song of the night, Joseph’s keyboard player busted out a familiar riff, one that I’ve known for years. The guitar immediately followed, and then his extremely sexy bass player started pumping it out. Oh dear, I thought, this is gonna be something. The song was that sexy bitch of a song by Rolling Stones, “Miss You.†Within seconds, the crowded was in a frenzy, sexily strutting their stuff, almost as though they were trying to impress the band. Once the sing-along part arrived after the first verse, everyone was “whoo-who-whooing†along with the band, freaking the fuck out, engrossed in the music and the moment. Joseph was soon standing on the edge of the stage, screaming at the crowd, getting them all riled up. And it was working. The scene was almost primal. I don’t know much about animals, but the closest you might come to the vibe on the dance floor during “Miss You†was if you took a bunch of monkeys, gave them a ton of cocaine, packed them in a cage that was way too small, and then started shaking that fucking cage like a motherfucker and maybe firing some guns in the air. That may come close to the craziness on the dance floor. It was unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before. And I was loving it.And then it started happening. Things started to get blurry. I felt confused, but in a good way. My heart rate increased. I started to sweat (well, sweat more than usual). My face became flushed. I began to tremble a little bit. My breathing increased, faster than increasingly rapid bass line. I clenched the Bud bombers in each of my hands and felt a tingle that started in the bottom of my spine but quickly spread like lightening through my body; it felt like a sneeze, but 1000 times better. My body clenched, I made a noise similar to that of a German Shepherd that has been punched, and then it was over. And I felt tired, a little hungry, and a lot self-loathing, three familiar feelings usually reserved for my work bathroom, strangers’ parked cars, and the girls’ junior varsity basketball games at PS 191.
Then I realized that I had done it. I done spooged in my pants, without touching my bird, because of music. And it was good.
Per my typical post-orgasm behavior, I don’t remember much of the rest of the night, but if I had to make a guess I’d say that something violent probably happened. The only thing I do remember after spooging at the concert was the mozzarella sticks that I ate on the cab ride back to Manhattan. Which were delicious.
And now I have one less goal in life and need a new one. I’m thinking the next one will involve eating in the nude, but I’m not sure in what capacity. I’ll let you know.
(And if you know of any good pools in NYC, please let me know.)
After the race, Brendan and Liz had a little get together at a bar on the Bowery, a nice lil’ place called Slainte that I can only imagine is overflowing with B&T assholes on Friday and Saturday nights. It was nice to see them both, but a little strange because usually when we hang out, it’s in Boston (where I will be this coming weekend). And Brendan is usually so drunk that he’s running around chasing pigeons like a mentally-challenged but hyperactive five year old.
But last night there were no pigeon chases, as Brendan was tired. I went over to the bar and joined the two of them as well as their family and friends for some beers, which were tasting delicious. I was a little late getting there and shortly most of the people were gone. Then everyone was gone and it was just Brendan, Liz and I. And then, tired from all that running or whatever, they too left, just as I had gotten by third beer, a pint of Guinness that tasted like God.
I couldn’t begrudge them for leaving – they did run quite a bit that day – but I was just hitting my stride and wanted to keep drinking. I think that I have a problem: I love getting drunk when I’m not supposed to. I think that beers taste much better on Sunday nights or Tuesday afternoons or than they do on Friday and Saturday nights. I have no doubt that the naughtiness of it has something to do with it - while the rest of the world is settling in for the start of their week, I’m pounding pints of Guinness and feeling like a million bucks - but I’m ok with that. Because I’m naughty sometimes.
(Ugh – I just grossed out myself by writing that.)
Of course, I wasn’t going to leave with them and leave my full beer at the bar, but I knew that none of my friends weren’t doing anything last night, so I figured I’d call it quits after that beer – even though it was only just 8pm. Besides, I could have one beer at the bar alone. After all, I’m a grown-ass man, more than capable of and secure enough to enjoy a beer by myself and watch some football. I’d have my beer, check out the pre-game show for the Colts-Pats, then head home. Not a big deal.
FOUR HOURS LATER, the bartender brought me over another of a few free Guinnesses that he treated me to that night, as well as a pint of water, "just in case [I] want it." Friends, I was shitcanned. And alone. And the bartender was bringing my sad, drunk ass water.
I’ve never before been brought water by a bartender when I didn’t ask for it, so I can only guess that "just in case you want it" really means, "You’re bombed and making me sad, because I’ve been listening to you beg every person in your phone book to come out and drink with you and have been watching send about 500 text messages, I assume imploring the same. Drink this water so you’re not too hungover tomorrow and then get the fuck out of here. Christ."
Taking the water offering as my cue, I stumbled home and passed the fuck out, not before sending a few more last-minute text messages, asking anyone – anyone – if they wanted to have a drink. But by now it was just after midnight and my lame ass friends were not interested. I contemplated taking the plunge and going to this place by MSG for a handjob, but I was too tired. Also, I didn’t have the cash on me.
At 5am, I woke up because the heat was coming out of my radiator so angrily that it felt like my apartment was on fire. I was covered in sweat, which for about four half-conscious minutes I thought was piss, before realizing that my hair was matted down and knowing that there was very little chance I could piss all over my head. This latest heat explosion was the worst ever and there is a very decent chance that as I write this my apartment is, in fact, burning to the ground. Because something ain’t right with that heater. I had sweat so much that this morning that I dropped off all my sheets and blankets at the laundromat this morning – and it’s not even that time of year!
(Ladies, again, I’m single and coming to a city near you.)
Anyway, long and short of it is that I’m a defeated man today. No one to drink with last night, got bombed by myself. Took comfort in that at least I’d get a decent night’s sleep, but was woken up by my own sweat and couldn’t fall back asleep. Being trying all day to tell you about it, but am so tired that I’m practically slapping my hands on the keyboard and ian sfp9qhi”’oN inndpgoij i’s.
And the moral is that I need new friends here in the city. Just a piss-poor performance by everyone I know in NYC last night – I couldn’t get one single person to come out and have a beer or two with me, so I had to get rocked by myself (which I’m still not sure was awesome or sad). If interested, please send a cover letter and resume to jason@jasonmulgrew.com and you’ll be hearing from us soon. Like, next we’re drunk at a bar on a school night.
No real post today (busy, hungover), but an update from the jasonmulgrew.com family.
Site Guy Brendan and his lady friend Liz will be running the NYC Marathon this Sunday. Since Site Guy Brendan spends most of his time answering my frantic calls – none of which have anything to do with the site but more about women and how messed up on pills I am – and Liz, well Liz is a lovely gal, I ask you to send them some good vibes on Sunday and join me in wishing them the best of luck. I am sure both of them will win the marathon and then afterwards we will get messed up on beers and then I will say something mean to Brendan like, “So when are you going to get started on those messageboards?” and he’ll say something like, “So when are you going to start paying me?” and then we’ll start rolling around on the floor, pulling each other’s hair.
Anyway, good luck to Brendan and Liz. I’m looking forward to buying each of you a drink at the bar afterward.*
(*As long as the drink is under $3. I’m sort of hard up for cash right now.)
But I know that you don’t want to hear about this. And I know that I don’t want to talk about it. So, things suffer.
That’s all I’ll say about it, but at least you know where I’m coming from. And sure, my next post will probably be titled "Jason Mulgrew: Author, Writer, Memoirist, Television Champion and Writer (Seriously, I’m a Fucking Writer)" and be a 4,000 word expose about the dangers of TV writing, book editing, anorexia, and cocaine. But hey – at least it’ll help you kill time at work. And that’s what we’re going for here, right?
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My Halloween blew, thank you for asking (see above "work"). But I’m ok with this, because I think Halloween sucks. Especially Halloween in New York City. You see, there’s a big parade on 6th Avenue in the Village, where all sorts of freaks dress up, party, and prance around (though there is drinking involved, police fairly strictly interpret the no open container law and issue tickets). And that’s about it, aside from all the hubbub. I think it all sucks. Suckiest bunch of sucks who ever sucked.
Why do I feel that Halloween sucks? Because I think it’s just so damn…nerdy. Halloween was cool when you were a kid, when you got to dress up like Captain America and get lots of candy. But now, as an adult, what purpose does it serve? I no longer have the desire to dress like Captain America (not in the fall, at least) and since I’m anorexic I don’t eat candy.
(Have I mentioned I’ve kept the weight off? Have I also mentioned that my teeth are falling out and sometimes it’s hard for me to hold a pen?)
But there’s the whole fantasy element of Halloween, people might argue. Guys and gals get to act out their deep-seated fantasies and pretend they’re someone else. They put on a wig and a costume and get a rush from getting out of their work clothes and being unknown. They get to act out and carry on in ways that they normally wouldn’t.
F that. That sounds like theater, and we all know that theater is gay [spits dip into solo cup]. I feel like I should stop this rant now before completely turning into a frat boy or pulling the "What kind of grown man gets dressed up like a tomato?" card, so I’ll just move on.
[Another reason I hate Halloween - if you'll allow me to be even more egotistical for a moment - is the air of expectation. Because I make fun of myself all the time, my friends automatically think that my Halloween costume will be better than that time Jesus walked on water, when really all I want to do is grab something from my closet, throw it on, hide in a corner, and drink so much punch I get heartburn. Fucking asshole friends.]
I went out with some friends to "celebrate" Halloween on Saturday night. My costume was one that several of you recommended, but one of two ideas I was batting around: I was Gene Frankle, Will Ferrell’s cowbell playing character in the "Behind the Music: Blue Oyster Cult" skit. To complement the costume, my old roommate Brian was the Bruce Dickinson, Christopher Walken’s character in the skit. I bought a cowbell (which, by the way, is a really fucking loud instrument) and some tight jeans and rocked the top of my leisure suit (no shirt underneath, of course) and my sunglasses. Brian slicked his hair, but on some purple shades, a leather jacket, and all black. We may not have looked like the characters, but at least we looked sexy. And at least we were recognized; at the bar we were at, people kept calling for more cowbell. Naturally, I didn’t oblige and retreated into my beer.
[And no, I don't have any pictures because I'm a moron. I sent an email around to friends who were out that night asking for a picture, but all I got was the picture below with the dog. Oh well.]
The night was nothing spectacular, just some friends standing in a bar getting rocked. That’s really all I have to say about that.
But thank you much to all of you who wrote in suggesting beard-friendly costumes. The other idea I was thinking about was going out as a rapist: black shoes, sweatpants, sweater and cap, and generally acting creepy. But, for some reason, I think that might have led to bad karma. Several of you suggested James Lipton, which I thought was a good idea until I realized I’d only be in a suit with glasses and slicked hair (as opposed to last year as Daniel Baldwin, when I, uh, forget it). The most popular other suggestions were a fat Chuck Norris, an Amish guy, a Jew, and a lumberjack (in that order, I think). So thank you again for the suggestions. I owe you one.
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Speaking of beards (and you guys helping me), I’m growing my beard out and I turn to my bearded readers for some help.
Is there anything I can do to tame the wild animal growing out of my face? Perhaps I should be clearer – as it gets longer, my beard is getting awfully scraggly-looking, even though I trim it. Is there any beard mousse or something that I can put it in so that it doesn’t look like a used brillo pad? I brush it, shampoo it, and trim it, but it still looks like roadkill.
I’ve had a beard for years, but it’s always been very short and existent only to cover up my double chin and fleshy jowls. Now it looks as though I’m keeping it for warmth, as rough as it is (not that you can really tell in the picture below, but trust me).
So to those of you out there with long beards, have you any tips on keeping it tame or grooming? I do have a beard trimmer but like I said, it’s too long for it and doesn’t make it look too much better after I’m through trimming. I’m tired of my female friends being disgusted by my face, as it’s starting to hurt my feelings. Any attempt to help salvage my self-esteem would be most appreciated.
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Moving on, once a week, when I either go up or down the stairs in my subways stations, I see a woman carrying a stroller with a baby in it by herself up or down these stairs. And I never help her.
This isn’t because I’m not a nice guy, since that’s not the case at all. The other day I gave a homeless guy a high-five – just for kicks. I think it made his day. I also think he had cholera, but I only went to med school for one year and am unqualified to make this diagnosis.
But I don’t help the women with the strollers because I’m afraid, afraid that I will somehow mess up and drop the stroller causing the baby to fall out and roll down the metal and concrete stairs in the subway station while people near me scream in horror and look at me like I’m a murderer, which I may be, because there’s no way that baby survived that fall.
I mean, I’m not the most coordinated guy to begin with. And I don’t think I should test how coordinated I am by helping a stranger carry her child up or down stairs first thing in the morning or after a long day at the office. (And anyway, have you ever lifted a stroller? They are very cumbersome and heavy.)
So I explain this to you in order to absolve myself of the guilt I feel whenever I see and ignore a woman, typically Mexican, struggling to carry a stroller up or down stairs. I feel terrible about turning up my iPod so that I don’t hear her pleas of "¡Ayudarme! ¡Ayudarme!" but I do it for her own sake, and the sake of her child’s.
Now that this has been cleared up, we can move on.
*************
My dad watches CNN all day long. Or at least, CNN is on his television all day long. Which is kinda weird, because I wouldn’t describe my dad as a news junkie, nor is he very political (though he did tell me at a young age that we were too poor to be Republican). Still, it’s CNN all day, before giving way to murder and/or science shows in the evenings, except of course when the Eagles or Flyers are playing.
But I realized why my dad watches CNN all day long – for stories like this one. While I have faith in your ability to read on your own, I’ll summarize: a guy killed a little girl. The murderer was in the same prison as the victim’s cousin. The victim’s cousin attacked the murderer, saying, "I’m going to kill you or tattoo you." So the murderer got "Katie’s revenge" tattooed across his forehead.
Stories like this one also work out well because they give my dad and I a topic to discuss other than "So what’s going on in Philly?" and "The Eagles stink" and "For the last time Dad, I like girls." So my dad and I were talking about this particular story:
Me: "Did you see on CNN the guy who got ‘Katie’s revenge’ tattooed on his head?"
Dad: "Yeah." [smoking cigarette] "Oh yeah. That’s a good one."
Me: "I mean, that’s pretty good revenge, but the girl is still dead. That guy can easily get that tattoo removed."
Dad: "Uh uh. Those prison tattoos – they’re hard to get off."
Me: [silence for three seconds] "Really?"
Dad: "Yeah." [smoking cigarette] "Oh yeah."
Me: [silence for three seconds] "So what’s going on in Philly?"
Good talk, Dad.
(I bet your dad doesn’t know how difficult it is to get prison tattoos removed. I win. In this category, at least.)
*************
Six Songs
"Please Call Me Baby" Tom Waits
There is a touch of romance in insanity. This applies especially to relationships – men and women are drawn to "crazy" members of the opposite sex. I am personally guilty of this, in love as I am with Fiona Apple and forever searching for my Zelda, who I am certain I will marry in under three months after finding her. And then she’ll divorce me, leaving me penniless and impotent. But, as an old Jansenist who looked kinda like my buddy Conor once said, the heart has its reasons the mind cannot know.
Tom Waits is a genius. It took me 26 years to agree with this, but this song proves it. If you like your loves crazy, you’ll like this song. I’m tempted to quote some lyrics here, but you’ll have to find them on your own. I’m just really tired right now.
[Also, I'm kinda learning that craziness in women sounds great in theory, but in practice is decidedly not awesome. Really, I just want a girl who likes me and will make me chicken parm. I don't think this is asking too much. But more on this some other time...]
"One Rainy Wish" Jimi Hendrix
This is not my favorite Hendrix song (that honor probably goes to "Bold As Love," though "Remember" is up there), but the 47 seconds from 1:13 to 2:00 minutes into the song might the finest goddamn 47 seconds in the history of recorded music. Take it to the bank, muthas.
"I Want a New Drug" Huey Lewis and the News
I am only mildly ashamed to admit that the other night this song came on my iTunes while I was sitting at my desk and it so moved me that I dug out my ol’ electric guitar, plugged it in, and basically went the fuck off. Not so much with my playing, but more so with my dancing and harmonizing. If someone had managed to videotape me during this little "show", I’d have to kill him or her. Because it surely would destroy me. But that’s just what Huey Lewis does to me.
(Did you know that Huey got a perfect score on his math SAT and went to Cornell to study engineering? So he’s not your average sexy rock hunk. Not that he was average to begin with, but you get what I’m saying.)
"Midnight Moon" Smoking Popes
Such a lovely band. Such a lovely song, which reminds me of my junior year of college. What an awesome time. But let’s not dwell on that, lest I get too sad and nostalgic. I want to go into the weekend with a head of steam, not feeling down. Thanks for understanding.
"Love Foolsophy" Jamiroquai
Allllrrrriiiiight! Everybody get up and let’s start movin’, baby! I’ve been listening to this song in the mornings recently and have practically danced my way to work.
Also, I love the line, "She shivers like a California suntan." Which makes me want to stress how incredibly sexy it is when a girl can dance. I remember being a teenager and watching girls from the neighborhood dance at dollar nights in Philly and being blown away at how incredibly sexy they were. Then I went to BC and most girls danced like a live-feed was being beamed into their parents’ bedroom. And I don’t go to clubs in NYC because with my nasty beard, I’m not the type of guy that girls who know how to sexy-dance are attracted to or even like to walk by, so I miss sexy-dancing women.
Though some of my ex’s might disagree, I have never dated a girl who can dance sexy-like. My promise to you is that I will. Mark it down. And please help me attain this goal. Because I have no other recourse. Thank you.
[Well, the sexy-dance girl and I don't have to start dating, but we have to sleep together a bunch. Because I'm not really looking for a relationship right now. As a matter of fact, I'm not sure if I'll ever be looking for a relationship again, but maybe I'm just saying this right now because I'm crying. Whatever.]
"Post-War" M. Ward
If you have a make out mix like I do, this song needs to be on it. However, you should not call your mix "The Make Out Mix" or "The Ultimate P-ssy Crushing Mix" or "If You’re Hearing This, I’m Inside You." Because if the intended target of your making out discovers this, she may be offended. Therefore, I call mine "Mood" and say that I often fall asleep to it, which is not true. Of course, by this point in the night, I’ve usually already told the woman about a million other lies, like "My great-great grandfather was Franklin Roosevelt" or "The most important things in my life are tolerance, safe sex, and family – in that order" or "I usually never met women on craigslist – I’m sorry, is it ‘woman’ or ‘she-male’ or ‘shim’ – which do you prefer?", so a lie about whether I fall asleep to a playlist does not bother me.
[It's a shame I was such a dick because this song is really lovely. And great for both making out and/or sleeping. Honest.]
Since the words aren’t coming, let’s have some multimedia fun, eh?
Here’s the trailer to the Borat movie, due in theaters Friday, ready to change your life forever.
[youtube]yJf74qvAPNk[/youtube]
Next is Borat’s interview on Letterman, which was forwarded to me by four different friends today.
[youtube]NvQScRuZj9s[/youtube]
Wow. "Sleeve of wizard." Well, we’ve all been there. Right, guys?
And finally, since I have no pictures of me in my Halloween costume, here is a recent picture of me, blowing off some steam.
(Photo courtesy of The Lovely Meredith)
A Bud bomber, some comfortable tube socks, and a little dog in a pink coat. That right there is heaven, if I ever saw it.
(Also, the silhouette from the light behind me kinda makes my face look like a witch’s, so that’s sort of like Halloween, right?)
I just wanted to check in to say that I’m alive and let you know that I’m working on it, but damn. Blank. Nothing.
(I’ll tell you now that Halloween sucked but will try to provide a more detailed analysis soon.)
So some public service announcements to at least help you kill a little time until I figure out what is wrong with me:
1) Go to your local newstand and pick up the latest issue of the magazine Cracked, which I again contributed to. Not much, but enough to pay for a night of boozing, which is ok with me.
2) If you have nothing to do tomorrow (Thursday) night, I strongly suggest you head down to the Village and Kenny’s Castaways at 8pm to check out my friend and very talented musician Charles Ramsey. Go to his MySpace page, have a listen and come on down for a lovely evening. I am greatly looking forward to it.
3) For another lovely evening, come to Brooklyn on Friday night to check out Joseph Arthur at Southpaw (doors open at 7pm). Second verse same as the first: check out Joseph’s MySpace page (you can also listen to songs on his site), rock out with your cock out, and get on over to Brooklyn. And for further reading, please see here.
In the meantime, I’ll get better – I promise. I haven’t forgotten about you and I still care about you very much, but we all have our dry spells. Send me some good vibes. That will help. So will naked pictures. But my aunt (a reader of this site) recently asked me in front of my whole family to stop asking for naked pictures on here. So I’ve stopped. I hope she’s happy. Because I am not.
2) My friends and I "celebrated" Halloween on Saturday night. I wore a costume. But I won’t tell you what this costume is because, schedule permitting, I may be going out again on Tuesday and will wear the same costume. The costume turned out pretty well, but the night…not so much. Also, I did not take any pictures, of course, because I am a retard.
(PS – thank you for all the suggestions. But we will cover this later.)
3) My penis and I are no longer on speaking terms. Too often recently I have woken up filled with regret about the previous night’s behavior, all because my penis is putting me in awkward positions with members of the opposite sex (and by "awkward positions" I don’t mean trying to fit myself, two women, a bottle of champagne, a dozen toy cars, and a Native American into my bathtub). Without getting too into it, after the terrible Eagles loss he and I had a major blow-up precipitated by his unconscionable behavior this weekend (and the past few weekends) and we are finished. I don’t want to even look at or touch him, which means I’m going to have to start wearing diapers or something (and if I can’t touch him I will not be able to wash him, which is bad news for everyone, especially my poor co-workers – guess we won’t be having any meetings in my office this week).
This is not how I was hoping to start the week. Not at all.
(And I hate it when dudes refer to the birds as a person or "him," but I kinda had to here. So forgive me. At least I realize I sound like a douche.)
There are several benefits of living in an apartment older than most U.S. states. The first is probably the history; I often think of the immigrants who lived in my Little Italy apartment generations ago, who sweat and toiled so that one day, many years later, their descendants could pound jagerbombs and look like this (nice straws, fellas).
[I have to say right off the bat - I'm very prejudiced against Italians ("Can you imagine, in this day and age, a Jew broad prejudiced against Italians?"). One of my ex-girlfriends had a dream of going to Italy, and, though my sugar daddy instinct kicked in almost immediately and I began saving for a surprise trip, I tried to explain to her that if we were to go to Italy, only she would come back. This is because Italians are so sexually aggressive that it's almost criminal - and none of them fight. They are relentless when hitting on women, even if a guy is present. And though I'd be able to put up with it for a while, trying to do my best to represent my country, eventually all that body hair that I have would take over and there'd be some major problems and I'd end up in jail, known in the Italian press as "l'orso americano della morte." Because like I said, Italians don't fight. Throwing a punch in the middle of a group of Italians is like throwing a rock in the middle of a group of pigeons - they freak out, make a bunch of noise, and get the hell out of there as quickly as possible (I've seen this first-hand). This behavior, which was confirmed by other friends I know who have lived in Italy, was shocking to me because Italian-Americans are all about machismo. What happened during the transition from real Italians, who don't fight, to Italian-Americans, who will fight you for breathing on their leather jacket? Italian-Americans are like the kids who got bullied in grade school, then transferred to another grade school and immediately started bullying everyone in the new school so that they wouldn't get picked on anymore. Well, I know your secret my Eyetal-American friends. So watch it. And by the way, you look ridiculous.]
[And the girl and I never made it to Italy. Like everything else in my life, she and I had a great start, and then a meager, awkward finish. I think I spent the Italy trip money on cocaine and harmonicas. So it worked out for everyone.]
Another benefit of older apartments is that they are typically large. I know this might sound counter-intuitive. You may be thinking, “But I thought the average person was like 4’11 in 1875, so wouldn’t the apartments be smaller?” This is certainly true – studies have shown that the average height of a male in 1875 was exactly 4’11″ – but you’re missing the bigger picture. Because literally dozens of immigrants lived per apartment in Manhattan, a lot of the older buildings have apartments that are quite large for a modern one or two bedroom. For example, in my two bedroom apartment, there lived a family of twelve people in the 1930′s. And yes, I completely made that up. But if it were true, it wouldn’t surprise me. Well, maybe a little bit. But anyway…
But even though I love its history and its size, I hate a few other features of my apartment. One in particular is unbearable: the heat.
I love to sleep in the cold. This is not surprising, I guess, since when I go swimming it looks as though I’m looking for salmon. In the summer, I blast the AC, keep the windows open in the spring and fall, and like the heat low in the winter time.
The past few weeks have been great sleeping weather in my apartment, as temperatures had begun to dip into the low 50′s about three weeks ago. This is perfect. I can sleep with the windows slightly open, just so I can bury myself in my two blankets among my four fluffy in my spectacular either 600 or 800 (I can’t remember) thread count sheets. Glorious.
But that all can to a swift end of Sunday night. Because now it is heat week in my apartment.
At the end of last week, it was cold at night. Very cold. “It’s 40° and I can see my breath” cold. And while I like the cold, contrary to what I might look like in the shower, I am not actually a bear. So sleeping last week was tough as I tried to stay bundled up to stave off hypothermia.
(And if you’re keeping count at home, that’s three bear references, including one in Italian.)
I was getting frustrated with my shitty old building and began hoping for the heat to be turned on. Sunday night I got into bed, braving the cold temperatures in my room, closed the windows and bundled up. It was going to be a long, cold night.
Four hours later, I woke up nearly drowning. Sometime after I had fallen asleep, the heat – the first heat of the season – kicked on. And when it comes to heat in my apartment, there is no in-between. It’s all or nothing (singed eyebrows when walking into my room be damned!). I was covered in sweat. I mean this in the most literal sense – sweat was over 100% of my body, staining my clothes and sheets. My hair was matted to my forehead and my balls – my poor, poor balls – felt like sponge cake when I gave them a lil’ squeeze.
This extreme, out-of-nowhere heat phenomenon happened last year, so I at least knew what to expect. My old roommate Brian and I called it “heat week”, because it took our bodies about a week to get used to the major temperature change in the apartment. Each night this week has been a physical struggle, a test of endurance, to see how I can make sleeping work. I’ve been experimenting with opening the windows at different angles, sleeping with different clothes on and with different blankets, even trying new positions on the bed – all in an attempt to reduce my body temperature without leaving the windows open enough to give me frostbite.
Especially challenging is how the heat only comes on at night, after I’m asleep. When I get home from work and when I go to bed, my apartment is freezing. It is only when I’ve fallen asleep and am blissfully dreaming about boobies made of pudding does the heat kick on, leaving me with something like sunstroke.
(Also, it seems to gain momentum during the night. When I lay down, let’s say it’s 58 in my bedroom. At about 2am, it’ll be up to 70. At 4am, maybe 77. By the time I wake up, it’s gotta be around 85 in there. Horrible, just horrible.)
So this week has not been a good one. To all those I’ve been a dick to this week, please accept my apologies. I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in a week and what sleep I have gotten has been most unpleasant, like taking your mattress into a sauna. The good news is that heat week is almost over; my body is very weak and soon I will resign myself to the temperature extremes and be able to sleep through the night. But until that happens, thank god for wine. I don’t know if I would have made it through the week without breaking my hands while trying to murder my radiator without it.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to zone out at my desk and catch up some rest. Thank you for understanding and please, let’s keep the loud noises to a minimum, ok?
I am completely stumped about what to do for a Halloween costume this year. I typically don’t get very into Halloween, but I’ve come up with some pretty decent last minute costumes over the years:
- In 2004, I put on a leisure suit (which a friend bought for me at a garage sale in 1996 for 50¢) and shaved my beard, leaving the moustache. I was my dad in 1977.
- In 2003, Brian and I (and our old roommate Ben) got all dolled up and went out as Siegfried, Roy, and Montecore the Tiger, thanks in large part to my friend Annie, who pretty much pulled the whole costume together for us while we drank her beer and yelled.
- In 2001, four of my college roommates and I put on the same type outfit (khaki pants, blue shirts) and went out as the Backstreet Boys (I shaved my beard like a Rican to match the dude on the right).
- In 2000, I shaved the beard and left the moustache again, and put on some Chicago Bears paraphernalia that my roommate had hanging on his walls (including a jersey from when he was 12). I was one of the guys who says, "Da Bears!"
- In 1999, clean shaven, I put on a suit with an open, butterfly-collared lime green shirt, wore my glasses, and took out one of my shitty guitars. I was the guy from the Barenaked Ladies.
Not great, but certainly not shitty, either. But you’ll notice one obstacle in most all of the costumes: my fucking beard.
I found some gray hairs in my beard a few weeks ago and was planning to shave it, but then realized that I should not wilt to vanity. Also, a girl emailed me imploring me not to shave the beard, saying she’s had a thing for guys with beards since she was 15, which kinda creeped me out but also inspired me.
(Quick horrible beard story: in college, I was courting a girl for a while before she finally relented and let me make out with her. So we’re in my room making out, just getting into it, when she stops, pulls away, and says, "I’m sorry, but your beard reminds me of something very bad that happened to me." Wow. Talk about your all time buzzkill. She might as well have just said, "You taste like my uncle." You might not be surprised to learn that that was the last time we made out.)
So now I’ve gone the other way with my beard and it’s probably the longest and thickest it’s ever been. And I kinda dig it. Sure, two weekends ago I had to listen to one female friend tell me it looked like "a beard of pubes" all night, and then the next afternoon another female friend actually said "Eww" while looking at me, but to hell with them. I do not use or need my beard to get chicks. As long as I have a high credit limit and the ability to dial a phone and/or use Craigslist, I’ll be fine in the ladies department. Just fine.
But come Halloween, the beard is limiting. There are only so many costumes one can rock with a beard. The old standard is Jesus, and though I’m certainly not the best Catholic in the world, I’m still not comfortable dressing like Jesus and doing what I do on most weekend nights (I don’t know how female bar bathrooms that Jesus "accidentally" walked into in His lifetime, but I’m sure I have Him beat).
Aside from that, there are lame costumes for guys with beards, like a pirate or a monster or a guy in a toga or some shit. And those costumes are shitty, except if you put a spin on them. For example, being a pirate sucks, but being a racist pirate, well, that’s fucking hilarious. However, the humor of the racist pirate may be lost on some fellow partygoers, who, for whatever reason, might take offense to that. So maybe you could be a pirate with cancer or a pirate whose parents died in Hurricane Katrina.
(Ok, now we’re just getting stupid.)
(Well, more stupid than normal.)
My old roommate Brian and I have been planning on doing a joint costume for some time, but it would require a beard shave, so I’m backing off it. I don’t feel too bad about this, since by "have been planning" I mean that we talked about six months ago, did nothing, talked about it again two days ago, and did more nothing. So it’s not like Brian’s been slaving away on the costume or anything.
And I still hold out hope that one day I will be able to pull off my dream costume: Roxette. The problem with that is that I’d need a girl to play the Girl Roxette. That doesn’t sound like that big a deal – couldn’t I just get a female friend to do the costume with me? – but the thing is that I get really aroused on Halloween, what with all the dressing up going on and all, and I’d probably get very nasty and/or inappropriate with my co-Roxette. So until I get married, no Roxette.
Which is fine for me right now, because I don’t want to get rid of the beard. So…this whole post is a roundabout way of seeking help from you all. What can I be that is easy and allows me to keep my beard? I have two ideas that I don’t want to share now (I’d like to keep them a secret in case I have to use them), but I’m not too proud to seek out ideas from y’all. If you have a suggestion, please email me with "halloween costume" or something in the title. I’m interested to see what you jagoffs have to suggest.
In the meantime, I’m going to sit back and play with my pube-beard. I think it’s more like steel wool, but that’s probably because my pubes are as soft as a down comforter. Well, a down comforter covered in saran wrap. That’s about right.
On Friday night, I got into Philly late. I had a major attack of insomnia on Thursday night and was a mess all day. It’s almost like clockwork; once every two months, seemingly out of nowhere, I’ll get walloped with a horrible night of lying awake in bed, stressing about all sorts of things that seemingly don’t matter much to me, in this case cats and mental institutions.
(I at least realize the source of these most recent nightmares – a book I’m reading called The Master and Margarita. Still, it would have been nice to have an appearance by my favorite nightmare character, a lady vampire who sexes me up and then strangles me, after which I wake up amidst a sea of pulled out chest hair. Can someone – preferably a psychologist or a drug addict – explain to me what this means?).
When I arrived in Philly at 9pm on Friday, I went out, stayed out late, and slept fitfully. I woke up early on Saturday because a dog was stepping on my face and was not able to fall back asleep after that (after having nightmares about cats, being woken up suddenly from a drunken slumber by a dog walking all over me was pretty fucking terrifying). I gorged myself on some creamed chipped beef, my favorite food ever, returned home from my local diner, and took a nap. From noon until 4:30pm.
Why do I tell you all this? Because, jerk, I’m trying to set the stage for Saturday night, the reason I was home in Philly. That night was my buddy Jimmy the Muppet’s bachelor party. Because if I did anything regrettable, I blame it entirely on my messed up sleep cycle.
*******
I realize that there is an unwritten rule about bachelor parties, something like “What happens at a bachelor party should not be disseminated via the internet to thousands of strangers, forever recorded in the annals of the web to be googled at any point in time in the future.” But I’m kind of hard up for material, so fuck it.
And aside from that, everyone was (reasonably) well-behaved at this bachelor party. The groom-to-be, Jimmy, is normally a pretty timid guy whose behavior was stellar (and no, I’m not just saying that because he gave me $200 to do so). Also, the rest of the guys on the party were well-behaved too. If anything, my behavior was (arguably) the most not good.
The bachelor party started at a buddy’s house, where we had hired two strippers to do all sorts of horrible things to each other, things that make you blush, laugh, yell, and vomit all at the same time. But only one stripper showed up. The other, presumably, had gotten murdered and couldn’t make it. But our stripper, Destiny, who (I’d guess) was 25 but looked 35 with ginormous fake breasts, tried to allay our fears about her coming alone, saying that this would allow for “more interaction” with the partygoers.
Well.
I’ve written before that I’m damn near terrified of strippers. Something about them – possibly the amount of dicks they’ve been through or the variety of household items they’ve stuck in their sexy place for $15 or the herpes that is just running roughshod on their upper lip there – just kinda turns me off. I know – I’m crazy and less of a man. Throw in that I’m a sappy drunk and I turn into the guy at the strip club saying things like, “Move to New York, come live with me, and we’ll make a family. I promise I’ll be a good husband and moderately capable lover.” and “Destiny – why do you do this? I can take you away from it all. And no, I will not pay you $8 to watch you stick my wallet in your ass.” and “Baby, let’s go right now. A train will take us to Penn Station in under two hours. Wait, the whole wallet or just a corner of it? With or without my credit cards in there?”
So when Destiny said the thing about more interaction with the guys, I made sure to stay on the fringes of the group and make a b-line for the yard (where the beer was) if she was looking for volunteers. The good news is that I was able to do this fairly easily.
The good news is also that over the next hour, I and the rest of my buddies learned many things from Destiny. Chief among them: paying $60 for a handjob from a stripper – who minutes before you watched spit in your friend’s ass crack – sounds like a great idea in theory, but in actuality…not so much. At least that’s what I heard. From someone else. Not from myself.
And that’s really all I’ll say about that. I’m just glad this whole blog’s fictional or else I’d have some explaining to do to my wife.
(But for the record, we all know that paying for handjobs is not a big deal, since it the only sex act that you can close your eyes during and easily pretend it’s yourself. Except you don’t smell like vanilla candles and pain pills. And you don’t sound like a garbage disposal when you breathe. And you probably wouldn’t stick two of your fingers in your ass while masturbating. But the point: handjobs are totally not a big deal. Now no more talk of this part of the evening.)
(Well, I’ll say one more thing, because I haven’t been writing much and would do you a disservice if I left it out: a buddy of mine was stripped down to his boxers and laid on the floor on a few towels. Destiny then placed a bottle of beer on his bird, which was not exposed but under the boxers. Destiny then squatted down and – bless her skanky lil’ heart – started making love to the bottle of beer. At this point, every guy in the room was on the floor screaming, laughing, and retching. I, of course, was eating Doritos. But then, just when we thought it couldn’t get any worse, Destiny stood up and removed the beer bottle from her secret place and beer streamed everywhere, like champagne in a post-game celebration. Screaming, laughing, retching, times ten. Then, just when we thought it couldn’t get any worse, Destiny, um, opened herself and shot leftover beer from her privates onto my buddy, lying below her. Several times. Opening and closing. Over and over again. Words. None. When it was all over, I felt like I had just been in a fight: sweaty, agitated, pissed off, and sore. So yeah, it was pretty fucking sweet.)
(Also, the name for my fifth book: Sweaty, Agitated, Pissed Off and Sore: How Jason Mulgrew and a Band of Misfits took Down the World’s Greatest Porno Empire (With a Foreword by Elvis Costello). It has a nice ring to it, right? I could sell it on the title alone!)
(God, I’m going to be the worst writer in the history of the world.)
After the “show,” we headed in a bus to a local strip club for more “entertainment.” We went to a strip club I’ve been to several times before and had a private room, so I felt comfortable. However, my comfortableness did not prevent me from drinking whiskey sodas like, um, something easily drinkable and spending enough money in two hours for a nice vacation on the coast of Italy.
I had been laying off the whiskey because Larry was beginning to take over my life. But tonight, with the help of said whiskeys, he was unleashed. And he had some business to take care of.
For some reason, Larry thought it would be a good idea to give strippers $5 bills instead of $1 bills, because that’s just how he rolls. And there were a lot strippers in the private room. And a lot of bill giving. I won’t say how much I spent, because I’ll only wind up throwing up again, but one of my buddies, who I was hanging out at the strip club with the most, had $200 in $1 bills on him. He spent them all. And we were similar in our spending habits. So do the math on that one and get back to me. God damn you, Larry. God damn you straight to hell.
As if I wasn’t disgracing myself and my family’s good name enough, I decided to fall in love with a stripper at the club. I’ve gone on at length at my type of woman: big busted, tan, good dancer, hoop earrings, messy ponytail, sass mouth. So since my type of woman sounds like a stripper anyway, it follows that I’d at least fall in love with a decent-looking stripper, yes? Again, in theory perhaps this would be true. Not in real life.
The objection of my affection (read: the girl I was giving so much money to that she was essentially robbing me) was probably the most unattractive stripper at the club. Now, the club was kinda high end so it’s not like this girl was picking at her scabs or anything, but on the whole, she wasn’t attractive compared to the other girls. For one, she had no boobies, which is not a dealbreaker in and of itself, but she just wasn’t good-looking. She was plain, very plain.
BUT – she did have one thing that got me: sexy librarian glasses. Every one of my ex-wives (which is how I refer to my ex-girlfriends now, which I’m sure wouldn’t creep them out at all if they knew this) had these glasses and though I don’t recall being especially into them at the time, I guess subconsciously I’m attracted to the sexy nerd look (hell, one of my ex-wives was actually a real life librarian).
And I’ve always liked smart girls. I’m not talking smarter than me or anything, because that’s no good. The perfect girl is always just a little less intelligent than I am, so that we can converse but if she starts running her sass mouth off I can drop a little knowledge to shut her up, like, “Oh yeah? Aristotle died in 322 BC. So there’s that.” or “1812 – remember that year? Well, former Massachusetts governor Elbridge Gerry does, because that’s when he invented gerrymandering. But you probably knew that.” This is how you win an argument with a girl who thinks she’s smart.
Whereas my darling stripper, whose name I can’t recall but who we shall call Stacey, was probably not nearly as smart as I am, sexy librarian glasses notwithstanding. And I’m not saying this because I’m smart or anything, but because I watched her put her shirt on backwards three times and once I saw her trying to eat her shoes. But I’m the moron because I spend all week studying trends in M&A so I can give Stacey my money so that she and her boyfriend can go to Greece next summer. God damn you, Larry. God damn you straight to hell.
(And I would have given her more if it had not been for my buddy Chris, who in front of Stacey said, “Mulgrew’s got a girlfriend.” I made a joke about how she and I were going to get married soon, which I’m sure at the time was only a half joke, maybe even a third of a joke, and then I never saw her again. Methinks the fire in my eyes and the passion in my loins was enough to keep her hiding in the kitchen for the rest of the night. But hey, she had already made enough money that evening, so good play on her part.)
After the strip club, it was back to the local bar, the last stop on the bachelor party. Fortunately, I don’t remember much of this part of the evening, as my belly was full with whiskey and my testes swollen with semen. At that point, I just wanted to do and eat. I’ll give one guess as to which one worked out.
*******
In conclusion, yes, I had a good time. And yes, I’ve spent most of my free time since in the shower, scrubbing myself and weeping. But again, I can take solace in the knowledge that if I had only been sleeping normally, none of this would have happened and I wouldn’t have to eat fingernails for dinner for the next month to make up the difference in my bank account. So let this be a lesson: get a good night’s sleep before a bachelor party. And stay away from whiskey. And don’t be a lonely drunk with a big (but fake) ego and a tiny penis. Because that is a lethal combination.
(At least that’s what I heard. From someone else. Not from myself.)
This idea intrigued me. Not because I’ve ever fashioned myself an assassin, but because I like murder shows and I’m generally considered a creepy guy. Being able to legally stalk someone – even "kill" them – kinda turned me on (and I mean that in the most sexual way possible). As I am internet savvy, I went to the StreetWars website and signed up to be reminded when the game came to NYC (the CNN report showed people playing in Los Angeles). And then I completely forgot about it.
Fast forward to a little under two months ago and a reminder popped up in my email inbox telling me StreetWars was coming to NYC. My interest was repiqued, but then my laziness set in – hunting someone seemed like a lot of work. That night, I went out for my buddy Jeremy’s birthday and got drunk, as all my friends did. Since my group of friends spends so much time together we’re quickly and quietly morphing into the characters from friends (I’m Monica), during one of the many lulls in the conversation I brought up StreetWars. My friends were intrigued. Then we did some shots. And then next thing I knew, Brian, Corinne, Jeremy and I had signed up for StreetWars as a team. The hunt would soon be on. We were the Hashish Assassins. Don’t fuck with us.
[It should be more widely known that the words "hash" and "assassination" are related. Marco Polo wrote about a Muslim leader who used hash to dupe young men into joining his personal army. Basically this leader would throw a big party and get these young men fucked up on hash, then he'd throw all sorts of food and women at them and show them a grand old time. The young men would then pass out and when they awoke, the leader would say that he took them to heaven. If they wanted to get back to heaven to enjoy the women and food, they had to do his bidding, namely kill mother fuckers. So they became assassins. Because of hashish. I know I'm butchering this legend a little bit, but I can assure you it's at least 75% true. So there.]
I, like the rest of my friends, grew excited about StreetWars. I knew that there was something inherently nerdy about it, but hey – sometimes nerdiness isn’t all bad (I can’t believe…I just…wrote that). Besides – stalking! Fake shooting! Kinda murder! C’mon people – what’s not to love here!
In order to get the information about our target, our team, like all the other players, had to head to a random place in Queens to meet the organizers of the game. I could not attend, as I was getting bombed after watching an Eagles game. Nor could Corinne, so Jeremy and Brian made the trek out to Queens to pick up our shit. I wrote about this before, so I’ll just cut and paste:
[In Queens to pick up our target's dossier, Jeremy and Brian] were treated to a very lame scene: the head guys dressed up like pimps drinking cognac in a back of a rented U-Haul, complete with a "harem" and fake bodyguard (I know – I also had to swallow deeply to hold back my pity vomit). This thing is run by people who I have very little doubt were very into theatre in high school and routinely got wedgies. And, upon Jeremy’s estimation after seeing other people present to pick up dossiers, a solid 75% of the people playing in the game are probably virgins, many of whom were in disguise so as not to be seen my their fellow assassins. Yeah. So there’s that.
This is when we first realized that StreetWars might be even nerdier than we anticipated.
But at the time, we were still into it. Since the four of us were in a team, we all shared the same target, a guy who was a lawyer at the courts here in NYC. In a way, it was unfair, since all four of us were going after him.
But there was a negative to being part of a team. For whatever reason, Jeremy was chosen as leader of our team. This meant that if Jeremy were to be assassinated, the entire team would be eliminated (whereas if I were shot, I’d be the only one out). So while we could work as a team to go after our target, we also had to essentially act as bodyguards for Jeremy.
As the game started, I put the over/under for our survival at three days. I had seen the CNN report and knew that people got very into this – taking vacation days from work to sit outside a target’s home for hours and the like. And after Jeremy and Brian went to Queens and told Corinne and I about all the Star Wars-lovin’ geeks that were involved, I figured that slackers like us wouldn’t stand a chance.
And I was kinda right. But at least we made a kill.
On Monday night, the first night of the game, I actually picked up Jeremy from work, water pistol drawn, and escorted him to a bar next door to his apartment (StreetWars rules stipulate that you are safe inside bars, but not restaurants – this place was somewhere in the middle). There, we were eating wings with our friend Meredith when a guy walked up to Jeremy with his water pistol out and said, "Are you stalking me?" It turns out that this guy was in line with Jeremy and Brian picking up the dossiers in Queens. As he was one of the few normal people there, the three struck up a conversation. But now, he was standing in front of my leader with his gun in his side, looking threatening, as I, Jeremy’s protector, had wing sauce on my face, beard, hands, hair, and feet (don’t ask). Awesome fucking bodyguard, am I.
Jeremy said "No" and asked the guy if he was stalking him, expecting to be shot. Instead, the guy said that he wasn’t stalking Jeremy either, but was in the bar watching the Monday Night Football game with his buddies. The two immediately relaxed and I breathed a sigh of relief and resumed eating wings (ok, I never stopped). Jeremy added, "We’re in a bar anyway", but the guy countered "This is more of a restaurant, isn’t it?" and the two went back and forth arguing whether or not this was a safe zone. The guy said that his target lived around the area but he was there, again, just to hang out with his buddies. They talked for a bit more and then the guy left to go to the bathroom.
After he left, Meredith was the first to say, "You know – he kinda looks like your target." Jeremy pulled out the picture of our target and wouldn’t you know it – the guy who was just speaking to Jeremy, who we will call Sam, was our fucking target. I could see why this wasn’t instantly recognized: Sam was thugged out in the picture we had of him, with a Knicks jersey and spiked hair, while the guy we were just talking to was very corporate and conservative. But the fact remained – he was our guy. All we had to do was shoot him.
But we didn’t, mostly because we were eating wings. By the time we decided to act, Sam had left the bar. This made us mad at ourselves, but also raised a few red flags. Why, if he was at the bar to watch the game with his friends, did he leave when it had just started? Was he onto us? Or was he really Jeremy’s assassin but unable to shoot him because he was in a safe zone? Hmm…
The result was four days of paranoia – including Jeremy staying over at my apartment for two nights – that ended only when Jeremy walked outside his place to find Sam, our target, his possible assassin, standing there. Playing it cool, Jeremy struck up a conversation with Sam, who allowed that his target lived only two doors away from Jeremy. As Jeremy tells it, he then said, "Oh yeah? Well how about this!" and then shot Sam, but I imagine he let out more of a "moo"-type sound and awkwardly sprayed Sam with his water gun, possibly dropping it and also prematurely ejaculating when doing so. Either way, we had our first kill. Victors.
The rules of StreetWars stipulate that once you "kill" someone, you take his or her target and hunt that person. Sam handed his target’s info to Jeremy and clued him in on some intelligence he had gathered: Sam’s target, our new target, was a lawyer at a big-time law firm in midtown and worked long and erratic hours. Sam, however, had a buddy on the inside of his target’s firm who checked the log book to see what time the target arrived at work each day. Armed with his information, Sam was convinced that his target was not staying at his place – possibly staying at his lover’s – because Sam had been outside his apartment for hours each morning, each time in the range that his target signed into work. Something was fishy…
And this is the point when we pretty much gave up. The thrill of our first kill proved fleeting and was replaced by apathy. No member of the team had any interest in staking out a guy who was clearly not staying at his apartment (a violation of the rules, by the way). And also, it was apparent that no one was coming after Jeremy. After a few first jitters on the first few days, Jeremy felt completely safe – he didn’t see any suspicious people, never felt like he was being followed – nothing. It appeared that the only people more lazy than us - killers by accident because our target was practically delivered to Jeremy – were the people hunting Jeremy.
(Brian and I had long resigned ourselves to the fact that no one was hunting us. I was pretty much the easiest target in the world, since I work regular hours, walk everywhere, and a simple google search would bring my assassin to this website, where he could learn all kinda shit about me. Corinne thought she was being targeted, but Brian and I chalked up her fears to being a crazy girl. She did not like that and went so far to point out that I’m more of a crazy girl than she is. And she’s right.)
So for the next few days after our kill, which took place on Day 4, we did nothing. We still carried around our water pistols, but I was no longer escorting Jeremy out of work, none of us were taking alternative routes home, we were barely talking about it. The thrill was gone and our emails turned from discussions about StreetWars to "Have you ever gotten high at work? Highly recommended."
Then, on Day 11, the end finally came. Jeremy was buzzed walking back to his apartment and someone approached him at his door, asked if he was Jeremy, then shot him. Elimination, at long last. Jeremy’s assassin turned out to be a cool guy who even bought Jeremy a drink at the bar next door and appeared extremely high. I pointed out that it would probably be more acceptable to be killed by the nerd who’s been plotting for days than the guy who gets high in his apartment all day long, but no one listened to me. They never do. Which they will regret one day.
(I hope.)
**********
In the end, StreetWars was another typical chapter of my life: a lot of promise and enthusiasm at the start, but ending with a whimper and an awkward goodbye. This can be said for pretty much every endeavor, job, and relationship I’ve ever had in my life. But at least I’m consistent. I kinda smell pretty good, too. But that’s about it.
(Let’s just end this before I get too depressed. And yes, I am getting some ice cream tonight – thank you for asking.)
I’m not exactly sure why I don’t go to concerts more often. I’d like to give an understandable explanation like, "When I was little, my uncle took me to a Bon Jovi concert because I loved Bon Jovi and then, long story short, Bon Jovi killed my uncle. Twice. So I don’t like to go to concerts."
But unfortunately (or rather, fortunately), this did not happen. Instead, I think the main reasons why I don’t like to go to concerts are because a) I am lazy and b) rarely does the musician/band live up to my expectations.
Concerts are a lot of work – you have to find someone to go with, buy the tickets, travel to wherever the hell the show is, find your seats or stand the whole time, pay $7 per beer which makes you have to piss, then halfway through you’re checking your watch and sending text messages to your buddies about your date, like "I think she has hairier balls than I do" and "She smells like a little like cat piss and a lot like old sex" – it’s just unpleasant for everyone.
But all this doesn’t mean that I never attend concerts. My first concert was Paula Abdul with Color Me Badd opening. My second was the Grateful Dead (how’s that for progress?). I’ve seen Elvis Costello almost a dozen times, Glenn Tilbrook a bunch, then a variety of different acts, from Phish and Page/Plant to Wilco and the Who.
(Pretty smooth with the P’s and W’s, right? That’s why they pay me the big bucks. Real writer-shit, right there.)
So I occasionally go out to venues to see some live music. But it is rare that a perfect storm develops, providing the fan (or, as in my case, the jerk with nothing better to do on a Friday night) with the opportunity to see some great live music, in an incredible location, among at once some of the nerdiest and most frightening people in North America.
Last Friday, the 13th of October, was such a perfect storm. My friends and I saw Iron Maiden at the Continental Airlines Arena in East Rutherford, New Jersey. And no, I’m not joking.
Nor am I an Iron Maiden fan. I was aware of Iron Maiden just as I am aware of white women who only date black men – I know they’re out there, and I know they’re not to be taken seriously. And like white women who only date black men, everything I need to know about Iron Maiden I learned from VH1 Classic. I knew that they’re death metal, or at least heavy, heavy metal (I’ve seen them also described as "doom metal"). I knew about Eddie, the band’s mascot, a giant monster who appears on stage and randomly hangs out for a song or two, much to the delight of the crowd. And I knew they were loud. And that’s about all I knew.
The idea of going to see Maiden was suggested by my old roommate Brian. His college buddy, Jeff, who can only (but accurately) be described as a Southern metalhead, was driving up from Virginia to see the show. This so humored Brian that he suggested a bunch of us go, just to check it out. The prospect of some serious comedy at an Iron Maiden show on Friday the 13th in October – in New Jersey, no less – was too much to pass up and so after work on Friday afternoon, my friends Brian, Jeremy, Corinne and I met in midtown and soon were in Corinne’s car driving to Jersey. Ten miles and two hours later, we had arrived. It was time to rock our balls off.
Research, Metal-Style
Before I got to the concert, I did a little research, downloading two dozen or so of Iron Maiden’s songs from LimeWire. I figured I should have at least some idea of what kind of music I’d be listening to when some guy with tattoos was punching me in the face.
And to be honest, I kind of dug Maiden’s music. Sure, it’s not my typical cup of tea, but it has its place. The song titles alone are worth it. Maiden is responsible for such masterpieces as "Hallowed Be Thy Name", "The Number of the Beast", "Sea of Madness" (not to be confused with "Can I Play With Madness"), and my personal favorite, "Bring Your Daughter to the Slaughter" (I’m such a sucker for internal rhyme). Another one of their songs is called "Alexander the Great" and I remember when listening to it for the first time being surprised that the song was about…Alexander the Great. Literally, the lyrics talk about Philip of Macedon and Asia Minor and the Tigris River and all kinds of crazy shit. This, for whatever reason, shocked me.
(I mean, am I a moron for not expecting the song to be about Alexander the Great? Perhaps I thought it was a metaphor or something. I brought this up to my buddy Brian and he said, "It’s like they want to teach you before they blow your brains out." Sometimes Brian can be really wise.)
Bonus points for the band because their lead singer is named Bruce Dickinson. No, not THE Bruce Dickinson.
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Iron Maiden’s Bruce Dickinson, according to his website, enjoys fencing and flying planes and has written two books about a character named Lord Iffy Boatrace. Not surprisingly, Bruce is also interested in Aleister Crowley and even wrote a movie script about him. And it goes without saying that he too, when he puts his pants on, makes gold records. I don’t know about you guys, but I kinda want to fuck him.
Pre-Game, Maiden-Style
Because traffic out of Manhattan on a Friday evening is deplorable, we got to the concert at 8pm, just as doors were opening. This made us kinda sad, because we were hoping to take in the hoi poloi at your typical Iron Maiden tailgate in Jersey. It wasn’t a total loss, since it didn’t take long to locate a lot of bad hair, a lot of drinking, and a lot of people who still live with their parents.
Maiden fans on the whole were not that scary. I was expecting deviants and devil worshippers. I made a point to change out of my work clothes and into something more casual before going into the show, fearing that wearing my Banana Republic slacks and Brooks Brothers shirt would be the equivalent of putting a "Rape Me" sign on my chest. Instead, the crowd was not scary but rather stuck in 1983. I’m not saying there weren’t some people there who have spent significant time in prison, but for the most part, I felt safe. I even put the "Rape Me" sign on anyway and wasn’t even approached. Which sucked.
Another downside about arriving so late to the concert was that I didn’t get messed up enough. I do not like to drink at concerts, as I have a bladder the size of a three year old girl’s. So I forego beer because I don’t like to go take a piss every other song. However, before shows I do greatly enjoy those funny cigarettes that make you hungry and happy. But my friend Corinne has some ridiculous rule about not smoking pot in her car (fucking narc), so I and a few others were only able to enjoy after our arrival. The point: I didn’t get high enough. I was not thrilled about this but would soon forgot about it. Because I was about to get my cock rocked off.
Iron Maiden = Spinal Tap?
I don’t really have a joke about this but I’m not ashamed to say that Iron Maiden totally fucking rocked. They were pretty much what I expected from listening to their stuff: a singer, three (!) guitarists, a bass player, and a drummer on a set made to look like a cave, rocking the fuck out. Hard, heavy, loud. So, awesome.
I am also pretty sure that Iron Maiden was the inspiration for mockumentary band Spinal Tap. I’m sure that Christopher Guest and Co. took elements from other rock bands of the genre and era, but Maiden had to be tops on the list.
Specifically, this guy, guitarist Janick Gers, is the real life David St. Hubbins. And not just because they look the same, but because Janick was acting like quite like David does in Spinal Tap, throwing his guitar in the air, swinging it around, pointing it at the crowd with his tongue out, sticking it between his legs – pretty much every ridiculous on-stage move you can imagine. My buddy Jeremy and I decided that there was no way he was actually playing guitar, because when he wasn’t carrying on, he was strumming out of time and he was barely doing so anyway. It’s like they turned off the volume on his guitar and said, "Go and have some fun out there."
(Worth noting is that minutes after Jeremy and I finished having this discussion, Brian tapped me on the shoulder and said, "Corinne and I were just talking and there’s no way that blonde guitarist on the right is actually playing." So it wasn’t just us. Good job, Janick. Way to sell it, way to sell it.)
I Love Metal Chicks
The Metal Chick is a type of woman I had been previously unfamiliar with. She’s the oldest, lamest sister of the Heroine Chic Girl and the Hipster Fucker. She’s got some tats like her youngest sister the Hipster Fucker and loves drugs as much as her middle sister the Heroine Chic Girl, but she’s drastically different in other ways. Her hair is out of style, but not in an ironic way like her baby sister’s. She’s crazy, but not in the "I’ll kill myself" way of her middle sister (indeed, her type of craziness is more "I’ll kill you" than anything else).
But the Metal Chick is not without her charms, and first and foremost of these is her sexy-ass body. I know, you may be shocked to read this, but I was surprised at how many mid-30′s Metal Chicks at this concert had very good bodies, nice boobies and heinies built from years of being angry and rocking. That doesn’t mean there wasn’t a fair share of 200-pounders sucking on bongs with vast stretches of inked-up pale flesh exposed from their ill-fitting Maiden shirts, but on the whole, I was surprised. And happy. Because I like good bodies, you know, since I have one now.
(By the way, I’m down 40 pounds, so suck on that.)
My friends and I sat in front of one of these good-bodied Metal Chicks and by the end of the concert – between her gyrating and rocking the fuck out and the speed and intensity of the music - I was planning on committing a sex crime. The thought of going back to that Metal Chick’s dingy apartment in Westfield, New Jersey to fuck her on her kitchen floor while listening to "Run to the Hills" was too much to bear and I asked my buddy Jeremy to start making out with me to turn me off. He complied. Without getting too into it, talk about your all-time backfires. Let’s just move on.
Family o’ Mexicans
Another group of fans near us was a family of Mexicans, maybe a dozen of them. What’s so interesting about this was that they were all exactly the same. I don’t mean that they all looked the same, but that they were the same. It was impossible to differentiate not only their ages, but also their sexes. It was thirteen of the same exact person. The only reason I know that some of them were women was because couples were paired off and cuddling. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have known. There were all the same height (maybe 5’0") with the same hairstyle and all wearing similar clothes. It was both fascinating and nightmarish. And when the lights came off, after Maiden had the crowd on its feet through its raging encore, I couldn’t get away from those little Mexicans fast enough. Scary little mother fuckers, they were.
After the Concert
While it took us two hours to travel ten miles on our way to the arena, it took us only about fifteen minutes to make it back to the city. We were all pretty pumped up and so decided to go out that night. We split up, each of us retreating to drop our shit at our homes, shower, change, and then head out.
It was your typical Friday night for the most part. I started drinking after the concert and fixed myself a way-too-potent vodka red bull while showering and singing "Fear of the Dark" and soon was at the bar with the rest of the crew and some additional friends. Brian’s buddy, Jeff, the Southern metalhead whose idea it was to see Iron Maiden in the first place, was so happy that I actually enjoyed the concert that he kept buying me drinks all night. I thought, based on their color and taste, that these were vodka tonics. In my inebriated state, I was confused. They were vodka red bulls.
Remember, I am a pussy with caffeine – one diet coke will keep me going all day long. I had already had a red bull that night. Then I had at least four between the hours of 2am and 4am. Not good.
The result? After getting home, I was up until 7am. I sat in the shower for an hour reading (or rather, trying to read), then, as I am wont to do when drunk, decided to cut my own hair. As you might guess, I did not do a very good job and so had to get a haircut yesterday to fix my mistakes. Of which there were several.
When I finally fell asleep, I slept for only three hours before waking up, feeling like I could run a marathon. This feeling lasted only a few hours on Saturday, and when it went away, I crashed hard – so hard that I didn’t even make it out Saturday night. Ugh.
(Though I made up for it by drinking from 1pm until 11pm on Sunday. It was the only way I could deal with that terrible Eagles’ loss. But let’s not get into that…)
***********
All in all, Iron Maiden was a great experience. So much so that while I don’t think I’d follow them around the country, I would probably go see them again. Next time, I’d get there earlier, bring a lot more weed, and study up on what turns Metal Chicks on. Because I want me one of those.
(Except if those Mexicans are there again. I’m not going near those sons of bitches. Because that shit was messed up.)
Also, I will be making many travels (which is far superior and much more romantic than saying "I’ll be traveling"). I’m in Philly next weekend for my friend Jimmy the Muppet’s bachelor party and will be in Boston in mid-November for another BC football game (read: drunkfest) either on 11/11 or 11/18. I will also be going west, with my triumphant return to Seattle planned tentatively for early December – though this is very much up in the air as it involves three of my buddies and I organizing a trip (wish us luck). And of course, I will be in LA at least once between now and Christmas, but have no idea when. I’ll probably get a call on a Monday asking me to be out there for a Wednesday meeting, which will be fun.
So I ask for your patience and understanding over the next two months. That doesn’t mean I’m going to post any less – I have no idea how this will affect posting – but the angry "post more!" emails have started to trickle in and they always hurt my feelings. Also, one dude from Bangkok emailed me saying that when I recently lost weight I also lost some brain and funniness, although he did admit that he was drunk at the time he was writing (true story). So that softened the blow a little bit.
*************
Speaking of angry emails, the recent sports posts have caused a torrent of emails. And they were pretty much completely divided in half. Half came from guys (and sports-interested ladies) either asking questions or refuting some of the points I made. And of course, I responded to 90% of these emails because, well, I fucking love sports.
But the other half…[sigh]
The other half came from ladies or foreigners who were not happy with my sports posts. They basically went like this:
Jason,
What the hell? Your sports posts are BORING. Go back to being funny! I’m bored
Sara/Christine/Molly/Heather/Tricia/Someone from Germany or Australia
Ladies (and Germans and Australians), there is a rule here that we have at jasonmulgrew.com that I apparently need to remind you about. I won’t get too into it, for fear I lose you with all the complicated legalese, but the gist of the rule is that you can not complain about the content of the site unless i) you have donated or ii) my bird has – at the very least – been in your hand. Otherwise, it’s not exactly right to complain about a free service, is it?
I don’t want to start saying things that we might not mean, but you know that Uncle Jason tries very hard to bring you quality entertainment almost every day, often at the risk of his employment status, his romantic prospects, and his general health. But sometimes both Jason and Larry get a little tired and need a break. Remember, it’s a miracle that we’ve gotten 2.5 years out of this blog, since it only has so few themes:
- I’m fat
- Women don’t like me
- I like getting messed up
- I have really, really low self-esteem
That’s not very much to work with, is it? Jason and Larry both like sports and sometimes they want to talk about them, especially because it’s easy.
So in the future, I ask for a little more understanding. I promise you that this will not turn into a sports blog. But it’s decidedly not awesome to log on to read 20 emails at a time from women (and Germans and Australians) yelling at you to entertain them. Unless you’re paying me or providing me with hand-relief, that doesn’t seem fair, does it?
(And re: sports – I know that I went 0-4 in my baseball playoff predictions, even after saying that I was picking perfectly this year. I don’t think there’s any need for me to pick for the rest of the playoffs, since I’m obviously not very good at it. So let me just stick to my strengths, which lately have been eating lots of oatmeal and feeling lonely at night.)
*************
Switching gears a little bit, Wednesday’s post about what my friend Laura said to her pseudo-ex inspired a shit load of emails, and, if I’m being totally honest here, 99% of them sucked. Not to pick on the ladies again (we’ll leave the Germans and Australians out of this one), but many girls wrote in to tell me about some "crazy" shit that she had said or did to her ex-boyfriend and nothing came close to Laura’s original comment.
Instead, most of these women wrote in something like one of the following:
- "So I learned my boyfriend was cheating on me and I said – in front of all his friends – ‘Fuck you, jerk!’ He laughed, but I knew it hurt him really bad."
- "My boyfriend and I kinda broke up but then had this big fight to end the relationship and I told him that he had a little dick! Crazy, right?"
- "My ex started seeing another girl and I saw him out with his buddies one night. So I ignored him. Then I left him a voicemail saying he was bad in bed! I know – I’m a total crazy girl."
No, sister, you are not.
Anyway, I did got some emails that made me laugh. The first was from Carlos in NYC:
My buddy and his girlfriend were in a couple’s fight similar to the one you wrote about. In the middle, she pauses, looks him dead in the eye and says "Everything that makes you sad, makes me happy." Ouch. There’s really…i mean…who would…just ouch.
They’re getting married in April and that little nugget will find itself in the best man’s speech if I get 3 too many Kettle One and tonics.
I think that’s totally acceptable material for a best man’s speech, especially when it’s a loving statement like that. And of course, I’m kidding. I recently helped a buddy of mine craft his best man speech for a friend and he was seriously considering including a line about the bride’s "cans" and seem genuinely surprised when I told him that probably wasn’t a good idea. When I have to teach you about tact, well, that’s not a good sign.
John from Long Island had a doozy:
I’m not normally one to e-mail bloggers, but I read your shit every day, and your most recent post on ex-girlfriends and their demonic, whorish ways has inspired me, to say the least.
I dated a girl for about three years; lost my virginity to her, the whole nine yards. Now, the relationship ended on somewhat of a sour note- I was with another girl, etc. Standard fare for an 19 year old kid. Well, let me tell you, that was a big fucking mistake, to say the least. I had seen my cheating as more of a "staggering drunk, looking-for-any-moist-hole-I-could-find" kind of thing, while she saw it as more of a "personal attack, self esteem decimating, invalidating her very existence as a female" kind of thing. Rational, I know.
So, as these things tend to go, we ended up hooking up for most of the summer, with me thinking I had won her back with my stunning charm and guile (I was certainly still in love with her, and was absolutely positive she was with me.) Ho ho. So late one evening, she calls me up, seemingly a little intoxicated, and as we were talking and flirting, I was trying to plan out the best route to buy condoms and get to her house in the least amount of time. She’s laughing and giggling, being cute and reminding me while I was still in love with her, and I tell her I am leaving in a few minutes and should be over there in ten minutes or so. As I am saying this, I hear the door to her house open, and a male voice say something to her. Pause. She laughs again, with me in mid-sentence, just kind of hanging on the last word of "I’ll be overrr……".
Thoroughly confused, although completely unaware that I am about to be absolutely eviscerated, I ask her "who the fuck is that?" She replies with: "Oh, that’s Mark (my friend who lived four doors down from me since elementary school). I’m going to fuck him now… I gotta go." ::silence:: Me: "you fucking whore." Her: (laughs) "and his penis is MUCH bigger than yours." *click*
Awesome right? So I don’t know how it stacks up in real life, but it seemed like it should be able to hang with your story, and it certainly was the worst female-related moment of my life.
In a follow-up email, he added:
The worst part about the whole ordeal, and part I neglected to actually spell out (I was way too fucking fired up when I was typing it out) was that she actually made the conscious decision to call him, set up the late-night booty call, then call me, knowing that I was ready to stop over. Fucking mind-boggling right?
Yikes. We all know that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, but that is a real stinger right there. But John, I don’t think it’s your fault. Just because your girl misconstrued the point or intention of your cheating doesn’t make you a bad guy - it just makes her crazy.
But Vernon from Chevy Chase, MD takes the cake:
I was having a meal with an ex of mine whom i had dated for 4 years…i broke up with her and was really pretty over her
now before i go further i should mention she NEVER let me have anal sex with her…ever
during lunch she comments she’s seeing a new guy and i’m happy for her and whatnot…she then goes on to mention "and we had anal sex last weekend…i can’t tell you how much i loved it…i never knew how good it could feel to have a dick inside me like that"
Wow. Ok, that stings a little bit. I don’t really know what to say about that, and Vernon end his email "…", so let’s just leave it at that.
(Besides, I’m a little tired today and don’t feel like getting into a big discussion about anal sex. Maybe later, and definitely tonight after a few Red Bull vodka and hours of porno, but not now.)
*************
I had the following conversation with my mom this morning, which I now reproduce verbatim for your reading pleasure.
Mom: "Oh, I forgot to tell you, Aunt Monica almost came up to New York last month for some thing – I think it was near you."
Me: "What thing?"
Mom: "I don’t know…it’s got an Italian-sounding name."
Me: "The San Gennaro Festival?"
Mom: "No, no…I don’t think so. It’s like a street fair or something."
Me: "Are you sure it’s not the San Gennaro Festival? It’s in my neighborhood and it’s a street fair."
Mom: "No, no - it’s more Italian-sounding. What was it…"
Me: [three seconds] "The Festival of San Gennaro?"
Mom: "Yes! That’s it!"
I love my moms.
*************
Yesterday, a buddy from Philly was in NYC for a meeting, so we had lunch. I met him on the corner of my office building, and saw him first walking across the street toward me, decked out in a nice suit, looking all professional. As he got closer, I noticed something else: he had a giant black eye.
Businessman/fighter.
I love my Philly friends.
*************
Six Songs
"Let Me Serenade You" Three Dog Night
Quite simply, this has been my favorite song over the past two weeks. A great piano opening, stellar vocal performance, and a general sappy sweet theme that’s impossible to resist. And of course, since I’m sappy sweet, I’ve been fantasizing about singing this song with my cover band, which I have not started yet but will soon, to my future girlfriend, who I know nothing about now other than she is a) hot, b) Hispanic, c) 23 and d) likes me (I don’t even think I have to write that she has great boobies, as that should be understood). Also she’s (close to) a virgin with no baggage, including but not limited to "my daddy didn’t love me" issues; had cheating/unappreciative/abusive past boyfriend(s); was previously engaged or lived with boyfriend; or was once or is on anti-depressants. And lastly, she does not want to get married any time soon and going into the relationship understands that should I get actually famous, an occasional slip-up in the fidelity department is really not that big of a deal, as it’s hard to resist advances when you’re drunk and in a strange city or at work on a Wednesday morning and you get a naughty IM.
Yes, she and I will be very happy together. Whatever her name is. And all because of a Three Dog Night song. Love is funny, right?
"No One Teaches Life Anything" Dogs Die In Hot Cars
This song makes me think – and it doesn’t even have any words! I don’t know…maybe it’s because it has that baby crying at the end and I have several children of my own who are probably crying right now (fucked if I know for sure, though), but it gets my wheels turning. Not in a bad way, but in a "Let’s appreciate life" type of way. And yes, I realize that this doesn’t make much sense but it’s very hard to write something about a song with no words. So just fucking listen to it yourselves, assholes.
"Do Right Woman, Do Right Man" Aretha Franklin
This may be the most incredible vocal performance I’ve ever heard. So, so smooth. What an amazing set of pipes Ms. Aretha has – and she doesn’t even go crazy in the song, remaining even-keeled throughout. This song randomly came on my iPod a few days ago between some hipster-ass rock songs and it blew me away. Forget those Lower East Side poseurs with their unwashed hair and fuzz boxes – this is music, mother fucker.
"Love Love Love" The Mountain Goats
It’s been awhile since I’ve recommended a Mountain Goats song, so let’s go with this one. What is both so frustrating and so glorious about the Mountain Goats is that they’re songs as so simple (both lyrically and musically) and yet so fucking good. How the fuck do they do that? I write simple songs all the time, keeping my rhymes basic (like you/true, me/be, semen/dreamin’) and my music basicer, but my songs suck.
(Actually, the lyrics of this song are rather unsimple. But I’ve already written the stuff above, so I’m sticking with it.)
"Keep On Running" Spencer Davis Group
Steve Winwood is underappreciated as a rock legend. And I don’t say this in the ironic way because I love his 80′s catalogue (though I do). The guy was in the Spencer Davis Group, Traffic, and Blind Faith (with Eric Clapton); played with Jimi Hendrix on "Electric Ladyland" (including "All Along the Watchtower" and the organ on the live cut of "Voodoo Chile"); and even played organ on Joe Cocker’s "With a Little Help From My Friends." Then he has a half dozen hits in the 80′s, which still hold up and are listenable to today. Great stuff.
Anyway, this song gets my fist pumping. Good shit.
"Us" Regina Spektor
Man, I’d like to marry Regina Spektor. Not only is she hot (the blue eyes/dark hair combination kills me), young, and extremely fucking talented (this song makes me feel so warm and loved inside), but she’s Russian! I took Russian partly out of my love for two things: vodka and Russian woman! And here’s a real-live Russian(-born) woman for me, right in NYC! What are the odds? I’ll finally be able to practice my Russian with someone!
Боже мой, как Ñ Ñ‚ÐµÐ±Ñ Ñ…Ð¾Ñ‡Ñƒ, Regina! СоÑок!
(Bozhe moi, kak ya tibya hochu, Regina! Sosok!)
(My god, how I want you, Regina! Nipple!)
I feel like if I just had the chance, I could charm her in no time with my knowledge of her native tongue. And after seeing my skills, I’m sure you all agree.
[Also, it took me like ten minutes to type out that Russian. I mean, fuck.]
[And of course, we know that regina is the Latin word for "queen," not to be confused with vagina, the Latin word for "sheath". So if you learn anything from me, let it be that vagina means "sheath" in Latin. It's quite a conversation starter at bars and parties.]
[Maybe I could practice my Russian by writing weekly Russian lessons on here. Would you all like to learn incorrect Russian that you only feel comfortable using when very drunk? Not only will you be killing time at work, but you'll slowly (and improperly) be learning one of the most difficult languages on the planet. You're probably thinking, "Jason, are you qualified to teach a few thousand people Russian?" Well, if one semester of Russian two years ago and a few cds and books that I've listened to/read since then doesn't make me qualified, what does? Would you like me to go and live in Russia? Well, I can't. I kinda have some stuff going on here. So we're just going to have to work with what we have, ok?]
*************
Today is Friday, the 13th. It is October. And tonight, my friends and I are going to New Jersey to see Iron Maiden.
(No, I’m not kidding.)
Wish me luck and above all, pray for me. This sound be…interesting.
[Have a good weekend.]
And guess what? The Indian "food" was fucking delicious. I have no idea what it was or what it was made of or whether what it was made of had some sort of disease, but it tasted pretty fucking good. So that’s the first positive.
The second positive was that it was cheap as hell. I don’t mean cheap in the NYC sense, where a turkey sandwich for $9 is considered a good deal. This restaurant served bottles of Amstel Light for $2.50 a pop, and that’s a good deal no matter where you are. There were five us and we ate with abandon and drank seven bottles of wine for $35 a person, including dessert and tip. Wow.
But more than the ugly-looking food or the cheap booze, the dinner was about friends. In particular, it was about getting your female friends drunk so that they can tell you about all the crazy shit they’ve done to guys.
Now I don’t mean this in the sexual sense. For the most part, I have very little interest in what my female friends do with men in the bedroom (or bathroom or stairwell), unless it involves another woman or a picture of me. Because even though I’ll have sex with most tissue boxes, I do have some limits.
The discussion, which took place between myself, Brian, and three girls, revolved around post-relationship jealousy. This is a topic that I am most interested in, since I basically started this blog to make various ex-girlfriends jealous of me. And by "jealous of me" I mean "feel so sorry for me that they take me back so that we can finally make a life together and I promise I’ll be a good husband and if you cheat on me again for the love of God just don’t fucking tell me."
But I don’t really consider myself a jealous person. I’ve written before about this, but to be jealous you have to actually care. And as I get older, I find that I don’t care about a lot of things. I care about sports. And music. And myself. And most of the time my family. And some friends. And I’ve been really into barbeque sauce lately. But crazy ex-girlfriends who probably didn’t like me in the first place? Not so much. Over the past few years I’ve learned about ex-girlfriends getting engaged, getting married, fucking two guys at once – and my response has always been the same: "Eh." And then, "Wait – two guys at once? Kelly? Was one of them my brother? Because I think she’s had something for him for years. The strumpet."
I think there are two main reasons why I am not jealous. The first is (and bear with me) is that I am (or rather, Larry is) pretty fucking awesome. I’ve kinda been on a roll for the past 18 months, transforming myself from "Internet Quasi-Celebrity" to "Internet Quasi-Celebrity Who Talks About Himself All the Time." So when I recently referred to the ex-boyfriend of an ex-girlfriend as a "wigger country bumpkin" and then reminded her that "I’m Jason Fucking Mulgrew," it was not out of jealousy, but rather out of confidence and complete and total security and high self-esteem. It was also this security and high self-esteem that caused me to stab myself in the chest with a lighter after she and I ended our phone conversation. But we’re getting off-topic here…
The second reason why I’m not particularly jealous is that save for very few cases, when my relationship with a woman ends, she is dead to me. I don’t do the whole "Let’s have coffee and catch up" thing, but rather play up the "I guess I’ll see you if any of our mutual friends die" angle. Maybe it stems from my parents divorce or from a lifetime of dealing with a penis the size of a newborn’s, but I have an astounding capacity to hold grudges and completely shut people out of my life for all eternity. Some would say that I should probably talk to a professional about this, but to be honest, I’m kinda proud of this, ranking it just below my ability to sing any Huey Lewis song on my list of favorite things about myself.
So when the girls started talking about what they did to make their ex- or then-current boyfriends jealous, I’d responded to each by saying, "That wouldn’t bother me" or "Whatever" or "Is ‘korma’ the word for ‘semen paste’ in Indian? Because it is delicious!"
But then one of my female friends, who we will call Laura, told a story that blew my fucking brains out.
Laura had recently broken up with her boyfriend, "John", but they still hooked up occasionally. Meanwhile, Laura had begun hooking up with a new guy, "Steve." Steve and Laura were not serious, only making out once in a while, but Steve was very into Laura.
Laura’s ex, John, knew about Steve and Laura. But he didn’t care – or didn’t seem to care – because at least he and Laura were hooking up. Though he had never met Steve before, John knew from Laura that Steve was very into her but she wasn’t too into him.
Then one day Laura learned that John, her ex, had been hooking up with a girl, "Sophie", for some time. Though John was ok with Laura with another guy, Laura was not ok with John with another girl.
And so she confronted him about his new girl and the two had a classic blow out – screaming at each other in his apartment, her throwing things, both of them continuing the screaming on the street outside his apartment. Your typical ginormous couple’s fight.
By this point, both John and Laura were arguing and basically trying to inflict as much emotional pain on each other as possible. Laura was pissed off and tired of arguing and decided to end the argument once and for all. So she reached deep down into herself, set her icy gaze upon her ex-love, and said, "Just so you know, I’m going home tonight and I’m going to fuck Steve. And by the way, he would fuck you up."
…
Well. Um, ok.
I felt like I was in the middle of an episode of "Girlfriends" as Brian and I sat at the table, mouths agape, as the girls drunkenly shrieked in delight and high-fived one another. Finally, I meekly said, "Laura, that’s terrible." To which she replied, "Terrible – or AWESOME?!?" More shrieking. More high-fiving.
I don’t really no what else to say about that remark other than it’s one thing to tell your ex-boyfriend that you’re going home to fuck another guy. It is another thing entirely to add that the guy you’re going to fuck would beat his ass. I mean, just, wow. That is quite a zinger if I’ve ever heard one.
As you might imagine, that shut up John pretty quickly and Laura was free to stomp away with a major victory under her belt. Then she went home and fucked Steve. Who could beat up John. In case you didn’t catch that the first time around.
***
There is no moral or ending to this story (aside from that I should carefully reevaluate my friendship with Laura). If I had comments or a messageboard (which Site Guy Brendan is working on), I’d open this up to y’all and say "top that." And not in the fictional sense, but asking if any former lover has said anything worse to you. You can email me, but I doubt it. That’s quite a doozy.
Personally, even though I mentioned that I’m not a jealous person, that line would probably turn me gay. Brian and I have spent the past few days of thinking of something more painful to hear, but have not been able to come up with anything (again, it has to be realistic; it’d probably hurt more to hear "Your brother’s dick is bigger than yours, but not bigger than your dad’s" but the odds of that actually occurring all small).
But love makes you do crazy things. It was William Shakespeare who said, "Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind; And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind." I’m not sure what this has to do with our discussion – I’m not even really sure what it means at all – but I’ve always liked the way it sounds and wanted to end this post on an erudite note.
…
I don’t think it worked.
That was a pretty complete victory and a true statement game if I ever saw one. That game was about as close to a must-win as they come so early in the season, as 4-1 and a 1.5 game lead in the division is a lot better than 3-2, a half game back, and 0-2 in the division.
Not to mention that is was a good fucking game. After the emotional roller coaster of the last 90 seconds, I just wanted to have sex and then have a big meal (guess which part actually happened?). And yes, the Eagles almost blew it at the end with that pass interference penalty, causing me to have a minor apoplectic seizure and poop myself just a little bit, but when I regained consciousness I realized that we were talking about Drew Bledsoe here (there?). And I was right.
And I could not have asked for a better "homecoming" for TO. Of course, in an ideal world, a Philly fan, probably someone related to me, would have rushed onto the field and punched him in the face. But the media frenzy and Philly-hating that that would have brought down would have been too much. Instead, TO was undisturbed and allowed to do what he does best, which is apparently play football. And the result? Three catches for 45 yards. So good job, TO. You really showed us.
[For the last time, the worst part of the TO saga was that is was entirely unnecessary. People forget that in their first season with TO, the Eagles were 13-1 - including 6-0 in the division and perfect in the conference - before benching everyone in their last two games and losing them. Then they had an easy time in the playoffs before poor clock management and - oh yeah - a dynasty beat them in the Super Bowl by three points. With Donovan McNabb, TO, Brian Westbrook, and that defense, the Eagles had a legitimate shot at becoming a dynasty. Then TO sabotaged just about everything because he's a bitch. So now the Eagles will be just fine with McNabb throwing the best deep ball in the game while TO gets to watch Drew Bledsoe flail around like a goddamn epileptic and throw the football in the air without much rhyme or reason. The good news for TO is the he probably only has one more season of Bledsoe after this one, which means Tony Romo will be throwing to him soon. Of course, by then he'll be 35. You know, if he doesn't kill himself before then. So who knows.]
What I enjoyed most was the incredible disparity between quarterbacks, a difference I can only hope was not lost on Terrell Owens. On the one side, you had Donovan McNabb, looking like a cross between Joe Montana, Jesus, and John Holmes. On the other, Drew Bledsoe. Drew…I mean, wow. I have never seen such a string of poor decisions made by a veteran NFL quarterback in all my years of watching football. I know this is a bold statement, but it is not an overstatement. I give major props to the Birds’ d-line (should I mention now that the Eagles have 23 sacks in five games – first in the league - after having 29 in sixteen games last season?), but some of Drew’s plays, whether holding on to the ball too long and taking bad sacks or making throws ranging from poor to are you fucking serious – were just hard to watch. You know your team whupped the other one when you feel sorry for your opponent’s fans. And I hate the opponent’s fans.
I do have concerns about next week’s Saints game, since I can’t get a read on that team. They’re 4-1 but I don’t know anything about them, aside from Reggie Bush and Reggie Bush and Reggie Bush. And I am concerned that we simply can not run the ball. It’s not a good thing when you’re team can’t get a first down on the ground on 3rd and 3. There is something very unsettling about that, since that means it’s all on your quarterback. McNabb is the MVP of the league right now, but if he has a bad day, the Eagles lose. Plain and simple. And lastly, the Eagles surrendered 146 yards on the ground, but that is forgivable after seven sacks and forcing four turnovers from Bledsoe. The problem has been giving up big pass plays in the secondary, which was obviously fixed in this game. But that doesn’t mean I’m not a little worried about Reggie Bush and Deuce McAllister…
So while we celebrate, let’s not forget: we need these wins. The last six Eagles game are simply not fair: at Indy, Carolina, at Washington, at the Giants, at Dallas, Atlanta. That is incredibly brutal. To go 3-3 in that stretch would be very good. We want this team at no worse than 7-3 going into those games. That means the Birds need to go at least 3-2 at NO, at Tampa, Jacksonville, Washington, Tennessee. So let’s buckle down and take care of business.
So things are alright in Philly this week and I’m much happier than I’ve been in weeks. I had a good weekend, won a little bit of money and generally feel pretty good. My only complaint is that after a rousing session of fingerblasting this weekend I have a cut on the tip of my middle finger that hurts when I type, but all things considered, I’ll take it. Also, I got to work the word "fingerblasting" in this post, which I like, and gave y’all a good excuse for the cut on my finger, which I really got when I was dancing and washing the dishes. Such is life.
The first set of videos come to us from the good people at Cracked. In anticipation of the forthcoming Borat movie, the have assembled a list of the ten best Borat clips. This should take you about an hour to get through and then another fifteen minutes to wash out and let dry your pants after you’ve peed them.
The second video is of a young, driven man, named Aleksay Vayner. Aleksay applied for a job at an i-bank here in NYC and at the end of his resume included a link to a video on his personal website. And it turns out the video…I don’t even have a joke – I’m completely speechless. The bad news is that I don’t think this guy’s going to get that job at UBS. But the good news is that he’ll be the internet’s newest celebrity in the next two days. Enjoy.
If you guys haven’t seen any of these Mark Foley IMs, you’re missing out. While I don’t like to do any real news, as that is for nerds, this is worth it. Below is most of the transcript (it can be found in its entirety here). As I am a cybersex expert, and not so much in the “safety and prevention” way but more in the “hobby and addiction” way, I have provided my comments on Foley’s work.
(Editor’s Note: It might help if you read my commentary in the voice of your favorite sports broadcaster. For some reason, Kirk Herbstreit is in my head, either because he’s fucking gorgeous or because he reminds me of a pederast. But feel free to use whomever you like.)
The teen is in red, Foley is in blue. Remember, this is the actual transcript between Mark Foley and the teen page. And we’re underway…
Xxxxx (7:41:57 PM): ugh tomorrow i have the first day of lacrosse practice
Maf54 (7:42:27 PM): love to watch that
Maf54 (7:42:33 PM): those great legs running
Nice – starting off with something playful and innocuous. Lesser perverts would go right into “cock” or “tell me about your cock” or “take out your cock and rub it on the computer screen” talk, but I like the way Foley starts with the legs, a non-taboo part of the body. And when he does so, notice how it seems to happen organically – all on its own.
Xxxxx (7:42:38 PM): haha…they arent great
Xxxxx (7:42:45 PM): thats why we have conditioning
Xxxxx (7:42:56 PM): 2 days running….3 days lifting
Xxxxx (7:43:11 PM): every week
Xxxxx (7:43:14 PM): until the end of march
Maf54 (7:43:27 PM): well dont ruin my mental picture
Again, notice how Foley stays in control of the conversation, bringing it back home with another playful remark. Foley knows what he wants – teenage boy penis – and he’s going to get it. This is just textbook internet pedophilia.
Xxxxx (7:43:32 PM): oh lol…sorry
Maf54 (7:43:54 PM): nice
Maf54 (7:43:54 PM): youll be way hot then
Xxxxx (7:44:01 PM): haha…hopefully
Maf54 (7:44:22 PM): better be
Maf54 (7:46:01 PM): well I better let you go do oyur thing
Following one of the basic tenets of seduction – that we pursue that which retreats from us - Foley ignores the boner that is no doubt raging in his creepy pants and plays it coy, removing himself from his target. The hope is that the target will only become more interested, but as we’ll see below, this backfires.
Xxxxx (7:46:07 PM): oh ok
Xxxxx (7:46:11 PM): have fun campaigning
Xxxxx (7:46:17 PM): or however you spell it
Xxxxx (7:46:18 PM): lol
Xxxxx (7:46:25 PM): ill see ya in a couple of weeks
Maf54 (7:46:33 PM): did any girl give you a haand job this weekend
Wow – this is a bush league move by Foley. Obviously, the teen did not bite and quickly initiated an end to the conversation. Foley loses his cool and behaves like an amateur, using a shocking remark to get a rise out of his victim (no doubt accidentally typing an extra “a” in “hand” because of the shakes as he’s unable to control his all-consuming need for underage male genitalia in or around his face). This is the ploy of a desperate pederast. Bush league, Foley – bush league.
Xxxxx (7:46:38 PM): lol no
Xxxxx (7:46:40 PM): im single right now
Xxxxx (7:46:57 PM): my last gf and i broke up a few weeks agi
Maf54 (7:47:11 PM): are you
Maf54 (7:47:11 PM): good so your getting horny
Now Foley’s just thinking with his penis and testes. Pressuring this early on the conversation usually only leads to failure. He’s going to get burned. Not a smart call at this juncture of the conversation.
Xxxxx (7:47:29 PM): lol…a bit
Maf54 (7:48:00 PM): did you spank it this weekend yourself
Xxxxx (7:48:04 PM): no
Xxxxx (7:48:16 PM): been too tired and too busy
Maf54 (7:48:33 PM): wow…
Maf54 (7:48:34 PM): i am never to busy haha
Xxxxx (7:48:51 PM): haha
Maf54 (7:50:02 PM): or tired..helps me sleep
Xxxxx (7:50:15 PM): thats true
Xxxxx (7:50:36 PM): havent been having a problem with sleep though.. i just walk in the door and collapse well at least this weekend
Maf54 (7:50:56 PM): i am sure
Xxxxx (7:50:57 PM): i dont do it very often normally though
Maf54 (7:51:11 PM): why not
Maf54 (7:51:22 PM): at your age seems like it would be daily
Xxxxx (7:51:57 PM): not me
Xxxxx (7:52:01 PM): im not a horn dog
Xxxxx (7:52:07 PM): maybe 2 or 3 times a week
Maf54 (7:52:20 PM): thats a good number
Maf54 (7:52:27 PM): in the shower
Xxxxx (7:52:36 PM): actually usually i dont do it in the shower
Xxxxx (7:52:42 PM): just cause i shower in the morning
Xxxxx (7:52:47 PM): and quickly
Maf54 (7:52:50 PM): in the bed
Xxxxx (7:52:59 PM): i get up at 530 and am outta the house by 610
Xxxxx (7:53:03 PM): eh ya
Maf54 (7:53:24 PM): on your back
Xxxxx (7:53:30 PM): no face down
Maf54 (7:53:32 PM): love details
Well, I stand corrected. Obviously, Mark Foley is a cybersex child molester to be reckoned with. His gamble pays off and through a seemingly sincere and yet scientific Q&A session he gets the teen to engage in what feels like an almost normal conversation. Impressive series by the Republican out of Palm Beach Junior College.
Xxxxx (7:53:34 PM): lol
Xxxxx (7:53:36 PM): i see that
Xxxxx (7:53:37 PM): lol
Maf54 (7:53:39 PM): really
Maf54 (7:53:54 PM): do you really do it face down
Xxxxx (7:54:03 PM): ya
Maf54 (7:54:13 PM): kneeling
Xxxxx (7:54:31 PM): well i dont use my hand…i use the bed itself
Maf54 (7:54:31 PM): where do you unload it
Xxxxx (7:54:36 PM): towel
Maf54 (7:54:43 PM): really
Maf54 (7:55:02 PM): completely naked?
Xxxxx (7:55:12 PM): well ya
Maf54 (7:55:21 PM): very nice
Xxxxx (7:55:24 PM): lol
Maf54 (7:55:51 PM): cute butt bouncing in the air
Notice how – watch this – Foley starts turning the conversation a little risqué. Remember, only thirteen minutes ago we were talking about legs – now Foley’s got him talking about his ass flopping around in the midst of an orgasm. You can see that he’s really starting to come on strong and dominating the younger target.
Xxxxx (7:56:00 PM): haha
Xxxxx (7:56:05 PM): well ive never watched myslef
Xxxxx (7:56:08 PM): but ya i guess
Maf54 (7:56:18 PM): i am sure not
Maf54 (7:56:22 PM): hmmm
Maf54 (7:56:30 PM): great visual
Maf54 (7:56:39 PM): i may try that
Xxxxx (7:56:43 PM): it works
Maf54 (7:56:51 PM): hmm
Maf54 (7:56:57 PM): sound inetersting
Maf54 (7:57:05 PM): i always use lotion and the hand
Maf54 (7:57:10 PM): but who knows
This is important: after an entire half of listening to the teen’s masturbatory habits, Foley starts opening up about his own nasty masturbatory habits. He feels like perhaps he’s got the teen riled up and it’s time to introduce him to his own world of illegal, immoral, and forbidden carnal delights.
Xxxxx (7:57:24 PM): i dont use lotion…takes too much time to clean up
Xxxxx (7:57:37 PM): with a towel you can just wipe off….and go
Maf54 (7:57:38 PM): lol
Maf54 (7:57:45 PM): where do you throw the towel
Xxxxx (7:57:48 PM): but you cant work it too hard….or its not good
Xxxxx (7:57:51 PM): in the laundry
Maf54 (7:58:16 PM): just kinda slow rubbing
Xxxxx (7:58:23 PM): ya….
Xxxxx (7:58:32 PM): or youll rub yourslef raw
Maf54 (7:58:37 PM): well I have aa totally stiff wood now
He raises his level of play right here, elevating the stakes by admitting his own erection. He’s hitting on all cylinders now. It’s Foley Time!
Xxxxx (7:58:40 PM): cause the towell isnt very soft
Maf54 (7:58:44 PM): i bet..taht would hurt
Xxxxx (7:58:50 PM): but you cn find something softer than a towell i guess
Maf54 (7:58:59 PM): but it must feel great spirting on the towel
Xxxxx (7:59:06 PM): ya
Maf54 (7:59:29 PM): wow
Maf54 (7:59:48 PM): is your little guy limp…or growing
Foley is moving in for the kill here. You can almost see him sitting at his desk in the Holiday Inn, slumped over his laptop and breathing heavily, one hand rubbing his old balls and the other working the keyboard.
Xxxxx (7:59:54 PM): eh growing
Maf54 (8:00:00 PM): hmm
Maf54 (8:00:12 PM): so you got a stiff one now
Xxxxx (8:00:19 PM): not that fast
Xxxxx (8:00:20 PM): hey
Xxxxx (8:00:32 PM): so you have a fetich
Maf54 (8:00:32 PM): hey what
Xxxxx (8:00:40 PM): fetish**
Maf54 (8:00:43 PM): like
Maf54 (8:00:53 PM): i like steamroom
Maf54 (8:01:04 PM): whats yours
Quickly turning back the conversation to himself, Foley again is trying to engage the teen, inviting into his world of nasty sexual fantasies, mostly involving young boys. Then, in a quid pro quo moment, Foley asks the teen what his fantasy is. Again, textbook pedophilia. This is real a statement seduction for Foley.
Xxxxx (8:01:09 PM): its kinda weird
Xxxxx (8:01:14 PM): lol
Maf54 (8:01:21 PM): i am hard as a rock..so tell me when your reaches rock
Xxxxx (8:01:23 PM): i have a cast fetish
Maf54 (8:01:27 PM): well tell me
Maf54 (8:01:32 PM): cast
Xxxxx (8:01:44 PM): ya like…plaster cast
Maf54 (8:01:49 PM): ok..so what happens
Maf54 (8:01:58 PM): how does that turn you in
Xxxxx (8:02:02 PM): i dont know
Xxxxx (8:02:04 PM): it just does
Xxxxx (8:02:08 PM): ive never had one
Xxxxx (8:02:16 PM): but people that have them turn me on
Xxxxx (8:02:27 PM): and if i had one it would probably turn me on
Xxxxx (8:02:29 PM): beats me
Xxxxx (8:02:32 PM): its kinda weird
Xxxxx (8:02:50 PM): but along with that i like the whole catholic girl look….thats our schools uniform
Maf54 (8:03:02 PM): ha thats wild
Xxxxx (8:03:14 PM): ya but now im hard
Maf54 (8:03:32 PM): me 2
Maf54 (8:03:42 PM): cast got you going
Maf54 (8:03:47 PM): what you wearing
Foley allows the teen to rile himself up with his own fantasy [Editor's Note: a cast? WTF?], but again, stays in control, bringing it back to the here and now. Foley is dominating the possession in this conversation and it’s having great results so far. It seems like this is all but over, and in no time Foley will be wiping the semen from his Dockers.
Xxxxx (8:04:04 PM): normal clothes
Xxxxx (8:04:09 PM): tshirt and shorts
Maf54 (8:04:17 PM): um so a big buldge
Xxxxx (8:04:35 PM): ya
Maf54 (8:04:45 PM): um
Maf54 (8:04:58 PM): love to slip them off of you
Xxxxx (8:05:08 PM): haha
Maf54 (8:05:53 PM): and gram the one eyed snake
Maf54 (8:06:13 PM): grab
Xxxxx (8:06:53 PM): not tonight…dont get to excited
This is where champions separate themselves. The teen is obviously reluctant to masturbate for the 52 year old from Newton, Massachusetts, but Foley, realizing he has momentum, changes tact.
Maf54 (8:07:12 PM): well your hard
Xxxxx (8:07:45 PM): that is true
Maf54 (8:08:03 PM): and a little horny
Xxxxx (8:08:11 PM): and also tru
Maf54 (8:08:31 PM): get a ruler and measure it for me
A nice compromise – Foley is not able to get what he wants right now, so he changes direction but maintains momentum. That’s a veteran play for you right there. This is where Foley’s years as co-chair on the House Caucus of Missing and Exploited Children really come into play.
Xxxxx (8:08:38 PM): ive already told you that
Maf54 (8:08:47 PM): tell me again
Xxxxx (8:08:49 PM): 7 and 1/2
Maf54 (8:09:04 PM): ummmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
Maf54 (8:09:08 PM): beautiful
Xxxxx (8:09:38 PM): lol
Maf54 (8:09:44 PM): thats a great size
Xxxxx (8:10:00 PM): thank you
Maf54 (8:10:22 PM): still stiff
Xxxxx (8:10:28 PM): ya
Maf54 (8:10:40 PM): take it out
Xxxxx (8:10:54 PM): brb…my mom is yelling
OH NO! An appearance by the mom and the drive crashes and burns! It is all over for Foley! It is all over for Foley! What an upset!
**********
You can imagine where it goes from here – the momentum gone, the teen says he has to finish his homework and logs off after his mom acts as a sort of deus ex machina and inadvertently saves her child from the long, greasy tentacles of a pervert.
That being said, Foley is pretty fucking legit. I’ve been around cybersex since almost the beginning – 1996 – and this guy certainly knows what he’s doing. The main thing that impressed me most was the control of the conversation. The whole time we know that Foley is in control, but he manipulates the teen in such a way that he feels comfortable, even offering up information without being asked. The biggest difficulty one faces when trying to get a stranger to have an orgasm over a computer is that reluctance, that shyness. But because Foley was so impressive, there doesn’t seem to be any reluctance on the part of the teen. While I’m not in the “if” business, it seems to me that if the teen’s mom had not intervened, there would have been so mutual masturbation session within the next ten minutes.
That being said, it’s not about “if’s” but about results. Any way you cut it, Foley failed. I can only imagine that after this took place, Foley logged off and took out his frustrations on the hotel staff at the Pensacola Holiday Inn, possibly complaining about the lack of fresh towels or the poor reception on his television and maybe even throwing something at one of the Dominican maids. But again, who knows.
Mark Foley is a legitimate cybersex manipulator and pedophile. Not one of the best, since, you know, he got caught, disgraced himself and his party, and will probably commit suicide in the next week or so, but a contender nonetheless. And personally speaking, while I don’t condone his actions (as I limited my cybersex activity strictly to overweight black women who are of age), I fully support anything that might potentially harm the Republican party. And for this, Mark Foley, I thank you. And I will see you in hell.
Glen in NYC wrote in about my projected Top 25 for fantasy baseball next year, which admittedly probably has some holes. But not this one:
how did you leave roy halladay out of your top 25 roto players for next year???? after santana he’s probably the number 2 pitcher.
Oh Glen, you poor, misguided son of a bitch. While Halladay is a good pitcher, he is certainly not the number two guy. Hell, he might not even crack my top ten of starting pitchers.
There is one simple reason for this: Roy Halladay doesn’t strike anyone out.
Few roto baseball players realize that having a pitcher on your team with a low K/9 rate actually hurts your team. To prove this, let’s take one of my leagues from this year. Each of the eleven teams maxed out their allotted 1400 innings. The person who "won" strikeouts, getting 11 points in that category, finished the year 1242 strikeouts. That’s an eyelash under 8 K/9. The person in the middle (earning a 6) averaged 6.9 K/9 and the person in last (getting a 1) averaged 6 K/9.
Roy Halladay threw 220 innings and struck out only 132. That’s only 5.4 K/9, well under the average for a typical last place finisher in strikeouts in any roto league. So if you draft Halladay, you’re putting yourself in the red for K’s. And as he will likely be your first pitcher taken, you will need to subsequently draft many high K guys, which might be difficult, as these guys typically go off the board faster than other pitchers. And if you pick up another low K guy - Wang (3.13 K/9), Garland (4.77 K/9) and Kenny Rogers (4.36 K/9) all finished in the top three in the major leagues in wins, but were downright embarrassing in the K department – you’re basically submarining your team and guaranteeing a finish in the bottom three in strikeouts.
So while Halladay may have 15+ wins and low peripherals, his low strikeout rate – combined with his potential health issues (pitched only 133 and 144 innings the previous two years) - kept him out of my top 25.
(FYI: Halladay’s career K/9 rate is 6.34. Better than this previous year’s, but still not very good. Also, this can be viewed a bit skeptically. In 2005, Halladay pitched 141 innings and struck out a respectable 108, good for very nice rate of 6.9 K/9. However, Halladay was shut down in the second half of the year due to injury. The second half of the year is typically when pitchers start to lose gas and thus strike less people out. If Halladay continued to pitch the second half, his K/9 rate would have almost certainly come down a bit.)
Nate from Longview, Washington, who I correspond with so much we’re practically dating, wrote in to take umbrage with my comment that Donovan McNabb is the MVP of the league right now.
mcnabb doesn’t = mvp.
Peyton Manning is having a way better season. And to think I could have had him in my fantasy draft but took LJ. WTF?
This one is easier to debunk, because Manning is not only having a "way better" season than McNabb, he’s having a worse season.
Numbers are numbers, folks. Here’s how the two stack up in major statistical categories, with NFL rank in parentheses:
| P. Manning | D. McNabb | |
| QB Rating | 97.7 (6) | 106.0 (3) |
| Yards | 1112 (2) | 1248 (1) |
| Yards/Game | 278 (3) | 312 (1) |
| TD | 6 (t-4) | 9 (1) |
| Int | 1 (t-2) | 1 (t-2) |
| Total TD | 8 (t-2) | 11 (1) |
McNabb trumps Peyton in every category, even if he is 6’5" with a laser rocket for an arm. The only QBs with higher ratings than McNabb are David Carr and Damon Huard and I don’t see those guys winning the MVP anytime soon. A case could be made for Rex Grossman as MVP, but the Bears defense is giving up 7 points per game. Take Rex out of Chicago and they’re still a good team; without any statistical analysis, I’d say Grossman is good for +/- 3 wins. Take McNabb off the Eagles and, well, we know how well that worked out last year.
As it stands right now, Donovan McNabb is my pick for the NFL MVP. Now let’s hope he holds on, for my sake and the sake of Philly fans everywhere. Because, and I think I speak for all of us, we’re just totally fucking sick of it.
(And Nate, I think that LJ pick will work out fine.)
Have a sports or fantasy question? Email me at jason@jasonmulgrew.com and I will dominate you. Be sure to include your name and location.
I am mired in a tremendous creative funk right now. I hesitate to use the word "creative" because there’s not much creative about:
Me: "…and then this is when he shits himself."
Person with whom I am working on projects: "Yeah, yeah – I like the shitting, but I think we can do more with it."
Me: "For example?"
Person: "Like maybe he can shit himself while running?"
Me: "Oh – I like that. But I don’t see him as a character who runs a lot. Maybe he shits himself while sleeping. What do you think?"
Person: "Now we’re getting somewhere. Because it’s like, he shits the bed metaphorically and physically, you know?"
Me: "I didn’t even think of that but it’s fucking brilliant."
[Me and Person high five]
Me: "Shitting is funny."
Person: "Yeah."
[silence for four seconds]
Me: "I’m so lonely."
Person: "Don’t start on that again."
But it’s true – I’m stuck. No posts are coming, the monthly email is stalled at 89% complete (no, it hasn’t gone out yet), my other stuff is suffering. If I were a pitcher, announcers would be wondering why my curveball is suddenly hanging over the plate and why my body language screams "I think I may have knocked up the babysitter." I mean, hey – it happens. And the only thing you can really do is get drunk off cheap white wine and look at every picture of Elisha Cuthbert that Google Images has to offer while listening to Herb Alpert’s "This Guy’s In Love With You" forty times on repeat. Most doctors would agree that this is the best way to get over writer’s block, but it hasn’t helped me yet.
In the meantime, I realize that you jerks (said as lovingly as possible) need to be entertained. But again, I haven’t the faintest idea what to entertain you with, so it’s time we go back to one of my old stand-bys: sports.
[50% of readers collectively groan]
The baseball season is over, which means it’s time to recap my fantasy baseball teams’ performances and make predictions for the playoffs. And yes, I will leave out the part about how as soon as I mentioned the Phillies they decided to suck some ass. Nor will I mention that whole thing about how I said Ryan Howard would be a fantasy bust this year. So let’s just move on.
But first, last night’s game.
The Iggles
Look, I’m happy that the Birds are 3-1. Really, I am. Sure, I’d be happier if they were 4-0, but let’s not go there.
And there are many positives to take away from last night’s game. Donovan McNabb is the MVP of the league right now (even though he had the yips early on and was throwing at receivers’ feet again). The defense did not allow a touchdown, including an impressive goal line stand at the end of the game. The offense put up 31 points, even though it lost two fumbles inside the opponent’s 5.
But I have serious concerns about this team.
1) The secondary. I don’t know what kind of game plan the secondary is operating under, but the "Let’s give everyone a five yard cushion" m.o. is probably not going to hold up for very long (like, for example, next week). I know Lito and Rod Hood are out, but they have to tighten the fuck up and stop allowing these lazy 15 yard pass plays that look like I could both throw and catch them. Because one of these days, good receivers are going to bury them (like, for example, next week).
2) The injuries. Westbrook, Stallworth, Reggie Brown, Jevon Kearse, Lito Sheppard, and Rod Hood are all nursing injuries. That’s the starting running back, the top two receivers, the All-Pro defensive end, the starting cornerback, and the nickel back. Here’s to quick healing. If TO can come back from a broken finger AND a suicide attempt and catch five balls for 88 yards, let’s hope the swelling in Westbrook’s knee goes down.
3) The terrible clock management. Hey Andy, good call at the half there. Let the clock go down to one second, fake a 50-something yard field goal, complete a 12 yard pass. That made a lot of sense. Much more than, say, calling a timeout with 12 seconds left, faking the field goal, then having enough time for either a shot at the end zone or a closer field goal. A minor point in a 22 point win, but this team is prone to these types of clock management brain farts (See: Super Bowl XXXIX) and it’s going to catch up with them in the future at some point.
4) Both mine and my father’s main complaint about the Eagles over the past six years is that they have absolutely zero killer instinct. From the QB on down, this has been a team of nice guys. The best thing that TO brought to them was a nastiness, which was unfortunately negated by his own selfishness.
This is a team that doesn’t know how to dominate. One of the main rules of competition is that one should destroy his/her enemy completely. If you allow your adversary even the slightest opening, they may capitalize, rise up, and destroy you.
All season long, the Eagles look like a one-half football team. In each of their four games, they’ve played well in two, maybe three quarters, before getting lazy, being slow, even looking lost.
Remember, the Texans, 49ers, and Packers are three of the worst seven teams in the NFL. So while we Eagles fans should be happy with 3-1, let’s not buy too into our own hype. This Dallas game will tell us what kind of team this is. If the Eagles play against Dallas the way they’ve played against the Texans, Niners, Giants, and Packers, they will lose. Handily.
Now let’s stop talking about this before I punch my fucking computer.
Fantasy Sports
I begrudgingly did four fantasy baseball leagues this year. Now, I usually do four – my Iron Sheik league, which I’m the commissioner of; my buddy Kyle’s league, which I win every year and is basically a free $500; a keeper league with my buddy John, who is so addicted to fantasy sports that he might require an intervention; and a random public league – but this year I wanted to drop the public league and just do three. However at the last minute I picked up a team in a friend’s keeper league, as the previous owner backed out. It was a mistake and I probably won’t do it again (what kind of keeper league doesn’t allow for trades of draft picks?), especially because it’s a strange points league, unlike rotisserie scoring (which I prefer) or head-to-head (which I tolerate). I don’t feel bad about leaving however, since I’m leaving the next owner with four decent keepers (Mauer, Wright, Cabrera, and Tejada). So it could be worse.
I won’t go into too much detail, as it would even bore me and I can talk about this stuff all day long, but I finished all across the board: 8th in my main league (finished 2nd last year), 1st in my buddy Kyle’s league (third year in a row I’ve won), 2nd in the keeper league with my buddy John (finished 1st last year), and 9th in the keeper league that I joined at the last minute. Aside from the embarrassing 8th place finish in my main league – thank you Jake Peavy, Felix "Not Really the King" Hernandez, and Vlad "When Will People Realize I’m Not Worth the Third Overall Pick?" Guerrero - not too shabby and good for a couple of hondos, which Uncle Jason really needs right now.
Instead of reviewing my fantasy preview from before the season or getting too into too many of my teams, I instead will rank the top 25 players for next year. Because, as I mentioned, I got nothing for you right now.
1) Albert Pujols 1B
2) Alfonso Soriano OF
3) Ryan Howard 1B
4) Jose Reyes SS
5) Johan Santana SP
6) Alex Rodriguez 3B
7) David Ortiz 1B
8) Vlad Guerrero OF
9) Francisco Liriano SP
10) Miguel Cabrera 3B
11) Travis Hafner DH
12) David Wright 3B
13) Carlos Beltran OF
14) Lance Berkman 1B/OF
15) Chase Utley 2B
16) Grady Sizemore OF
17) Justin Morneau 1B
18) Manny Ramirez OF
19) Bobby Abreu OF
20) Chris Carpenter SP
21) Brandon Webb SP
22) Carlos Zambrano SP
23) Roy Oswalt SP
24) Derek Jeter SS
25) Derek Lee 1B
[And I want to clear up the Ryan Howard thing: I thought Ryan Howard would be a bust based on where he was being drafted, which was about the 4th round. Knowing that he hit .148 against lefties the previous season, I rationalized that one could take a guy like Jim Thome several rounds later and get similar numbers. Of course, Howard went on to have an MVP-like season, but I never thought he'd be bad. I just thought he was going too high. And I was wrong. But I got Jim Thome and Jason Giambi in rounds 11 and 12 respectively in two of my drafts and turned my 8th round pick Todd Helton into a package for Manny Ramirez (after getting Lance Berkman in a trade) so it all worked out for me.]
Playoff Predictions
I can not accurately express how much I love the fall, even though I have tried several times here. The oppressive heat and humidity of a summer in Chilita is giving way to cool breezes and longer nights; the NFL is in full swing, soon to be joined by the NBA and the NHL; and of course, there are the baseball playoffs.
Just to let you all know up front, I plan on doing something a little different this year and picking the playoffs perfectly. In years past, I’d throw in one or two incorrect predictions just to throw you all off the scent, but this year that is not the case. Every series, perfect. Mark it down.
(I know it’s a little cocky, but this past week I guaranteed a victory for one of my fantasy football teams, which was previously 0-3, and they responded with a 125 point performance that dwarfed the other team’s 80 points. So I’m on a roll.)
NATIONAL LEAGUE
What a fucking mess. Good god. I don’t even feel like writing this preview. The Mets, sans Pedro, are not exactly fear-inducing after going 14-15 in September; I could hit fifth for the Padres and have been asked to do so but have too much on my plate right now; St. Louis had an almost historic collapse (and I could start an NLDS game, probably Game 3, for them) and the Dodgers, well, Larry likes the Dodgers a lil’ bit.
NLDS
St. Louis vs. San Diego
I don’t even want to talk about this series. Calling Jake Peavy and Chris Young a "one-two punch" is like calling the Titan’s Travis Henry, Chris Brown and Lendale White a "three-headed monster." But fortunately, the only offensive player for the Cardinals who could start for a middle of the road AL team, aside from The Non-MVP Albert Pujols, is Scott Rolen – and that really depends on the team. After falling into the playoffs, there’s no way I can pick them, even though I think Peavy gets lit again in Game 1.
Pick: Padres in four
Los Angeles vs. New York
LA has a big pitching advantage; I’ll take Lowe, Penny, and Maddux over El Duque, Glavine, and Trachsel any day of the week in a five game series. While New York has those big boppers in the lineup – Reyes, Wright, Beltran, and Delgado are downright terrifying. But is it inconceivable that guys like Nomar, Furcal, JD Drew, and Jeff Kent can’t pull it together for a bit and do some damage (I can’t believe I am writing this sentence)? I’m an admitted stathead and the fact that LA has one guy with over 100 runs (Furcal – 113) and one guy with 100 RBIs (Drew – 100) and their team lead for home runs is 20 (Drew and Nomar) is not something that you’d want to dwell on as a Dodger fan, but I think LA has some moxie and the momentum. Also, Met fans are rivaling Sox fans with their bragging and it’s really annoying the fuck out of me.
Pick: Dodgers in five
NLCS
Los Angeles vs. San Diego
In a way, I hope I’m incorrect about this, since if this is the NLCS I won’t watch a single game (instead, I’ll be masturbating over a picture of Ryan Howard and crying). But hey, someone from the NL has got to get swept in the World Series. My pick? The Dodgers of Los Angeles.
I know that the Padres went something like 13-5 against the Dodgers in the regular season, but I’m telling you, I have a feeling about this LA team. Aside from a 40-homer threat, they have no discernible weakness. Offensively, they have woken up in September and have been hitting the hell out of the ball. They have three very good starters and depth in the bullpen. Their defense might be a little suspect at times, but I’m willing to let that slide because I’m feeling them.
The Padres, they, how do you say – don’t do anything for me. It’s possible that Peavy, who’s been very good as of late, turns into a force, and Chris Young (freakish physical stat: he’s 6’10") and David Wells (freakish physical stat: he’s 340 pounds) pitch well enough for guys like Adrian Gonzalez and Brian Giles (yikes!) to get it going, but I don’t see it happening. And you can’t enjoy a great bullpen without any lead for it to protect. So I’m going with the Dodgers.
Pick: Dodgers in six
AMERICAN LEAGUE
Now this is more like it. Teams loaded with talent on both sides of the ball doing battle. While I might watch 25% of the NL playoffs, I’m going to try to catch all of the AL games (and I’m an NL guy).
ALDS
Oakland vs. Minnesota
So, let me get this straight: the A’s are going to have a 16 game winner coming out of the bullpen and have a major secret weapon in Rich Harden, while the Twins have the hands-down best pitcher in baseball and all the spunk you could ask for. This is going to be a good one.
This is, in my estimation, the formula for succession in the playoffs: LOSPBPTOMM. Obviously, that stands for Lights Out Starting Pitcher, Bullpen Depth, Tough Outs, and Momentum/Moxie.
The Twins, I think, have all of the above. Johan Santana is by far the best pitcher in the playoffs, the one guy capable of shutting down a team. After him, the dynamite Minnesota bullpen (Rincon, Craine, Reyes, Nathan) can protect any lead after the 6th. The foursome of Mauer, Morneau, Hunter, and Cuddyer (who’s had the quietest 102-24-109 season in recent memory) are all dangerous hitters. And of course, the momentum. The Twins finished the season 71-33. That’s fucking momentum.
How to beat the A’s: Don’t let Frank Thomas do anything. That is all.
Pick: Twins in four
Detroit vs. New York
Do I really need to explain this one? Detroit was in first place from the middle of May until the last day of the season, limping into the playoffs. The starters are completely burnt out, their bats swing at everything, and their closer has a fu manchu. The Yankees have All Stars at every position and the greatest playoff closer - possibly pitcher – of all time.
Pick: Yanks in three
ALCS
Minnesota vs. New York
Remember all that good stuff I said about Minnesota before? Well, it doesn’t matter here. I don’t mean to shy away from critical analysis (although this post has gotten much longer than I anticipated and I’m nursing a small hangover from last night and the playoffs start in less than ten minutes), but I can’t see the Yankees losing under any circumstances. Maybe this is the kiss of death, but that lineup…it just hurts my heart to see it. It just hurts my heart.
Pick: Yanks in five
WORLD SERIES
Los Angeles vs. New York
I like the whole "East Coast-West Coast" dynamic, but this is going to be a bloodletting. Again, no way the Yanks can lose.
Pick: Yanks in four
*************
Even though we now know the outcome, the playoffs are going to be a fun ride. I’m personally rooting for a Mets-Yanks Series, just so I can be in a city that wins a championship for once in my life, but of course, that’s not going to happen. In the meantime, sit back, relax, and let’s enjoy some fall baseball. It’s the most wonderful time of the year. Aside from whenever I make out. Those are generally good times of the year. Generally.
Called me old-fashioned, but I like it when people get married in a church. Aside from being pretty (we Irish Catholics like our churches colorful), it makes things feel a lot more…official. If you’re getting married in a hall it doesn’t feel as big a deal as if there’s a five-foot crucifix staring down on you, you know? This wedding involved a full mass, which, in my hungover state, was not the best news of the day. And there was an ever more religious/rigorous twist that was new to me: at one point when the marriage was being blessed, the priest asked everyone to raise their hands in the air (no, he did not add “and wave ’em like you just don’t care”) while he read from the Bible or something. Fair enough. So I, like everyone else, complied. But then he kept reading and blessing. Reading and blessing. Reading and blessing. On and on. Etc, etc, etc.I was surprised at how difficult it is to hold your arms in the air for an extended period of time. I was really, really hurting. And it wasn’t just me either, which would have been understandable, since I was the only one there that had been out all night the previous night. Soon my buddies Mark and Dan, who were standing next to me, were making snide remarks about how much their arms were hurting. And then the three of us nearly lost it, holding back laughter that started with a small chuckle but soon threatened to erupt and alert the whole church. Tears started coming from my eyes as Meg began hitting me, saying, “Hold it together! Hold it together!” which of course only made it worse. Things only got better when we lowered our arms and applauded, as the couple was officially married. But boy that was a good – and dangerous – laugh. And my arms are still hurting.Directions…overrated
The wedding was at 2. The reception started at 7. We had time to kill after the mass. So a bunch of us went to the Bronx‘s Little Italy and got pastries and sandwiches. Which was lovely. After a little over an hour, Meg and I got a ride to the hotel with my friends Bob and Nydia. They had flown in from Milwaukee and stayed at the hotel the previous night, telling us it was about 40 minutes from the Bronx. Off we went.Over two hours later, after seeing more of Long Island than I ever wished to see and saying, “Bob, I swear to God if you don’t find this hotel soon I’m going to throw up/piss myself/shit myself” at least ten times, we finally rolled up to the hotel. Though we used the directions that were provided us, either they didn’t work or Bob is an idiot (the jury is still out, but I thought Bob followed the directions pretty well). My only comfort, all afternoon long, was that there was a nice long break between the wedding and the reception, time that I could use to rest up at the hotel and get over my hangover. Instead, by the time we got back to the hotel, we had less than an hour before the shuttle buses started leaving for the reception. Uncle Jason was in much pain at this time. But…Sweet suite upgrade
My buddy Mark had booked a room at the hotel weeks prior only to get a call a few days before the wedding saying that they actually didn’t have a room for him. So when I gave my name at the hotel reception desk and there was a long, drawn-out silence from the employee behind the counter, I was physically preparing myself for a heart attack (“Well, I’ve heard they start slowly, so when I first get that shooting pain down my left arm when she tells me there’s no room I’ll head for that couch over there…”). Just as I was on the brink of tears, the hotel employee left out a hefty sigh and said one of the finest sentences in the English language: “We’re going to have to upgrade you.” I immediately got an erection but let out my calmest, “Oh, ok.” The hotel room was, simply put, one of the pimpest things I’ve ever seen. And keep in mind that I’m a bit of a hotel connoisseur – I’ve stayed at some swanky hotels in NYC (the Waldorf Astoria, Soho Grand, and Dream Hotel, to name a few) and always travel in style, because that’s just how Larry Awesome rolls. But this lovely lil’ hotel in Garden City, Long Island gave me a room with a separate bedroom and living room and a bar area (!), not to mention a bathroom the size of my whole apartment. Totally fucking awesome. Sadly though, I was unable to capitalize on the room, since Meg has about as much romantic interest in me as she does in a glass of tomato juice (can’t say I blame her here). Now the two smoothest things that have ever befallen me have been while I was with Meg, who has repeatedly stated – three times on the night of the wedding alone – that nothing will ever happen between us, no matter how many hits my blog gets this month. Such is life.[The other was a time many years ago when Meg and I went to dinner. After the meal, I tipped the waiter so well that he came back to our table and said, "Sir, because you have been so generous, I would like to buy you and your lady a drink." Wow - I felt like Tom Fucking Selleck. I mean, ladies, can you imagine if that happened when you were on a date with a guy? Would you not immediately began fellating him or at least maybe start rubbing up on him under the table? But the bad thing is that since that dinner about four years ago I have been egregiously over-tipping waiters on dates in the hope of recreating that moment. I've even done so at the same restaurant but never have I and my date been bought back a drink. So I've been basically throwing hundreds of dollars away in tips since that dinner. The lesson? I lose. Back to the wedding...] JFK…
I spent all night - in the hotel lobby, in the shuttle bus, at the cocktail hour, in the reception hall, at the hotel bar - telling everyone within earshot that I looked like a young JFK. At first, people laughed me off. But it got old very quickly to them. This only made it funnier to me, so I continued to ask everyone who they thought was better-looking: me or JFK. When they said JFK, I’d say – “Wrong – we look exactly the same!” This delighted me all evening. All evening long. And yes, ladies, again, I am single. …GOULET!
[It's a real shame that the only Will Ferrell as Robert Goulet clip they have on YouTube is this one, but I'm hoping that most of you people are familiar with the skit. If not, you might not get this next part of the post. Sorry.] [And for those tech-savvy people out there, let's get more Goulet clips up. Specifically, "Red Ships of Spain" is one of the funniest skits I've ever seen on SNL. Please help.]The bride’s sister is a tremendously gifted singer who sang throughout the mass and blew the fucking doors off the church. She really has a great set of pipes on her and I thought it was a nice touch to the wedding. At the cocktail hour, the sister and her, um, boyfriend, also a tremendous singer, sang a little song to the bride and groom. It was an original piece, written about Greg and Lisa (how they met, welcome to the family, etc) and was even accompanied by the piano. The sister and her (cough!) boyfriend sang it to Greg and Lisa in the reception room in front of all the guests.And maybe because my friends and I think it’s uncomfortable to watch another man sing show tune-style to anyone, let alone another man, well, maybe my friends and I made jokes all night long that perhaps, maybe, called into question the sexual orientation of the gentleman. And perhaps we did this by acting like Will Ferrell’s impression of Robert Goulet, singing lines like, “I kissed a maaaaaan in the parking lot two days ago/I believe he was from Afffffffrica!” and “I can never help myselfffff/When a penis is arooooound/I enjoy it like a donkeeeey enjoys the summer breeeeeeze!” and “After the wedddding/I’m meeting a man from the internnnnnet/I hope he has a beard/Nothing like the feeeel of hair on face – haaaaair on faaaaace!” You get the idea. [I actually have no idea if it was her boyfriend or just a friend. And I realize that both Greg and Lisa may never talk to me again because of this. But I'm not saying it happened. It might have, it might not have. I was very drunk and preoccupied with looking like JFK.]Dancing not so much like a machine
I like to dance at weddings - I really do. The only wedding I did not dance at recently was my buddy Steve’s in June, and that’s because as best man I was dressed like Don Johnson and wearing sandals that I had trouble walking in, let alone dancing in (and yes, I realize how much that statement makes me sound like a woman – screw you for judging me). But in order to dance, I, like most everyone else, need to get drunk first. A few beers makes you better just about anything – sex, darts, being able to shit in bar bathrooms, etc. Dancing is no exception. There’s no way I can get up and dance sober, when I can still hear people whispering, “Wow – that guy is really sweaty” and “Honey, he’s the guy I told you about – the one who made the bet on the shuttle about sticking his whole hand in his ass.”From the moment that Meg and I sat down at the table, she started pestering me about dancing (“When are we going to start dancing?”, “Are you ready to start dancing?”, “Stop hiding in the bathroom and let’s dance”, “Please stop telling everyone that we’re dating”, etc). This constant barrage of questions did not make me want to dance. In fact, quite the opposite. Being asked when you’re going to start dancing is much like being asked when you’re going to have an orgasm during sex – it tenses you up, takes you out of the game, and quite possibly ruins the whole experience. [Seriously ladies - I know that guys should never ask a woman about when she's about to have an orgasm, and not just because the whole "women having orgasms" thing is more than likely a myth anyway, but it works both ways. While I respect any lady's effort to porn it up a bit and ask about my forthcoming ejaculation, sometimes Uncle Jason has had a little too much to drink and is just trying to bring it on home so that you and him can both finally go to bed. So ask, but do so in moderation and don't keep bringing it up (no pun intended). Or else it'll all go away and then there's me, angrily eating a sandwich half-drunk at 5:30am, watching "Sportscenter" and throwing empty beer cans at my useless, flaccid penis. Not a good look for me.] [...] [Not really sure how I can segue back into the post after that non-sequiter, but let's just try.]So the night became a battle of wills between Meg and I: her pestering me about dancing, me not dancing. However, weak as I am, I finally gave in in the last hour (maybe even the last half hour) and headed out to the dance floor, where I looked like 200 pounds of sex in a suit (read: a 200 pound bag of cement being shot by a bb gun). And yes, Meg and I were the only people drinking on the dancefloor, further raising our class level. But no matter. The lesson here: when filled with alcohol and badgered by the pleas of a woman, I am useless. If Meg had bothered me enough, I probably would have started a fire in the hotel’s business center after drinking that much. [By the way, I'm listening to Mel Torme right now. Are there any 27 year-olds out there who enjoy The Velvet Fog's rendition of "The Midnight Sun" as much as I do or should I just retire to The Catskills already?]Drinking hogs
The night ended like so many of my nights have ended recently: at a hotel bar in Long Island buying all the Miller Lites I could afford before the bartender closed down shop. At the end of the evening if one looked around our table, he or she would have seen ten people forcing down the last sips of their beers, while Meg and I hoarded four full beers each in front of us, gloriously dripping with perspiration. Eventually, we were guilted into giving some away. And then I fell asleep at the table. Actually, I’m not sure which happened first. Whatever. ************ And so that was the wedding. A lovely time with good food (by the way, the food was delicious), lots of booze, and great friends - a perfect evening. It’s getting to the point where I love weddings so much that I might have to have one for myself just to fill the void in my heart when I don’t attend any for some time. So you ladies keep working out, looking good, and sending those pictures in, and I’ll keep not going to the gym and eating lots of baked ziti. Because we’ll have to learn early on that marriage is not 50/50. I mean, c’mon. Only suckers actually believe that.
I put up the TO post about ten minutes ago and I’ve already gotten four calls from my friends calling me a "pig" and asking me "what kind of person [am I]?"
So in order to stop the deluge of emails that would inevitably follow after I wished death upon TO, I suppose that I don’t want him to die (and by the way, I never said I did). But I hate him as much as I hate any other living human being, so I wish him maximum harm. But I’m [said through clenched teeth] not happy that he tried to kill himself. Suicide and death are very real and very not cool. I’m happy that he’s alive and didn’t succeed in his suicide attempt.
Ok? Are we all clear on this? I’ll get you a nice, non-vindictive post by the end of the day (barring catastrophe).
Since I’m going to hell anyway, I’m not ashamed to say that this makes me kinda happy. Remember, hell hath no fury like a Philly fan scorned. You think it was bad when we booed Santa and cheered when Michael Irvin went down with a possibly severe spinal injury? Just wait.
Anyone wanna join me at the game on October 8 game at the Linc with the "You should have finished the job!" signs? Just like the J.D. Drew/batteries incident, I’ll bring enough Oxycontin for 20,000 people to throw on the field.
(And I’m sure I can think of much more clever signs, but that will have to do for now.)
I can’t wait for the hours and hours of coverage on this. Later, real sports news.
(Wow – I really am going to hell for this one. At least I do well in the heat.)
I’ll get more into this later, but StreetWars is a water gun assassination game. Basically, you sign up, get a target, and hunt him/her with a water pistol. After you make your "kill," you get another target. At the end of three weeks, whoever gets the most kills is winner. Also, all the while you’re hunting your target, someone is hunting you.
I saw a feature on CNN about this about a year ago and thought it looked cool, so signed up for a reminder when the games came to NYC. I got my reminder a few weeks and while getting bombed with my friends, mentioned it to them. Drunk, we thought it was a cool idea and signed up as a team.
It was only after signing up that we realized that, well, it might be a little lame. Brian and Jeremy had to go to Long Island City to pick up our "dossier" (our target, her picture, her home address, and her work address) and were treated to a very lame scene: the head guys dressed up like pimps drinking cognac in a back of a rented U-Haul, complete with a "harem" and fake bodyguard (I know – I also had to swallow deeply to hold back my pity vomit). This thing is run by people who I have very little doubt were very into theatre in high school and routinely got wedgies. And, upon Jeremy’s estimation after seeing other people present to pick up dossiers, a solid 75% of the people playing in the game are probably virgins, many of whom were in disguise so as not to be seen my their fellow assassins. Yeah. So there’s that.
But then the game started Sunday night at midnight (so Monday, I suppose) and I have to say – it’s pretty interesting. There’s quite an adrenaline rush when you know that someone is, essentially, stalking you. Also (and I have some experience with this) stalking others is pretty fucking awesome. My team and I have spent hours discussing our target and how we are planning to assassinate her. I’ve already spent three hours outside of her place in the past day, waiting for her to come home so that I can shoot her with a water pistol. Yes, I’m 27 years old. And yes, this may go from "water gun assassination game" to "sexual assault" very quickly. Only time will tell, I suppose.
But in the meantime, I’m expending a lot of time and energy on this – like I said, standing outside, on full alert, waiting to shoot someone and also making sure no one shoots you, can really take a lot out of a person. But fortunately for you, dear readers, I should be dead sometime within the next 48 hours. I am taking absolutely no special precautions against the person hunting me, believing that if I were to do so it would be the equivalent of letting the terrorists win (also, a simple google search will tell you much more than you need to know about me for this game – not to mention that this post will probably get back to the head guys who will take umbrage with me calling them out as theatre gays and will then "call down the thunder" on me). For the person hunting me, if you want a piece of me, come get it. If that’s going to help you feel as good as you did when you got that standing ovation in 11th grade after playing the finest Willy Loman in North Shore High history, then so be it. At least I’ve had sex in the past month. Or few months. Or ever. Semantics.
In the meantime, some random Tuesday thoughts which may or may not be discussed in greater detail later:
- I got bombed on Friday (standard Friday night).
- I got bombed on Saturday (wedding).
- I got bombed on Sunday (football game and Irish music).
- I got a little drunk last night, but that wore off because of all the standing and hunting and hoping the target is hot and is so turned on when I assassinate her that she invites me into her room, which is more or less a sex den, and then fellatio occurs for the next 4-5 days.
- My streak of being the best wedding date in the world continues, regardless of what my date to this past weekend’s wedding might tell you.
- San Gennaro is over, praise be to God.
- If Baltimore had covered on Sunday, I would have won $800, which I could really, really use right now. So thanks Baltimore. I appreciate that. (I didn’t lose $800, but had to pick 6 games and went 5-1.)
- Watching the Eagles is damn near excruciating. I understand the value of subbing in a blowout, but they play some shitty second half football. Where’s the defensive intensity? I still think they finish 9-7. Total paper champions.
- If I were a Giants fan, I’d be very, very concerned right now.
- New Orleans – didn’t I say they could surprise a lot of people? Sure, I had Miami winning the AFC East and the Lions in the wild card, but let’s not focus on that. Also, they’re not as good as they’re playing right now.
- I have not forgotten you, Phillies. But the prospect of success for any Philadelphia sports team so terrifies me that I’m afraid to mention anything, lest I jinx said success. So that’s all I’ll say for now.
- The monthly email did not go out yesterday, is not going out today, but will go out this week.
- I woke up at 6am on Monday morning, because I was stressed about…sausages.
- I am taking a Xanax at 9pm tonight and plan to sleep for ten hours.
More later.
His name is Joseph Arthur. The album is Nuclear Daydream. Go buy it right now.
Let me give you a little background about ol’ Joe Arthur and I. My buddy Jeremy works in the music industry. I have no idea what he does anymore, because he’s had literally five jobs in the five years that I’ve known him. The benefit of having a friend in the music industry is that many times you hear of musicians before most everyone else does, even before the damned dirty hipsters do. For example, Jeremy introduced me to Joss Stone was she was 15 and full o’ soul, Jet before they sold every song they wrote to every company that makes commercials, and of course Ray Lamontagne, who I basically made because I pimped him out so much on this site.
In one of his capacities at one of his old jobs, Jeremy worked with or for people who work with or for Joseph Arthur. Jeremy became a big fan of his and continually pimped him to me, but I resisted. I did so because I’m a dick; anytime someone raves about something being awesome, I think, "Well, it can’t be that awesome if I’m only hearing about it right now from you." The more I resisted, the more persistent Jeremy became about Joseph Arthur, exclaiming that of all the artists he’d recommended to me, he thought JA was the one I’d like most. Of course, this only made me more intent on not listening to his stuff.
And so not listen I did – for many years. It wasn’t until about a year or so ago that I randomly heard "In Ohio" on my iPod that I thought, "That’s a pretty cool little song." Long story short, this lead to a journey of Joseph Arthur discovery and now two of his songs are on my top ten most played on my iPod (#5 is "Echo Park" and #8 is "In Ohio").
I don’t have any problem, conscience-wise, with stealing music. I justify the fact that I illegally download thousands of songs a year with the argument that if I like the song, I will recommend it to thousands of new listeners on this here site, possibly turning them into fans. So my karma evens out.
But the biggest negative of stealing songs – as opposed to buying whole albums – is that by not getting a whole album and listening to it in its entirety, one misses out on an experience; not just because you only get a handful of songs, but you miss out on the nuances and delights of listening to an album from start to finish.
So recently I have been splurging on iTunes. A recent example of said splurging is the Magnetic Fields 69 Love Songs, which is a three-disc set containing, um, sixty-nine love songs. I dropped the $30 for the whole album, even though I had already downloaded fifteen or so songs off it for free, because a) I loved those fifteen songs and felt I was missing out on some other gems and b) I admired the ballsiness of the concept – sixty-nine lil’ love songs, most of them pissed off. It sounded pretty good to me.
And it turns out it is pretty good. Great, even. I’ve been listening to that gargantuan album daily since I downloaded it, always finding new gems. Inspired by this success, I started buying whole albums off iTunes - to varying degrees of success. After falling in love with his song "Parties in the USA," I bought an album of Jonathan Richman’s and was on the whole rather disappointed. Alternatively, even though I had a number of their songs, I bought some sort of best of the Ronettes and it blew my fucking brains out – even though it was a best of and so unnuanced, there were a ton of songs on there that I didn’t hear yet immediately dug and dug a lot.
Back to Joseph Arthur: a few weeks ago, my buddy Jeremy called me and told me that JA’s new album would rock my world. He had an advanced copy and was listening to it constantly, etc. Now warm to Joseph Arthur, I made a mental note to pick up the album when it came out. It came out this week. I got it. And, well, holy fucking shit.
This may not make such sense, but there are some artists whose music lends itself to "total" listening. Artists like these typically don’t write songs for radio-friendly play, and thus often produce whole albums of music that is atmospheric, engaging, and, for lack of a better word, deep. In order to appreciate what they’ve created, they require their albums to be listened to cover to cover, start to finish.
Joseph Arthur is one such artist. While there are certain tracks on this album that stand out and could even be considered radio-friendly, the sum of his music is greater than its parts. Nowhere does this hold true as it does in Nuclear Daydream, an album that, when I listened to it for the first time straight through last night, has kept me erect ever since (this is where I start to lose any grasp of language or writing I have and start writing "It’s awesome" and the like).
Frankly, the album is awesome – the whole fucking thing. Like I said, some tracks stand out – my two current favorites are the first song, piano-pumping, foot-tapping "Too Much to Hide" and the last song, the heart-breaking title track ("If there’s a plan then tell me/If you know who you are/A princess or a mummy/A flower or a scar") – but it is the general song after song quality that has truly blown me away (I’d tempted to list more examples, but I can’t, since every song fucking works – every one). I don’t know – I can’t explain it anymore. You just have to listen to it.
So do yourself a favor and buy this fucking album. You can listen to it by going to his website (a pop-up will appear and start playing the album, starting with "Too Much to Hide," and you can listen to the whole thing) and can buy it here. And of course you can find out all sorts of info on his MySpace page.
I know I sound like a salesman, but I don’t care. You all know it’s rare for me to dedicate an entire post to music, but people – specifically, you – need to hear this album. I can’t recommend it any more highly. The world and your life will be much better because of it. Trust me on this.
Now go get it and have a good weekend. And remember, I love you.
(Most of you, at least.)
I just want to go on record, even though it’s old news now, but Brody Ruckus is a hack. Not a fake, maybe a scam, but definitely a hack.
"Brody Ruckus" is a college student who started a group on Facebook.com, which apparently is like MySpace for those college kids. Apparently, he and his girlfriend made a bet: if he could get 100,000 people in his group, she’d have a threesome with him.
If this sounds familiar, it’s because it is. Earlier this year, there was the Help Win This Bet Guy, who bet his girlfriend he could start a website that would get two million hits. She didn’t believe he could, so a bet was made: if he started a site and got two million hits within a certain timeframe, she’d (that’s right) have a threesome with him.
I got a ton of emails from y’all forwarding the original site, but I was troubled when I got even more emails a few weeks later about another site – with the same premise. Apparently, someone had started a knock-off of the original Help With This Bet site. The proprietor of the later site preyed upon the fact that the internet is a wide and wonderful place (and so many had not heard of the original idea) and was even more successful than the original guy, getting two million hits even more quickly. I called this guy out as a fake here (for the most part).
But recently Brody ripped off this idea and had even more success. The college kids, for as much as they know about underage drinking and consequence-free hook-ups, are not as internet savvy as old heads like yours truly. They were blissfully unaware of the original Help Win This Bet guy and his knock-offs and fell head over heels for Brody and his cause. However, about a week or so ago it appears that Brody was discovered as a hack, Facebook took down his group, and I imagine that he’s now sucking dick for cheeseburgers, his fifteen minutes of fame cut short by a solid nine minutes.
Brody, it was fun while it lasted. College kids, why don’t we put down the bong and do a little more research before we dedicate our lives to a cause, ok? Also, STAY IN COLLEGE FOR AS LONG AS YOU CAN. Because nothing will ever be as good.
(By the way, I started a Facebook account but have no idea how to use it. The lovely and talented Amanda has already found me on there, but otherwise I just sent friend requests to everyone named Mulgrew – most of whom I don’t know. So there’s that.)
***************
On Monday night for dinner, I had a Ranch 1 chicken sandwich and fries, an entire strawberry shortcake from Dean & DeLuca (carrot cake was sold out), and washed it all down with six cans of PBR. When I woke up on Tuesday morning, I knew it was time. I had to weigh myself.
I had not weighed myself since I ended my diet on August 24. At that point, I tipped the scales at 199.5 pounds, down 33 pounds in just about two months.
But since then, I’ve gotten sloppy. A bum knee, illness, and general apathy have kept me out of the gym almost completely since I ended the diet (I’ve been maybe four times in the past three-plus weeks). Not only that, I’ve been eating and drinking with near abandon. I’m still a little mindful about food, but I’ve definitely enjoyed a pint of Haagen Dazs or two and have taken part in several food orgies since (on Sunday during football – pizza with sausage, pepperoni, mushrooms; fried calamari; wings; two Chinese babies; etc). As for drinking, I’ve gone back to beer, since whiskey recently done me wrong. Long story short, I was drunk off Maker’s Mark and wound up hooking up with my friend’s wife. Not a good moment. I mean, at the time – awesome moment. Totally and completely awesome moment. Almost immediately after, not so much.
So on Tuesday morning, after my latest orgy, I needed to get on the scale to scare myself back to the gym. Like I said, my last weigh-in was 199.5 over three weeks ago. With my recent indiscretions, I was hoping I’d be around 205, but was prepared for up to 210. Anything over 210 would make me instantly bulimic. After my shower, I toweled off my gorgeous naked body and gingerly stepped on the scale and…
196.
Confused, I hopped off, restarted the scale, and got on again.
196.
No, 196 couldn’t be right. Even though I always weighed myself right away showering, I thought something must have been off. So I brushed my teeth, did my hair, came back to the scale, dropped the towel, and…
196.
One-fucking-ninety-six? Really? I couldn’t believe it and almost immediately started crying. I guess I shouldn’t have been too surprised – even though I’ve been eating more like my old self, my pants were still loose and I was on the same belt loop as when I stopped the diet. Also, those few times that I have been to the gym over the past few weeks my performance has been electric. But 196. Goddamn.
And more good news: I do not have mono. I went to the doctor’s office on Wednesday morning after a slew of you emailed me saying, "Um, if you have mono and you drink on it, your liver will explode and you’ll die." I got the results back from the blood test today and I’m mono-free. Nice.
Not only that, my doctor did some tests on my blood, including a cholesterol test. My total cholesterol? 150. 150! That’s like really fucking healthy! I think my dad’s cholesterol level is about 313. By all accounts, mine should be around 250. But 150? What the fuck?
But while I’m happy about these new numbers, I’m also a little insulted. Just as losing the weight represented a challenge, now my body seems to be challenging me again, as if to say, "What? You think you can fuck me up? No way, stink ass. Give it your best shot." So the night I tipped in at 196 I bought myself a carrot cake. Today for lunch I had a chicken salad club and a piece of chocolate cream pie. Tonight, I see a milkshake in my future. Because we need to do some work on these 196/150 numbers. Shit just ain’t right.
***************
Seriously, whose dick do I have to suck to get a harmonica neck holder? All I want is to be able to play my acoustic guitar AND my harmonica at the same time. To this end, I have tried to purchase a harmonica neck holder at FOUR music shops in Manhattan and TWO in Boston, and none have had them. I thought NYC was supposed to be the greatest city in the world, but I can’t find a fucking harmonica neck holder at the two largest music stores in Manhattan (nor at two smaller but respected ones nor two in downtown Boston)?
I suppose I could just order one online, but it’s a matter of principle now. I’ve given my name to employees of the four NYC music stores and they have promised me that they will call me when the thingees come in, but this is crazy. I can’t believe that I’m the only aspiring folkie-hobo guitarist in Manhattan. Maybe I should just buy a synthesizer and focus on prog-rock. These are how the stories of legends begin ("Well, I wanted to become a folk artist, but couldn’t find a neck thing for my harmonica. But then while looking one day, I heard the most beautiful noise coming from this synth…").
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After the wedding this weekend, I’m shaving my beard. I am doing this out of fear. Pure, unadulterated fear.
You see, my plan was actually to grow the beard out for the winter. Not like ZZ Top, but maybe more like Jesus, as opposed to the George Michael-length I’m rocking now. But since I’m neither homeless nor a wookie, I can’t simply let the fucking thing grow. I have to grow it in increments, being sure to trim it so it looks respectable, lest my employer punch me in the face.
Last night I was doing just that when I noticed my one I’ve-had-it-forever gray hair, sticking out just under the right side of my chin. But upon closer inspection, I found another gray hair nearby. Then one growing in my ‘stache. Then one on my cheek. And another on my cheek. And three (!) on my other cheek. Gray hairs. Everywhere.
So in order to stop the tide of grayness, I’m simply shaving the whole thing off. But I must confess that this idea was also planted in my head by my buddy’s girlfriend, who said I’d look 22 if I shaved my beard. 22 was a very, very good year for me. So I’m gonna try it out.
And worse comes to worse, it’ll always grow back. Growing hair rapidly has never been a problem for me, so I’m not too concerned. However, since I haven’t been clean shaven in a very long time, I’m sure I’m going to cut the shit out of myself. So I’m looking forward to that.
…
This is gay.
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Readers familiar with New England, I need your help.
As of Monday, I was my buddy Joe’s best man and thus responsible for planning his bachelor party. I say "as of Monday" because after I called him out in Tuesday’s post for being a pussy and not hanging out with the Playmates, he said he is no longer speaking to me. If he wants to persecute me for calling it like I see it, so be it. However, I’m a little concerned because I had just convinced Joe that for my best man gift he should pay for the laser removal of my back hair. I really, really need him to do that. So I’m sorry, Joe – you’re not a pussy. If being angry because I wanted you to have dinner with extremely beautiful women makes me a bad friend, then I guess I’m a bad friend.
(Fag.)
At any rate, I’m proceeding as though I am still planning this bachelor party and need some help in this from y’all. After much deliberation, we have decided that we are going to get a house for a weekend somewhere within two hours of Boston and get completely messed up in this house. Seems like a good plan.
What I need from you is suggestions on where we can rent this house. Ideally, we’re looking for a cool little town within two hours of Boston, maybe in New Hampshire or Vermont. The bachelor party will take place around the end of March. Just somewhere that has a decent bar scene (or any bar scene) and is cool. I know, not much to go on, but we’re only starting this now and not even sure ourselves what we want.
If you have any suggestions, email me and put "bachelor party" or something in the subject line. And as always, thank you for your help. Because I am too dumb to do this on my own and we’d find up partying at a rest stop on the Mass Pike if I were left to my own devices.
***************
Six Songs
"Doom" Jurassic 5
I swear to God that when this song came on my iPod when I was running at the gym the other day, I broke 70mph. Seriously, there was a cheetah on the treadmill next to me and everyone gathered around because I was outrunning the cheetah and I didn’t even realize it because I was so into it and the cheetah was sad afterward and then one of the (male, sadly) trainers hit on me. It was great. Remember when in the early 90′s the sound of Mary Hart’s voice would give that woman seizures? Well, the little robotic noise that comes in about 30 seconds into this song doesn’t give me seizures but sends me automatically into overdrive. If I were having sex with someone when this song came on, I would surely accidentally kill her because of this noise, as I am unable to control my considerable strength and penile ambition when it sounds. Incredible. Simply incredible.
"Crazy Eights" Tapes n Tapes
I can’t prove this, but I’m pretty sure that everyone who played on this track was either high at the time or thinking about getting high at the time. That’s just the kind of vibe this song gives off. Maybe because I put it on when I get high. Whatever.
"I’ll Be Your Mirror" Clem Snide
A tremendous version of the Velvet Underground song that I think is better than Nico’s original version but not as good as the Lou Reed-sung live version on 1969: Velvet Underground Live Vol. 2. Touching though, and you’d better believe I’ll be playing this to the next lady in my bedroom, lying in my bed, whining and going on and on about "Who’s birth control pills are these?" and the like. It’ll be a real nice moment.
"Amsterdam" Peter Bjorn & John
Catchy, but also a little scary. Maybe not scary, or not even haunting, but a little unsettling. I’m sure you’re thinking, "That’s the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard in my life," but listen to the song and then talk to me. Who’s right now, bitch?
"Baby, I Love You" The Ronettes
The Ronettes – really some of the best music I’ve ever heard. Do yourself a favor and download a handful of their songs or treat yourself to The Best of the Ronettes on iTunes and prepare to be thrilled. This song is incredible because it’s so simple, so pure ("Have I ever told you/How good it feels to hold you?/It isn’t easy to explain") over Phil Spector’s lavish wall of sound. Really, really fucking good. Also, it makes me feel like a school girl because I wish Roni was singing this about me. God I’m a fucking loser.
"Over Time" Lucinda Williams
Say hello to the latest entry to three of my very exclusive iPod playlists: "Sad as Fuck," "Whiskey, You Son of a Bitch," and "I Love You Because I’m Drunk." Really, I just told you all you need to know about this song by the playlists that it is now on. Moody, sad, drink-inducing. You know, exactly like me.
1) Projects
i) The book
The book was scheduled for release next April, but it has been pushed back to the fall. This is a good thing, and not just because now instead of rushing to edit it I can read twenty words a day and call that a good day. Of course, I want it out as quickly as possible so I can be famous, but I’ll have to wait a few more months. No big deal. I like fall better than spring anyway and I’ll be able to guilt y’all into buying multiple copies for Christmas presents.
I’ve mentioned this before, but the book is a memoir, focusing much on my childhood. Therefore, there will be no overlap of material between the blog and the book. A lot of bloggers or internet personalities essentially cut and paste from their websites into books. Not cool, and not the case here. All new stuff. So start saving up now.
Once the book comes out, it will be the real deal, with a publicity/reading tour. I have not spoken to the publisher about this very much, but I’m guessing I will at least be reading in New York, Boston, Philly, Los Angeles, and Seattle (I pick these cities based solely on the number of emails I get from readers in them), and more than likely reading in DC, Chicago and San Francisco. If you live in cities other than these, you have just about a year to start making friends in your city so that you can email "my people" a year from now to guarantee a good turn-out should I read in your city. So get on it.
ii) The show
The TV show is more secret because that’s just the way TV works. But here’s your (very rudimentary) lesson in how a new TV show happens (and if you’ve seen this portrayed in "Seinfeld," you have an excellent idea of how this works).
A writer will say to his agent, "Hey – I have a good idea for a show" and tell him about it. An agent will then go around to various executives (at studios, networks, etc) and say, "Hey – my client has a great idea for a show. Want to hear it?" Then the writer will go to various meetings and pitch the show: what it’s about, the main characters, what makes it interesting, etc. If he/she is successful, the studio/network will then pay the writer to write one episode of that show – the first one, or the pilot episode. Then, the writer has "a deal" with that network/studio.
A network will buy literally dozens of pilot episodes. The scripts for these pilots will be submitted by the writers to the network just before Christmas. A few weeks after Christmas, the network will decide which of these pilots to shoot – usually under a dozen. Those less-than-a-dozen pilots will be casted, filmed, etc over the next few months. Finally, in May, the networks will decide which of those shot pilots will be picked up to series (usually one or two pilots only).
Right now, I’m still only writing that first/pilot episode. It’s been bought by a network and I have "a deal" but that’s all I got right now. I will of course let you know more about this as the show progresses, but I can’t really talk about it too much, as many of the people involved in the process would rather not be dragged through the mud on here – which is fine with me, because it only means that the tell-all autobiography I write after this is over will only sell more copies because I’ve been so secretive. See? Always planning ahead.
2) Readership
There was a time when I would look at traffic for this site and masturbate. Nothing would get me more aroused than knowing that 50 people clicked on this site between 2pm and 3pm on a Friday afternoon. But then I got older and more mature and though I still Google myself about once an hour, I haven’t paid much attention to how many hits the site has been getting recently.
(Also, when we switched domains, I couldn’t find the part of the admin database that counted hits, and sort of forgot the whole thing.)
Then I went on my admin page and checked out the numbers for August and was floored. Even before the lil’ shout-outs in Gawker and Deadspin at the end of the month (which I can’t find right now but am still grateful for), we had broken all previous hit records for a single month. We (the royal we) have been pretty steady for some time and I thought summer was a slow time, but there were more readers on this site in August than there were when the People thing came out (and September is proving just as strong).
I know that a blogger (hate…that…fucking…word) talking about "hits" is about as appealing as thinking about your parents having sex (well, maybe not that bad), but the point is, y’all are awesome. Whatever you’re doing as far as spreading the word – passing the site onto your friends, writing about it in messageboards, telling people you’re sleeping with about it – is working, so keep on keepin’ on.
And most importantly, thank you. I promise that if I get any measure of real fame I will make you so, so proud of me – and I mean that in the "crashing my car into the Great Wall of China while wearing an American flag speedo and eating a man made of cocaine" way.
3) Emails
i) Monthly emails
I took a summer hiatus from the monthly emails, mostly because I was lazy. But they are back. The next will go out on Monday, September 25, so enter your email address in the box on the right. This one is the Top Five Mistakes Women Make When Giving Blowjobs and is really, really dirty. Remember: this email post will never appear anywhere on the site, so if you want to read it, you’ll have to sign up.
After that, monthly emails will appear regularly, perhaps monthly. Your job is to a) read and enjoy the email and b) pass it on to other friends. I don’t have the password for the email list, but Site Guy Brendan told me there was a "dramatic" uptick in sign-ups after the first one went out. That means you all passed it on to others who then signed up. Good job. And again, thank you.
ii) Responding to emails
But now I have to get all dick on you about your emails to me. I’m sorry, but I can not respond to every email I receive. I know this is an inherently douchey statement, but there is no other way to say it. I would like to respond to more emails – nothing would be a better use of my time than to engage in witty banter with y’all – but I’m a little busy: I’m editing a book, writing a TV show, trying to develop a freelance "career," writing this blog, working fifty hours a week, going to the gym five times a week (lie), and living the life of a socialite, pulling four hangovers a week. So cut me some slack.
4) Upcoming
Over the next few months, there will be some exciting changes to this site. Of course, I use the word "exciting" loosely, but I’m a little hopped up on caffeine right now, so let me be.
I don’t want to reveal too much, as I want these new thingees to be a surprise, but I will say that fundamentally the site will not change, either in form or function. It will be bettered. For example, it is a goddamn shame that I can’t talk more about sports on here without alienating many of you. The emails I get after a sports post make me want to cry (out of joy). We’re going to address this while leaving everything else intact. Just hang on and I promise better things in the future. I actually sat down a few weeks ago and wrote a plan for this site, a real live "we’re not just figuring this out as we go along" plan, which I gave to Brendan. As you might expect, a solid half of the plan was pure gibberish and most of the other half delineated unattainable goals ("Goal 9: Fuck Janet Jackson", "Goal 15: On the 14th of every month, I’ll drink one beer for every unique visitor", "Goal 20: Bring Jim Morrison back to life to punch him in the face", etc), but those bits that are both intelligible and realistic are actually quite lovely.
***
So that’s it for the state of the site post. Again, thank you for your continued cooperation. One of the downers about the book being pushed back was that I was looking forward to doing a reading tour so that I could meet many of you – and I don’t even mean "meet and sleep with you." I won’t get mushy, but I will say I am very grateful to you all, but more so to your employers, who apparently give you so little to do at work that you keep coming back. God bless the malaise of the working man/woman. God bless it, indeed.
Fame, or whatever the hell it is that I enjoy from this blog, has its privileges. The first that immediately comes to mind is the endless parade of blowjobs that receive on a weekly basis. Blowjobs, blowjobs, blowjobs – all over the place. I must confess, though, that while this may sound great on paper, it gets a little tiresome after awhile. I mean, I get it – you have a mouth, I have a bird, one goes in the other, time passes, I cry, I go to the ATM, we part, hours later I learn my laptop is missing. It actually gets pretty boring, pretty quickly.
Additionally, there is all the money that I’ve made from this site. Donations come in nearly every day, often hitting four figures per day. This doesn’t even take into account all the money I’ve been paid for my two projects, monies that were delivered to me promptly and without threatening any sort of legal action or devolving into a game of “You tell me I won’t be paid until next year-I vandalize your property.” The money keeps me satisfied, not only because it means I will never have $24,000 in credit card debt and allows me to buy fine linens and jewelry for my women, but also because it is concrete proof that you appreciate good entertainment. Any psychologist will tell you that money equals love, so therefore I am very, very loved.*
[*This paragraph is entirely false. Thank you.]
And lastly, there is a great sense of power that comes with fame. I sleep well at night knowing that when I write, no less than three people will read my words and act on them. Of course, I mostly squander this power by writing about masturbating with slightly microwaved chicken breasts, but the point is, the power is there and I could use it, should I so desire.
The story of my life and this site can be measured by certain important events and their dates.
- The site, on the old blogspot address, was started in February of 2004.
- In December of 2004, I was contacted by a big time agent, who, though he intimidated me at first with his flashy jewelry and big words, I have grown to be very good friends with (perhaps too good, as evinced by my telling of one of my grossest stories – involving masturbating into solo cups and covering the ejaculate with chocolate syrup – to both him AND his girlfriend on one of my trips to LA). We also moved to jasonmulgrew.com at this time.
- February 2005, the one-year anniversary of the site was marked by the release of the “Life in Pictures.”
- In April 2005 I got my first piece of real press.
- My gorgeousness was finally validated in June 2005.
- Though both had been in the works for some time, on August 10, 2005, I got both the final offer for the TV show and the final offer for the book deal – on the same day (of course, I had to keep this secret).
- As of October 1, 2005, I began a 4.5 month leave of absence from work to write the book/TV show. It was totally fucking awesome, except I went a little crazy.
- In February 2006, Site Guy Brendan and I released the new design of jm.com, which you are looking at now.
But since then, it’s been pretty quiet. This is deceiving, since I have a lot going on, but the book will not be out until next fall (more on this later) and the TV show, if it makes it to the air, will also not be out until next fall (more on this later, too). In the meantime, I’m just writing/editing away, sitting at my computer, listening to The Ronettes, drinking PBR cans out of my Maine cooley.
But last weekend in Boston, a new development suddenly arrived. Though it was at that moment unforeseen and unexpected, I had known from a young age that it was my destiny. And my years of patience, persistence, and quietly being almost criminally sexually suggestive had finally paid off: I, Jason Mulgrew, hung out with Playboy Playmates last weekend.
I know, I know – it’s awesome. The drama is a little diminished, of course, since I told you guys about this yesterday, but give me a minute to bask in my glory. Me, hanging out with Playmates.
…
[Just another minute...]
…
Ok. Thank you for indulging me.
This requires some explanation, but unfortunately, I can not say too much. Mostly because I don’t want to sound like a goober (in case, you know, I don’t already). I would like in the future to spend my time in the presence of Playmates – indeed, I don’t know of many better ways to spend time. So I apologize if certain details are spotty, but you must realize the importance of me treating this as nonchalantly as possible, when I really want to write, “I CAN’T WRITE RIGHT NOW BECAUSE MY PENIS IS GETTING IN THE WAY OF THE KEYBOARD BECAUSE OH MY GOD THESE GIRLS WERE BEAUTIFUL AND ONE OF THEM ACCIDENTALLY STEPPED ON MY FOOT BUT THEN MY FOOT GOT BEAUTIFUL BECAUSE IT WAS TOUCHED BY SUCH BEAUTY AND I THINK I JUST PEED MY PANTS BUT IT’S NOT QUITE PEE AND I FEEL LIKE AFTER A SNEEZE.”
By the grace of God and this website, I was able to attend, with two friends, a Playboy party in Boston. The invite came at the last minute and left me in a tizzy: I had no idea what to expect, but knew it couldn’t be all bad, since Playmates would certainly be there. I had never been to such an event and had to figure out what to wear and how to do my hair, but then I realized that these were pretty good problems to have. Remember, Playmates.
And my friends and I were not disappointed. There were no celebrities there or anything – it was a promotional event – but that’s a good thing. Because, I imagine, if celebrities had been there, the girls would not have looked at, let alone spoken to, my friends and I. (Actually, I shouldn’t say that, since Alison (Miss May), Monica (Miss March), and Breanna (September Cyber Girl of the Month) were lovely gals.) So on Friday night, my buddies and I spent several hours in the company of Playmates and other employees of Playboy, having a grand old time, having a laugh. Just like old friends. Three ugly old friends, and three extremely and insanely attractive old friends. No big deal.
The next day my buddies (Joe and Bill, for those keeping score at home) got to tell everyone at the BC tailgate that while they had spent the previous night at the Beacon Hill Pub or the Black Rose, we were drinking with some of the most beautiful women in the world. What’s more, there was a chance that we would hang out again that night. Playboy was in Boston not only for the promotional event on Friday night, but also for CollegeFest on Saturday and Sunday afternoons. After CollegeFest, the girls might want to go out. Joy. But later in the evening I got a text message and the friends I had recently made were all staying in for the night, tuckered out from a long day of work. So I just got drunker, moving from a softball field to a bar. Such is life. I also sent such lascivious text messages to a woman I know in Boston that I wouldn’t be surprised if I were to get a subpoena any day now, but that is neither here nor there.
The next day I was slated to return to Boston. I had taken Monday off but wasn’t so sure I wanted to lose the vacation day. On Sunday morning, just before noon, my buddies and I headed to Champion’s, a sports bar in Boston that is a HUGE Philadelphia Eagles fan spot for games. My plan was to watch the 1pm game, then grab a train home to NYC at 5 or 6. Of course, after an Eagles victory, a few plates of nachos, cheese fries, and mozzarella sticks, and ten or so draft Bud Lights, I made the executive decision and decided to spend the night in Boston. So my friends and I really started drinking.
At about 7pm, after drinking pretty hard since about 11am, I got a text message from one of my new friends who works at Playboy. Though I hadn’t expected to hear from her or anyone else at the Playboy camp, the text said that she and the girls felt like going out – was I still in Boston?
…
I immediately put down my beer and screamed, “I need a Red Bull and a water asap!” My buddies Joe, Bill and I spent the next two hours rapidly trying to get sober, as we were to meet the girls for dinner at 9pm. Joe, in one of the all-time greatest pussy moves ever, couldn’t pull it together and so missed the dinner. Or rather, Joe said that he couldn’t afford to be hungover for work on Monday morning and so didn’t go to dinner WITH PLAYBOY PLAYMATES. Yes, he missed dinner with Playmates because he didn’t want to be hungover. I’m hungover at work at least two days a week, both hangovers usually resulting from me drinking too many cans of PBR at my computer alone while downloading porn. The point: dinner with Playmates is a pretty good excuse to be hungover. What a tremendous pussy.
[And you can bet that the above paragraph will appear verbatim in my best man speech at his wedding next April, although if he were my fiancée, I would probably drop him for such lame behavior.]
But Bill and I rallied, got (somewhat) sober, cleaned ourselves up, and spent almost four hours having dinner and drinks with two Playmates and three employees of Playboy (who, dare I say, were extremely lovely in their own right). Just a couple of fat guys, over 400 pounds between them, sitting around, drinking wine, laughing and talking with Playmates and other beautiful, successful women. For four hours. Four magical fucking hours.
…
And now here I am, back in New York, hungover at my desk because I drank too many cans of PBR last night while downloading porn. Also, I might have mono. So there’s that. Which is great.
I leave you now with one of the pictures of us from the weekend, the first picture I took on Friday night (and if you think the following links are safe for work, you are a moron). Left to right, that’s Alison Waite (Miss May 2006), me standing behind my buddy Bill, Breann McGregor (Sept 2006 Cyber Girl of the Month), my buddy Joe, and Monica Leigh (Miss March 2006). Take a good, long look at that smile, dear readers. Because it’s pretty much all downhill for me from this point forward.
Wish me luck, because it’s going to be a bumpy ride down. But at least I can now die in relative peace.*
*”Relative” because I never realized my dream of having sex in a rocking chair. Oh well. Maybe next time.
1) That game was terrible.
2) I think I have/had mono.
3) I hung out with Playmates last weekend.
Got it? Let’s go.
That game was terrible.
I can’t even talk about it. I really can’t. I think Eagles fan Brett from Irvine, CA said it best:
I feel like my heart was ripped out of my chest, dipped in tabasco sauce, stuck with 10,000 porcupine quills, put in an auto-smashing assembly & promptly obliterated – then put back in my now lifeless body. Please write some clever verse to make the pain stop — the Eagles are killing me.
I’m sorry brother, but there ain’t no amount of clever verse that is going to make this pain going away.
What’s worse than suffering through such a total collapse is being the target of a string of anonymous emails sent from Giants fans/Philly haters. Even though I’ve noted that there is nothing quite as manly as anonymously talking shit over email, I’d like to remind said shit-talkers of some facts:
- There is an 85% chance that I could beat you up in real life, which, even in my weakened state due to illness, I will not hesitate to do if you’re up for it and would like a story. Just as my best “line” to women is “C’mon – make out with me for the story! You’ll be able to tell all your girlfriends that you made out with one of People’s 50 Hottest Bachelors! And you get to watch how disappointed they become when you tell them which one!”, I will gladly beat your ass so that you can tell your buddies about it. Not a problem, really.
- There is a 94% chance that I am smarter than you. And not just because most of the emails I’ve received have had gross misspellings or grammatical errors, but also because I’m just really fucking smart. I’ve read, like, six books this month. So suck on that.
- There is a 97% chance that I – in theory – make more money than you. Just because I waste what I make at my normal job on alcohol and shiny things and just because I don’t think I’ll ever get paid for my projects doesn’t mean that I’m not hypothetically rich.
- There is a 99.99% chance that I am more famous than you. Dude, I don’t know you – do I email you when your team loses? No, because I’m famous. I don’t have time for that shit. Also, did you hang out with Playmates for two nights last weekend? Didn’t think so.
So I’m doing alright, but thanks for taking the time to write me an email.
Giants fans, enjoy the victory. Eagles fans, yes, that was about the equivalent of your girlfriend telling you she’s cheating on you, but it’s still very early in the season. Yes, it really hurts. But all is not lost. Don’t give up so early. If we lose next week to the 49ers, maybe, but not right now.
I think I have/had mono.
This weekend I was essentially under house arrest. I was in my apartment about 23 hours a day from Thursday until Sunday, getting one hour of “outside time” each day for necessary errands (grocery shopping, dropping off/picking up laundry, buying more Theraflu, letting the wind blow over my only partially-clothed body because there was a nasty urine smell coming out of my pores, etc). It really, really fucking sucked.
But I am at work today – and not just because my employer probably would have fired me if I were to take another sick day (called out Thursday and Friday of last week). I feel better but I’m still not 100%. Still.
It was Saturday night when I started to really assess the situation. As recently as a year ago, I was one of the world’s leading hypochondriacs (before I realized that it required so much work). Therefore, I still have the requisite medical knowledge to properly diagnose myself.
When my sickness started, I thought it was a head cold. I was stuffed up, couldn’t sleep, felt exhausted. But the head cold and stuffiness soon went away and was replaced by a fever and chills, an intense lethargy, and swollen glands. Those these three conditions have decreased over the past few days, they are still present.
Then I remembered when one of my first girlfriends – before she was my girlfriend – got mono in junior high. She was tired all the time, had a fever, and had these giant swollen glands. We all treated her like she had rabies because we thought mono was so scandalous. But the fever, tiredness, and swollen glands…Hmmm…
And then I thought about how much making out I’ve been doing lately. My escapades with women over the past few months can only be described as “epic.” My partner in crime, my buddy Jeremy, and I have been so impressed with ourselves that we can only say “We’re back” when discussing our Lotharian behaviors. Of course, in order to preserve my loser image, I can’t write about this woman craziness here. However, I have started another blog which details my recent sexual escapades (or sexcapades, if you will): iamgettingsomuchpussyrightnowitscrazy.blogspot.com. There you can read about my cavorting with the opposite sex and all its explicit, makeoutalicious detail.
And then I put it all together: I have the symptoms of mono. I have been making out a lot lately. Therefore, I more than likely have recently contracted mono.
So, sweet. Apparently, you just have to take it easy, suck on some lozenges, and drink a lot of fluids, so that’s what I plan on doing for the next few days. I guess it’s just something that you have for a few days that eventually goes away. Like I said, I feel like I’m getting better, so hopefully this is on its way out.
One last thing: I haven’t mentioned any of this to my date for my buddy Greg’s wedding this weekend, so if we could kinda keep this between us, that would be most appreciated. I don’t think she’d be too happy to learn she has to spend a whole night with a guy with some lame, pseudo-STD. Jesus. If I were a real man, I would have gotten herpes or HPV or at least chlamydia, but mono? Really? What am I, 17? I have to admit, I’m kinda disappointed in myself – and not in the way that I should be.
I hung out with Playmates last weekend.
You know what? I’m tired again. Let’s pick this up in another post in a little bit. I need a break. Stupid mono.
At about 4am this morning, my fever peaked at 102.9 degrees.
I called out sick this morning and since 7pm last night I have spent 96% of my time in bed. Yesterday I felt terrible, last night I received my Last Rites, and today I feel fairly worse than yesterday. Also, now my throat is starting to hurt and in the shower I almost fainted.
This truly may be the end.
Therefore, I ask that one of you please come to my aid. Your duties will not only include taking care of me (getting me water, refreshing my warm towels, giving me deep tissue massages, and of course, bathing me – we need to keep Mr. Steve and the Gentlemen fresh throughout this ordeal), but also you’d have the honor of taking down my final post. Typing makes me woozy, so I need someone to whom I can dictate my swan song, which will at once be poetic, prophetic, and contain some variation of the word “penis” no less than fourteen times.
I will now return back to my bed to lie around and feel sorry for myself and maybe cry a little bit, but if you are interested, please email me. Note that there is no compensation for this, but only a lifelong memory and an afternoon/evening of some of the most inappropriate suggestive and sexually aggressive comments you’ve ever heard.
Thank you for your consideration. And please, pray for me.
The next monthly email will go out on Monday, September 25. So if you haven’t already, please sign up on the right (remember, the monthly emails will never be put on the site, so if you want to read them, you have to sign up). This one is titled "The Top Five Mistakes Women Make When Giving Blowjobs" so be sure to use your personal rather than work email addresses if the latter has filters. Because if your work email does have filters, I don’t an email with words like "semen witch," "ham-scented testicles" and "The Great and Wondrous Penile Explosion, Volume II" will make it through. But then again I don’t really know anything about technology…
Though I’m at work today, I’m not a very strong person when it comes to illness. (Had I not been out of the office on Monday and last Friday, I surely would have called out. Also, I didn’t feel like laying around among a sea of snotty tissues in my apartment, trying hopelessly to masturbate between replays of the same Sportscenter episode I’d seen three times already.) Remember Michael Jordan’s flu game? When he was sick but dropped 38 points on the Jazz in the playoffs? Often times, you hear of athletes doing stuff like this: transcending their illness to achieve bigger and better things, and in doing so cementing themselves as legends.
Well, not me. Not even close.
I’ve emailed my co-worker at least four times today, imploring her to come "help," "take care of," or "save" me. As she has real, actual work to do, she has yet to make an appearance. So my next email will be sent in about ten minutes. I’ve called my mom a few times, but apparently sometime in the past 48 hours she has disowned me, as I haven’t heard back from her. I’m about two hours away from pulling out my long and distinguished list of ex-girlfriends, picking names at random, and asking them to come nurse me back to health. And let me see their boobies. Because boobies are more potent than most antibiotics when fighting illness. (Look it up.)
No, when I get a cold, I act as though I have AIDS. As I write this, I’m simultaneously writing a letter to my father, apologizing to him for not becoming a real "man." I want him to know how sorry I am about failing him, in case I don’t make it through this illness (odds are 30/60 for survival right now – 10% having been removed because, well, who gives a fuck what happens to me?). He never asked for much; I didn’t have to become an altar boy or a star athlete or attend school every day or even learn how to read. All he wanted was a son who was willing to fight and do a chick at a moment’s notice and maybe get a couple of tattoos, and in this, I failed him. I’m telling him that I’m sorry I can’t bench press over 100 pounds, I’m sorry that I didn’t learn to ride the motorcycle he got me when I turned 16 because "it was too loud," I’m sorry that I never became a two-packs a day cigarette smoker. Of course, I won’t spend too much time on this, since he probably won’t read it (like he always says, "Reading is just a conspiracy").
Next will be a letter to my mom, assuring her that no matter what she thinks, I go to my grave at least 91% heterosexual (one time your mom walks in on you kissing DJ Mikey Deuce at your 13th birthday party and you get a lifetime of "I can’t believe my son is a gay"). Just because I never brought home a girlfriend or even mentioned anything about a woman (expect to deride her fashion sense, of course) or wasn’t able to get an erection when she secretly got me that hooker on my 21st birthday, well, that doesn’t make me a gay. A little different, sure, but not a gay.
But the good news in all of this is that I think I’ve figured out what caused this illness. For the past two nights, I’ve been sleeping with my air conditioner on, even though it’s dipped into the mid-50′s in NYC. Why am I doing this, you ask? Well, Thursday is the start of the Annual San Gennaro Festival in Little Italy (aka my least favorite eleven days of the year). While I would have loved to be sleeping with my bedroom windows open the past two nights, I can’t because the noise coming from the carnies and guidos building shit for the festival is very, very loud. I have no doubt that numerous city ordinances are being broken (really? you can drill and pound shit until 3am?), but I expect some sort of Sopranos-esque intimidation is keeping the construction going. Preferring cold to heat, I slept with the AC on the past two nights. And now I am sick.
[I'm sure my illness had nothing to do with my past two weekends in Maine and Boston, respectively, when I tried to drown myself in Miller Lite. Completely unrelated. And we all know I went to medical school for one year, so I'm more than qualified to make this statement.]
So I still owe you a recap of the weekend in Boston, which I will hopefully get to you soon. In the meantime, I took some more pictures while up there. Check them out and then drop me a line to tell me that I’m bald, ugly, obese, or look like a criminal. Note that if you view them in a slideshow, like the Maine photos, they are backward. Because I’m that awesome at technology.
As for now, I’m going to head back to the bathroom so I can kneel down in front of the sink while hot water is running, soaking in the steam. Wish me luck and let’s hope that no one I know walks in.
And if I don’t make it, remember: I loved you in a way that no one has ever loved you before – from afar, from behind a computer, with a whiskey in one hand and a penis in the other.
(Not my penis, of course.)
Thank you for the emails regarding Monday’s post. Y’all are some nice sons of bitches.
But soon we will be back to our regularly scheduled programming. To wit, I’ve only started writing the next post, but the word “blowjobs” appears four times in the first paragraph. ‘Cause I keeps it real.
Anyway, thanks again for the nice emails. I appreciate them.
I had started working as a legal assistant at the firm only a few weeks before in late July, but aside from orientation and training, I hadn’t spent much time in the building downtown. Once training ended, I was immediately shipped to midtown to work on a case at an off-site location. It was miserable, stuck among boxes of documents piled high and stuffed into rows and rows of shelves spaced only a few feet apart. The heat from the sunlight of the sixteenth floor windows, mixed with the dust and the dry stale smell of paper, made for physically uncomfortable working conditions.
But more than that, I was lonely. While there were a few other legal assistants and some temps in midtown on the case, I was the new guy and had remained, for the most part, outside of the long-established cliques. Alternatively, training had been about bonding more than anything else. Between tedious info sessions and boring computer lessons I had established many friendships with the other new legal assistants. Yet before I could nurture them, I was off, banished to the glorified warehouse in midtown for the first seven weeks of my employment. This was not the glamorous New York City job that I had imagined when I accepted it over going to boring ol’ grad school.
Things were turning around, however. Just the day before, Monday, had been my first back in the downtown office since training ended. I was now mixed among the general population, able to enjoy the accoutrements of working in the main building, now my building – the shorter commute from my apartment in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, the subsidized (and rather delicious) cafeteria, the company of the other legal assistants, and the Wall Street area bars at which they had already begun to congregate for happy hours.
On the morning of that Tuesday, I left my apartment and walked the four long blocks to the subway. The time was about 8:15am. I had to be in at work by 9:30am. Leaving at 8:15 would put me at work around 9, with thirty full minutes to spare. I’d like to say that I arrived early for work because I cared about my job; having just started, I wanted to impress my co-workers and superiors. But this would be a lie. I arrived early because I loved the made-to-order omelet station at the work cafeteria. The station closed was out of most of the good stuff by 9:15. Even though I had only eaten the omelets a few times during orientation, I knew it was something I wanted to continue. If this meant waking up a few minutes early, that was ok with me – good eggs are always worth it.
I waited, as I always did, for some time for the R train on the Bay Ridge Avenue platform. It finally came and I boarded. I sometimes read on the commute and got through many books doing this (as it was about fifteen stops until I reached work), but on this morning I forgot my book. So instead I passed the time listening to my cd player, in particular “The Story of Them Featuring Van Morrison (Disc Two).”
Over Van the Man’s encouragement about how it soon won’t hurt half as much, there came an announcement from the train’s PA system. Due to a medical emergency, the train would not be stopping at Cortland Street. This was of no concern to me. Not only because “medical emergencies” were common (they could range from serious incidents like a commuter falling on the tracks to trivial things like someone throwing up in a crowded car), but also because I was not getting off at Cortland Street. That was World Trade Center territory, two subway stops (though just a few blocks) north of my stop near Wall Street.
The train carried on. Another announcement followed a few stops later. There was no mention of the medical emergency at Cortland Street this time; the conductor announced that the train would be terminating at the next stop and apologized for the inconvenience. This did concern me. I had been heading north from south Brooklyn toward my office in Lower Manhattan. Because my train was now terminating, I would have to switch trains three times (!) to get to work. Fuck.
First, I had to back-track my steps. I needed to board a train heading south, into Brooklyn, away from Lower Manhattan. I would take this one stop, switch to a train that would take me over the Manhattan Bridge into Manhattan – putting me north of my stop – then finally switch to a third train in Manhattan which would take me south, down to the tip of the island, and drop me off in front of my building. What a major inconvenience.
That first southbound train arrived shortly and I hopped on. I noticed a commotion from the opposite end of the train car, someone yelling about something or other, and I turned up the volume on my cd player. It is not uncommon for someone to be yelling on a New York City subway train – once a week I’m treated to a schizophrenic’s interpretation of the Gospel of Luke or a drunk’s rendition of “Only You.” That’s part of the charm of the city, really.
But what is uncommon is when the ranting is coming from a kid my age wearing a blue New York Stock Exchange trader’s jacket, holding a stack of charred documents in his hand, hysterically yelling, “They got the World Trade Center! They’re going to get the Stock Exchange next! They got it! They got it!”
This…this was different.
I can hit the New York Stock Exchange with a tennis ball if I’m standing at the steps of my office building. Logic would therefore imply that I have a vested interest in any situation in which someone is trying to “get” this building. But this is New York City – people bleed to death in the streets while others step over them. I was tired. I was late. I was pissed off. And worst of all, it was becoming clear that I was going to miss the omelet station. I didn’t have time for any shit.
We reached my stop and I got off the train. The second train came shortly thereafter and I got on. I tried to look at it positively. Even though I was now going to be late for work, at least the trains were arriving quickly. And now that this train would take me over the Manhattan Bridge I’d be treated to a view of the downtown New York City skyline, which looks even more spectacular in the morning, hulking over the bay, teeming with hundreds of thousands of people working, than it does at night, when there is light, but no life.
I reflected upon how much I’d grown to love Van Morrison in the past few months (who knew there was so much more to him than “Brown-Eyed Girl” and “Domino?”) when the train emerged from the subway tunnel and started its slight ascent onto the Manhattan Bridge. I sat up in my seat, lifting myself out of a slouch, to get a good look at the skyline.
This is when it started for me.
One of the towers of the World Trade Center was on fire. It was a spectacular site, the first image to warrant the use of the word later most commonly employed to describe the day: surreal. Flashes of red and orange darted out of the sides of the building, a million angry tongues lapping at the sky. Thick clouds of black smoke, seemingly the size of small planets, encircled the top of the building before dissipating high into the air. The sky that was cloudless and blue when I had left my apartment earlier in morning was now scarred and dyed gray.
Commuters flocked to the left side of the train, their faces and bodies pressed against the windows and each other. No one spoke. Everyone watched.
Soon though the cell phones started flipping. My fellow riders began calling family and friends to find out what was going on. I joined them. My first call was to my roommate Kyle, a grad student who usually slept until noon every day. I figured he’d be able to turn on CNN or NY1 (the New York 24 hours news channel) to figure out what happened. But my cell phone didn’t work. Neither did anyone else’s. True or not, we reasoned that the cell phone reception tower was probably on top of the burning World Trade Center tower. That’s why we weren’t getting service.
But as the train descended back into the tunnel, now entering Manhattan, there was calm (as strange as that now sounds). There was a fire – this much was true. But there are fires. They happen. Collectively, there was an assumption that this was something that the Trade Center was prepared for. Perhaps it started in the Windows of the World restaurant before spreading to a few floors, but certainly all the employees had been evacuated. Not a big deal. Not for New Yorkers, anyway.
***
Canal Street – City Hall – Cortland Street – Rector Street – Whitehall. This was the route of the third and final train that I would take that morning, the one that would bring me to work. When I got on at Canal Street, this time after a bit of a wait, the car was unusually crowded. Not exactly packed, but several people were standing. I was among them, gripping a pole nearby two cute French girls, who were seated and pouring over a travel guide.
There was a quiet but easily identifiable tension. By now, everyone had heard that one of the World Trade Center towers was on fire. And this train would take us directly under the WTC, which stood just above Cortland Street. As we pulled out of Canal, we learned that because of “police emergency” at Cortland, we would not be stopping there (the situation had gone from “medical emergency” to “police emergency” in the span of less than thirty minutes – all mumbo jumbo, certainly, but still not a positive turn of events).
We pulled away from the City Hall stop and were moving slowly south. We reached the Cortland Street subway station, now eerily quiet and empty. Riding through an empty subway terminal in Lower Manhattan during the morning rush hour is a strange, unsettling experience, like bearing witness to a modern day ghost town. I tried to imagine what was happening a few feet above ground and a few thousand feet above ground. How would they reach any people if they were stranded on those top floors? Would they use helicopters? Can helicopters even go that high? A true “crisis” Irish Catholic, I made the sign of the cross and asked God to help out, if possible.
At Rector Street, we picked up no one, not a single person. A few riders got off. We were now one stop away from my work. Much to the chagrin of the other riders, the conductor announced that Whitehall would be the last stop on the train. The train would then not make the commute into Brooklyn. That was fine with me. This was a rare day in that I just wanted to get in to work, if only to find out what the hell was going on.
Then, as we moved in the tunnel between the Rector Street and Whitehall subway stations, the ground shook. My first reaction was that it was an earthquake. Before I could rationalize that it couldn’t be an earthquake because New York City is four hundred miles away from the nearest minor fault line, the train stopped. Not suddenly, but not gently. I lunged forward and grabbed the pole I was standing near with both hands. The momentum of the unexpected stop caused my work bag to swing off my shoulder and hit one of the cute French girls in the head. Before I could apologize to her, the train, now still, grew dark. It was pitch black. The conductor, in what I can only imagine was a communiqué meant for the other MTA employees on the train and not the commuters, screamed over the PA, “We just lost power!”
This whole sequence of events took place in less than three seconds.
In the car in which I was standing, people began screaming, crying, running the gamut of “flipping out.” Back-up lights came on, dimly lighting the train. I tried to stay calm, but I don’t remember much of what I was feeling at this time, as everything was happening too quickly. I only remember what I was doing, namely, walking with the other passengers to the front of the train. Apparently, the first car of the train was in the Whitehall Street subway station, so we were not stuck in the middle of a tunnel. The crew instructed all riders to walk to the front of the train to exit from the first car. So we moved, single-file, up to the front. I turned down my Van Morrison so that I was better able to focus on getting out as quickly as I could.
I walked behind the two cute French girls. They were frazzled, speaking in rapid fire French to each other. I imagined that I would take care of them once we got out of the train. They could come with me to my office building to figure out what was going on. Sure, it might be weird to have two strange French girls in my office, but I was sure Security would understand and give them each a building pass. Then maybe later that night, when this was all figured out, we’d meet up for drinks and I would kiss both of them at the same time. Even in a crisis situation, I was thinking about sex. With two girls.
But when we reached the subway station and exited the car, I knew that something might be seriously wrong. The station was filled with ash, smoke, and dust. (I realize that this might sound silly in retrospect – it was the dust-filled subway station that freaked me out, not seeing a trader having a nervous breakdown about people “getting” buildings in Lower Manhattan, not seeing a tower on fire from the Manhattan Bridge, not being underground in what felt like a 4.2 earthquake. It was dust, fucking dust.) There was no time to think, though. We were moved up and out of the subway station.
If being in the dust-filled station was my first clue that something might be very wrong, this feeling was confirmed when I exited the station. There were white-out conditions on the streets of Lower Manhattan. Everything was ash and dust and heat. Again, falling back on my on what comes most naturally to me, one of my first thoughts was, “The French girls! Where are the French girls!” But I couldn’t find them. Visibility was almost nothing. If you were to extend your arm out before you, you wouldn’t be able to see your hand. It was so difficult to see and orient myself that even though my building was only a block away from the subway exit, I got lost. Van was covering Dylan’s “It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue.”
I entered the first building that I saw to get my bearings. People were packed into its lobby, shaking off dust, trying to make phone calls, panicking. I was already covered in the ash and dust. It was caked into my hair, beard, clothes, shoes. I was in the strange building’s lobby only a minute, taking a moment to grab some tissues to clean off my glasses and so that I could hold them against my mouth as I walked to my office. This fire was apparently much, much bigger than I thought.
When I finally arrived at my building after what seemed like days, all employees were packed into the basement into the sublevel conference rooms. There were televisions on and working telephones.
This is when I figured it out.
My first reaction: I have to call my mom.
There were lines at each of the four or so working telephones in the largest conference room, so I left that room and ducked into a nearby caseroom that I had been assigned to the day before. There was a computer there and a telephone. As I brought up CNN.com to read as much as I could about what had and what was happening, I got connected to my mom. I assured her that I was alright, that I was at work, but was safe there (I explained to her that the building was a bomb shelter, which was true, but I left out the part about how it’s 40 stories high and one of the largest in the Lower Manhattan skyline).
My next call was to my roommate Joe, who every day traveled from our apartment in Bay Ridge to the World Trade Center, where he would take the PATH train into Newark where he worked. Joe had left for work before me that morning, before I had even woke up, as he usually did. I was certain that he was at the World Trade Center at some point that morning. My hope was that he had already made it into Newark by the time the planes struck. Based on the timeline I was reading about on CNN, I knew it was close.
I couldn’t reach Joe. All cell phones were out of commission by this point, reduced to plastic flashy trinkets that told time. Instead, I called my other roommate Kyle. We had a landline in our Brooklyn apartment, where I was hoping Kyle was awake and aware of what was going on.
Kyle answered. Before he could even get out his “Hello,” I asked if he had heard from Joe. He had. Like so many stories that we would hear about on that day, Joe had to be at work early that morning for a meeting. He had left for work earlier than normal and was safely in Newark before anything had happened. Had he left at his normal time, he would have been under the World Trade Center, waiting for the PATH train, at just about the time that the first plane struck. Joe was still in Jersey (and wound up stuck there for two days), but he was safe.
I hung up the phone with Kyle, promising him that I’d be in touch. My plan, if you could call it that, was to wait it out at work. I returned to the large conference room which doubled as the information and communication center for the firm and learned that subway trains were no longer running. My options were to walk home, which would take me past the WTC, over the Manhattan Bridge, and through ten miles of Brooklyn, or to wait. I chose the latter.
I don’t remember how long I waited in the conference room with the hundred-plus other employees, transfixed by the news on television, before my “plan” became moot. The word came down that everyone in Lower Manhattan had to evacuate the area. We all had to go. Now.
When I left the building, it was clear and it was hot. Less than a half mile away, the World Trade Center burned, sending billows of smoke up into the sky. But the wind was blowing from the east, sending the smoke over the Hudson River to New Jersey. The ash and dust had settled. As I stood east of the towers, the sky above me was blue, cloudless, like it had been when I left my apartment hours before.
I couldn’t bring myself to begin the walk back to Brooklyn. While building security was ushering us out of the office, there were rumors that asbestos was now everywhere and there might be subsequent explosions from gas leaks around the WTC. Before I could start on the long trek to my apartment, I needed to pull myself together a little bit. This was going to be a difficult walk home.
I ambled around at the tip of the island of Manhattan, following hordes of people to the Staten Island Ferry terminal. I don’t know why I did this, since Staten Island was not where I wanted to go. But this was when things were hitting me, when I was realizing – albeit slowly – the gravity of the situation. I moved, but I did so without thinking.
But fortunately, walking to the ferry terminal turned out to be the best idea I had that day. The ferries were running to Staten Island, but in an astonishing twist, private and commercial boats started pulling up to the terminal, offering to take groups of stranded people wherever they needed to go. One boat was willing to take people to Hoboken, another to Long Island City, another to Weehauken. When the captain of the tugboat in front of me shouted, “Anyone to Bay Ridge?”, I jumped on.
Though it was packed like a Calcutta ferry, I couldn’t have been happier to be getting away from Manhattan and back to Brooklyn. Soon I would be home, back to the safety of my almost-suburban apartment, where I could shower, watch the news, and connect with my friends and family. But then as the tugboat pulled away from the terminal, I turned and looked back at the skyline and saw the hole where the two giant towers once stood. The relief I felt about going home was instantly drained from my body. I felt empty. I would for a very long time.
***
I am not the one to eulogize that day or those involved who worked so valiantly to save so many lives, often at the cost of their own. Many more capable – and more qualified – than I will do so.
Not only that, I am unable to articulate how exactly that day affected me. I did not lose any friends or loved ones on September 11, 2001. I realize that for this reason I am very blessed. I stood in that conference room at work and watched those men and women on the phone, sobbing. I, like every other American, watched the news for days and days upon end after the tragedy, unable to sleep, listening to the stories of those who were looking for husbands and wives, fathers and mothers, sons and daughters, brothers, sisters, friends, knowing through their pleas that they were probably never going to find them. And I knew that I was most fortunate to escape that kind of pain.
And for this, when I think about that day, I feel guilty. At least, I think I feel guilty. I don’t know if I’ll ever have enough emotional intelligence and perspective to know for sure. I was there, yes. I saw one of the towers burning from a perspective that few others were able to see, yes. I think I was underground when one of the towers fell, yes. I walked the streets of Lower Manhattan on that September morning in the rain of ash and dust as shredded paper fell like ticker-tape, yes.
But 9/11, the events of 9/11, are not me. At most, I was an observer. I was there to see and to experience, but that’s it. I “lived through it,” but not really. I have a story, but not a scar.
And this, among the sadness, anger, and gratitude I feel when I think about that day, occupies my thoughts the most.
Second, speaking of being totally fucking awesome, you have no idea how good it feels to come home at 1:30 in the morning with a nice buzz, feeling happy, only to check your email to read 60 emails from strangers saying, "Dude, you are really going bald." That’s totally fucking awesome.
Perhaps I should have mentioned that my main priorities while in Maine (main-Maine, get it?) this weekend were not focused on my hair. In fact, if I had to put them in order of importance, my priorities would have gone:
1) Getting messed up.
2) Eating pretty much everything put in front of me, live or dead.
3) Not masturbating.
4) Seriously, getting really messed up.
5) Wearing a hoodie that says "Maine" even though I’m in Maine and not doing this out of irony but because I packed only t-shirts and it was 55° all weekend and I was fucking cold.
6) Sorting all kinds of shit out.
…
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11) Inhaling a lot of second-hand cigarette smoke.
…
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23) Telling everyone about how Wendy’s now has a vanilla frosty and saying "It blew my fucking mind" over and over again.
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39) Taking long showers and pissing off my friends.
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58) Not answering any calls or text messages from anyone not in the house with me.
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83) Raving about the Wendy’s grilled chicken sandwich I ate on the drive up, mentioning the vanilla frosty again. Adding, "Doesn’t that blow your fucking mind?"
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112) Praying for the soul of the Croc Hunter, that he isn’t eternally damned for tormenting literally billions of crocodiles throughout his life.
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597) Making sure my hair looks good for the pictures that my friends are taking while intoxicated.
So I guess what I’m trying to say is that though my hair may appear a little bit thinning in those pictures, I have lovely hair. Well, maybe not lovely, but I’m not going bald. Sure, I do have power alleys, but my hair is fine. Ok? Let’s just move on before I get too wound up.
(Also, do you know how windy it is on the beach in Maine? The answer: Lots. Lots windy. Not good for hair.)
(Also, by a show of hands, how many people were named one of the most gorgeous people in the universe in the past 15 months? Anyone? Wait, only my hand is up? Yeah – that’s what I thought. So I guess I’m doing pretty well for my bald self. Did I mention I just lost 33 pounds? Jerks. The whole lot of you. Buncha jerks.)
Third, Six Songs.
"Parties in the U.S.A." Jonathan Richman
I’m going to make this real simple for you: if you like parties, and you think we should have more parties in the USA, then you will probably like this song. If you like songs that sound like 60′s rock but were actually made 30 years later, then you will probably love this song. One of the unofficial theme songs to this past weekend in Maine.
"Let’s Make This Moment A Crime" The Format
Damn this band writes some catchy songs. They’re so catchy and poppy that I’m not sure if it’s cool to like them. But since I’m not cool, I’ll continue to enjoy their music and pimp them out to you all.
"Gotta Travel On" Bob Dylan
My friend Corinne played this song as we pulled away from the beach house, passing by summer homes of all shapes and sizes, the ocean on one side of us, the hills on the other. It was the most movie-like experience of my life, and not only because I had so much marijuana smoke in my lungs that I could have been arrested for possession – even though I didn’t have any pot on my person. Bob Dylan is better than Jesus.
"It’s A Crime (I Never Told You About the Diamonds In Your Eyes)" Black Heart Procession
I like piano-driven songs with long titles. I also like diamonds and sadness. So this song is a perfect fit.
"Only A Dream" Solomon Burke
I feel like I could be a very good 70 year old black man. Maybe sitting on a stoop, wearing a hat, rocking a cane, listening to Otis Redding, Sam Cooke, Solomon Burke, and tons of other old school R&B artists I, as a white 27 year old, have never heard of. This song comes to me from my Otis Redding playlist on Pandora, which, if you aren’t using, you absolutely should be. Sweet, sweet song.
"Brain Freeze (Track 1)" DJ Shadow
I have no idea where this comes from, I have no idea if it’s on an album, and I have no idea how a white guy could do this, but I do know one thing: this rocks my fucking balls off. Download this off Limewire, sit back, and prepared to have your guts kicked out. (The song is sometimes listed as DJ Shadow and Cut Chemist, if that helps you find it.) The ultimate background music for parties, hanging out, or drinking. Great.
[Now, have a good weekend. Off to Boston - wish me luck.]
[See? I told you I might post again. You guys never listen. Never fucking listen.]
Because I recently returned from Maine and one of the best weekends of my life, and because I’m off to Boston this weekend for more excessive partying and self-abuse, and because August was a huge month for me and the site, and because I’ve been crazy busy at work and with other things, and because I haven’t done so in ages, I’m taking this week off.
(I think.)
(I say "I think" because I don’t really view this as a job but as a relief for all the other stuff going on, so I may be inspired at some point to write on here. So we’ll leave it at "I think" for now.)
But before I sign off until next week (probably), a few notes:
1) Thank you for all the recommendations for a good Mexican place and for the best mac and cheese in NYC. Although I should have said right away that I was and am aware of S’Mac and further stressed that I was looking for an upscale Mexican restaurant (Tortilla Flats, though tasty, is not upscale), I got literally dozens of good suggestions. I’ll whittle them down and let you know the results.
2) Thank you for all the suggestions at to how to improve my knee pain. The good news is that the time away from running has helped and my knee is now 100% back to normal. Additionally, many of you suggested that I a) closely monitor my increase in distances, which I will begin to do; and b) invest in a good pair of running shoes. This is something I intend to do immediately, as my current running shoes are the same sneakers I wear all time, a pair of two year old New Balances. So I’ll get myself a nice, new, and proper pair of running shoes. So thank you. The good people at Mastercard also thank you, since Uncle Jason is a little cash-strapped at the moment and will buy these on credit.
3) If you’re in NYC and looking for something to do on Thursday night, you should check out Charles Ramsey at Kenny’s Castaways at 9pm. Charles is an old friend of mine from high school who blew my fucking brains out when I heard his music, which I find truly remarkable. The show should be a great time and if you’d like to hear a sample of the music of Charles Ramsey, check out his MySpace page, have a listen, and be his friend. My personal favorites are still "I Still Exist" (when I’m feeling sad) and "So Much Better Off" (when I want something a little happier and am thinking about stealing other dude’s girlfriends, which I do often).
(That is, thinking about stealing girlfriends, not actually doing it.)
(Also, if "So Much Better Off" doesn’t get your foot tapping, then you probably don’t have a foot.)
4) If you’re in Boston and looking for something to do on Friday night, you should go to Lir (where I fell in love with a waitress) on Friday night. There will be a fundraiser there for a memorial fund started for a Boston College alum, Mike Holden ’00, who passed away recently and was a reader of this here lil’ site. Mike’s friends have started the memorial fund to contribute to different organizations, including for scholarships to BC and in his hometown of Allentown, PA. The event will be held in the private area of Lir from 9pm-12am on Friday night and will have free appetizers, a cash bar and some prizes and raffles. Donation is $20. A good bar with great food, hot waitresses, potent drinks, and for a good cause – what more can you ask for?
Otherwise I’ll see you next week. I’m really looking forward to Boston, as I haven’t been there since June, which is a very long time for me. And there’s tailgating for BC’s first home football game on Saturday, which will be nice. After that, we’ll be back to normal. Thank god summer is almost over.
But just to prove that I love you, here is an unprecedented look into my sweaty life: some pictures I took in Maine (it’s so unprecedented that it makes me kind of uncomfortable, but I feel guilty for abandoning you for the next few days, so there you go). If you view these pics as a slideshow, be aware that they are backwards because I am an idiot. And no, even though I lost some weight, I’m still not quite ready to take my shirt off in the ocean. Maybe next summer.
(And to Corinne, Lauren, Brian, and Jeremy - I’m sorry. I probably should have asked your approval before I showed these pictures to a few thousand strangers, but hey – we’re all really good-looking. And you already know that I didn’t put up the ones in which we’re really, really messed up, so try to keep your angry phone calls and emails to a minimum, ok?)
[Have a good week/weekend.]
[I think.]
Also, just to put this on the record, I am the best singer I know. 100% true. But whenever I listen to Sinatra now it makes me kinda sad, because I always had this weird dream of serenading my grandmother with a Sinatra song at her birthday party or something (as she was so moved when I sang to the butter pecan Puerto Rican in the Bahamas and also loved Sinatra). But now she’s gone and I won’t be able to sing "Witchcraft" for her. But, to paraphrase Ol’ Blue Eyes himself, that’s life I guess.
The point: I dare you to listen to any of Sinatra’s songs while hungover and NOT feel better. It’s impossible.
("It’s Impossible" is also the title of a lovely Perry Como song. I really think I should quit my job and cut a record of American classics, like my idol Sir Rod Stewart. Would you guys buy this? Can someone get on this for me? Please?)
***************
Remember when I said that I’d gain back all the weight I lost? Well, we’re on our way.
My knee is fucked up. I hurt it last Sunday when I (and I know I wrote about this many times) ran for over 6 miles, far and away the greatest athletic achievement of my life. It bothered me as soon as I stopped running, but I continued to work out and run every day, as the diet was winding down and I was trying to get below 200.
I have not been running since Friday. I assumed that if I took a few days off, the knee would heal itself. Almost a week later, I’m still walking around with a limp.
I asked my guru, the Bouncer (who, by the way, is a weightlifting visionary and now has a vested interest in turning me from "Jason Mulgrew, Slob" to "Jason Mulgrew, Animal and Inflictor of Pain") about this pain and his response was "Don’t be a pussy – and welcome to the world of working out as an adult." I understand that one should expect a certain amount of pain with working out and yes, I am more than likely a pussy, but when I still can’t walk properly after a week, well, something’s not right.
(Rob said he was going to "kill" me for not doing squats on Monday when I explained to him that because of my knee I can’t get in a crouching position without any weight. He said he still was going to kill me. And I think I believe him. So I’m kind of avoiding him for a little while.)
Meanwhile, I have spiraled into a downward depression since I haven’t been running. I feel worthless and like a failure. But the simple fact is that I can’t run – I can’t even really walk. So what can I do? Feel sorry for myself, apparently.
I called my doctor to make an appointment to get this sorted out, but his next available opening is in late September (apparently "my knee hurts" doesn’t get you to the front of the line at the doctor’s office; I should have said, "My penis is on fire" or "I’m bleeding from my eyes"). So to hell with that. Instead, I’ve given myself an ultimatum: I am running on Tuesday. This knee is going to either magically heal at this time, mostly out of respect for me and my tenacity, or it will blow itself out. At least if the latter happens I get crutches (I look good on crutches) and I’ll have an excuse when I gain all the weight I’ve lost back ("You think I wanted this? I blew out my knee! How about a little compassion, asshole!").
Anyway, since I know you jagoffs just love it when I fail, I wanted to pass on the news. I should be hovering around 250 by Halloween. I’ll keep you posted.
***************
I had my main fantasy football draft. I had fourth overall pick in a league with 12 teams. We must start two QBs. Below is my team, with the round in which I selected the player in parentheses (I had the 4th overall pick, then 21, 28, 45, etc).
QB: D. McNabb (3)
QB: J. Plummer (5)
RB: T. Barber (1)
RB: K. Jones (2)
WR: Santana Moss (4)
WR: J. Horn (7)
WR: T. Glenn (8)
TE: K. Winslow (14)
WR/RB: J. Lewis (6)
K: D. Akers (15)
DEF: Philadelphia (16)
Bench: D. Rhodes (9)
Bench: B. Johnson (10)
Bench: W. Lundy (11)
Bench: T. Williamson (12)
Bench: J. Stevens (13)
Bench: V. Morency (17)
I don’t know about you guys, but I’m impressed. I have never felt more in control of a draft than I did last night: no surprises, no freak outs, no guys before me stealing people from my queue just before I wanted to pick them. Everything was controlled, calm, and measured. I had to take Tiki 4th and I’m a little bummed I didn’t get Jacobs as a handcuff, but he went too high. I told you I was serious about Detroit – I like Kevin Jones this year and stand by that pick (besides, 16 of the first 20 picks were running backs, and with guys like Julius Jones (14), Willie Parker (15), and Corey Dillon (20) going before him, I was happy that Kevin Jones was still available at 21).
I like my QBs…yes, McNabb was a bit of a homer pick, but I think he’ll do well this year. Likewise with Jake the Snake, who was ranked as the 16th overall player last year (not bad for a 5th round pick and second QB). My WRs, which I usually neglect, are pretty strong. I don’t think Santana Moss will have as big a year, but I like Joe Horn, Terry Glenn, and everything I’ve read about Troy Williamson makes him a nice pick in the 12th.
As I said, I don’t pay much attention to TE, K, or Defense. I accidentally picked Jerramy Stevens when I really wanted Kellen Winslow, so I grabbed Winslow in the next round, so confident was I in my team up to that point. And Akers in the third to last round and the Philly defense in the second to last, well, I think those will be bargains and will at least give me something to root for (in Barber, Moss, and Glenn, I have too many NFC East adversaries).
I like my bench. Brad Johnson, I think, is better than a majority of second QBs on the other teams in my league and I have (right now) three other starting RBs: Jamal Lewis (he’s still only 28), Domenic Rhodes (a rough preseason, but the opening day starting halfback on the best offense in the NFL – in the 9th round), and the combination of Lundy and Morency in Houston, with Davis really banged up. I think at least one of those RBs, if not two, should work out pretty well.
But as I wrote before, the blessing and the curse of football is that since it’s once a week, anything can happen. Unlike baseball or basketball where you can survive if on of your marquee guys misses four or six weeks, if Tiki goes down, I’m in trouble. Let’s hope those 30 year old knees hold up.
But I feel good. Not physically, of course, but fantasy-wise. So that’s nice.
***************
While getting a haircut this week, I had a laughing attack like I haven’t had since high school.
Remember in school when something stupidly funny would happen while the teacher was talking, and you and your friend would start laughing? And then for whatever reason, you’d keep laughing? The teacher would continue talking and before you know it you and your friend would devolve into shaking heaps of flesh, your laughter completely out of control, tears coming from your eyes?
Well, that happened to me at Super Cuts this week. I was getting another terrible haircut when I thought of a funny, Jackass-type idea. You know how there’s a big flourish when the hairdresser puts the apron on you - it’s the first thing they do when you sit and then they whisk it off you after the haircut, as a way of saying "ta da!" to the new and improved you? Well, might it be kinda funny if during the time the apron is on you, you piss yourself, so that when she finally takes it off you have a huge piss stain in your pants?
…
…
…
No? Well, it was funny at the time.
And more importantly, it caused me to absolutely lose my shit, right there in the chair. At first it started with a mild chuckle. Then I thought to myself, "Dude, stop laughing." Of course, that only made it worse. Before I knew it I was shaking in the chair and the hairdresser had pulled away, asking, slightly pissed off, what was so funny. Since this was a very large black woman who said "MmmmHmm" and "Girlfriend!" several times while talking to her co-worker (I think she even once threw in a random "Chaka Khan!"), I didn’t think she’d get my lame-ass white boy joke if I said, "I was just thinking about pissing my pants," not to mention that she had scissors inches from my eyes, head, and neck. So I said "Nothing, nothing" eventually lamely offering, "I’m a comedian and I just thought of a funny bit." The rest of the haircut was, believe it or not, very awkward.
…
You know what? I just read that over. It’s terrible. Let’s just get moving.
(It was funny at the time - you just had to be there.)
(Dicks.)
***************
I need some restaurant suggestions from my NYC foodie readers.
First, I’m looking to find the best macaroni and cheese in New York City. If you have a favorite place, please email it to me, including "mac and cheese" in the subject line.
Second, I’ve mentioned that my friend Nicole and I have this thing wherein we go to a nice dinner once a month. One month, she picks and I pay, the next, I pick and she pays.
September is my month and I need your help. I want a nice Mexican place, but I’ve already been to Dos Caminos and Rosa Mexicano and don’t want to go to either one again (though I will if I have to). So tell me one. Note that the place should be "upscale"; one of my favorite Mexican place is Festival Mexicano, where the bean quesadilla is $4, but the point of mine and Nicole’s exercise is that we treat ourselves a little bit, so it can be a bit expensive. If you have a suggestion, please email me with "Mexican" in the subject line.
One last note: though the Mexican restaurant place should be limited to Manhattan, I am willing to travel to the outer boroughs for the best mac and cheese.
Thank you very much for your cooperation. I love you. I really fucking do.
***************
Six Songs
"Tart" Elvis Costello
A gorgeous and haunting later Elvis Costello song. What I like about him is that he’s matured over the years, adapting his style to his age, not pushing out the same pseudo-punk that he did early in his career (which would just be embarrassing). Also, I kind of look like him.
"Second Hand News" Fleetwood Mac
God I fucking love Fleetwood Mac, even if this song has the dumbest chorus of all time, which goes:
Bam bam bam bam bam-bam
Bam bam bam bam bam-bam
Bam bam bam bam bam-bam
Bam bam bam – Do it!
I’m not embarrassed to say that that moves me.
"The Wonder of You" Elvis Presley
My favorite song by the other Elvis. It reminds me of the wedding of my friends Christine and Louie, where, at 1am, the staff brought out a buffet-style breakfast for the guests. I mean, wow.
(Also, the band sang this song during the breakfast while I stuffed my face with eggs. It was a real moment.)
"Pledging My Love" Marvin Gaye and Diana Ross
Back in the days of BMG, I ripped them off for a number of box sets, including "Marvin Gaye: The Master." Highly, highly recommended. I don’t know what I’d like to do with this song, but it’s so overly sappy that it can’t be taken seriously. So perhaps it should play over a masturbation scene in my future award-winning screenplay. That might work, but I think I need to think about this a little more.
"Denise, Denise" Blondie
Deborah Harry speaking French? Um, yes please! It’s funny, Deborah Harry (really hard for me not to call her "Blondie") was my first love growing up (actually, it was either her or Sandy from Grease) and now I have my choice of hundreds of girls who look and dress like Deborah Harry any night of the week in the Lower East Side. Well, I don’t have my choice exactly, because that would imply that they would like to or at least consent to sleeping with me, but you know what I mean.
"All My Little Words" and "Busby Berkeley Dreams" The Magnetic Fields
All of 69 Love Songs is incredible. Literally, every song is good. These, in my opinion, are the two best. I wish I could tell you how, but I’m getting tired. But I can tell you that I have been listening to them several times a day for over a week now. Great stuff.
***************
Going to Maine this weekend to drink beer and eat lobster (after tonight’s BC thing, hopefully). Have a happy and safe Labor Day weekend.
On another sports-related note that should only be of interest to Boston College alumni in the NYC area: BC’s first football game is tomorrow (Thursday). I have never been one to give a crap about BC sports, but I do give a crap about running into people I went to college with and telling them about how great I’m doing when in college I was voted "Most Likely to Die In Murder-Suicide Involving a Stolen Bus." To this end, many BC alumni will be gathering tomorrow at 6pm at Society Bar & Restaurant on Laguardia between Bleecker & W 3rd. As of right now, I am planning to be there, but may be whisked away on an impromptu Labor Day weekend trip. At any rate, I thought I’d pass this along to any BC alumni interested in watching the game with other nerds who care way too much about BC sports while I say things like, "Yeah, I mean, fame is pretty cool, but sometimes I wish I just had a normal life, you know?" and "The worst thing about being popular is all the women who want to sleep with you – sometimes I’m like, ‘Let’s just get to know each other before you blow me in the Burger King.’ I mean, I love blowjobs and Burger King and all, but I love love, too." Or something like that.
(Told you I was focused on fantasy football.)
Also, I’ve been listening to a lot of Otis Redding all day and it’s making me want to smoke cigarettes. So there’s that, too.
But anyway, I’ll be back tomorrow. Happy Wednesday. Here’s hoping Brandon Jacobs doesn’t vulture too many of Tiki’s touchdowns, because I’m taking him at #4 (Tiki, not Jacobs).
I can’t really explain what happened this weekend, but it got a little wild. I could write about both nights, but I’m a little tired. Since Saturday night was one of the Top 20 drunkest of my life, why don’t we focus on that one?
(Hey – those first two lines rhyme!)
My buddy Joe was in town from Boston this weekend. Joe lives with his fiancée, so from the moment he arrived at my place (at 11:45 on Friday night), we started the boozing. You know, because once you live with your fiancée, you can’t drink so much.
After waking up around 2pm on Saturday with hangovers (that’s what happens when you stay at a bar until 5:30am because you’re throwing your money at the cute Asian bartender), Joe and I saw “Talladega Nights” (funny, but uneven), grabbed dinner (fried calamari and burgers are becoming my favorite one-two punch), and then started pre-gaming at my place. I was hitting the bourbon pretty hard, helping myself to healthy pint glasses of Maker’s Mark and (diet) ginger ale (after the requisite two Red Bull and vodka’s).
Then my buddy Jeremy came over. Then friends Corinne and Brian. Then Tom, Brendan, Nicole, and Stephanie. Magically, there was a small party in my apartment. Yay.
Unmagically, I was not prepared for this and so our booze ran out very quickly. I suggested that we head to what we now call The James Fucking Iha bar, which is actually called Tile Bar. We were off.
By this time, I was feeling pretty good. Joe and I were drinking at dinner and had a number of drinks prior to heading out. Things were going as planned.
We settled in at the bar and more friends arrived, including my friend Maryanne and some of her co-workers (“Maryanne” is not her name; I’ve changed it because I’m not sure she’d want to be associated with this post, for reasons that will become apparent shortly). Maryanne was with two co-workers and promptly introduced me. The first I had never met, but I did not need an introduction to the second, for I knew her.
Indeed, she was The Challenger.
(Story time!)
A few years ago, I was dating a girl who abruptly dumped me. This made me sad and I responded in the way that men respond to such things: by becoming a whore. For some reason, whenever I come out of a relationship, my ”game” naturally elevates itself. I go from being about as smooth as your average bowling alley employee to just above the level of Antonio Banderas.
[Note that this applies only to relationships in which I've been dumped or otherwise felt wronged or unappreciated. If the relationship ends amicably or by my accord, I do not get my magic powers. Which sucks, because if this wasn't the case, I would probably start dating a series of girls in wheelchairs and then immediately breaking up with them, just to get my sexual powers. But alas, it's not to be.]
It was under these circumstances that I first met The Challenger, who we will call Rebecca. A bunch of my friends and I were out and Maryanne brought Rebecca to the bar we were at. Rebecca and I were introduced and I felt it immediately – we were going to make out.
I descended upon Rebecca like a hawk from hell. I’ve written before that my idea of foreplay goes 1) Start making out; 2) Count to 100; and 3) Stick it in. My process of seduction is similarly rushed and just as brutally effective.
I started talking to Rebecca, buying us drinks, laughing it up. As I did so, I began to isolate us from the rest of the group. Not that we were on the other side of the bar or anything, but so that we were far enough from our friends not to be distracted. I need to do this because I can’t have my friends coming up to me when I’m talking to a woman and saying things like, “You know – I was thinking about that time junior year when you ate your own semen and in retrospect I don’t think it was that big a deal.” Alternatively, I can’t have her friends pulling her aside to warn her about me or whispering things to her, like, “Maryanne just told me that this guy tried to rob a bank last week. Run away.”
(I would like to say something semi-smooth like “By pulling her away from the others, I’m trying to create a date-like environment,” but that’s just not the truth. If anything, I’m trying to trap her so that she’s forced to talk to me. She could be a woman or a bear – it doesn’t really matter.
Rebecca and I were hitting it off. She was an aspiring actress and, more importantly, a redhead (I had never been with a redhead – and still haven’t, I don’t think). Things were progressing smoothly as I kept getting both she and I vodka tonics.
[Also, actresses are sexy to me, if for no other reason that if they start acting crazy, you can qualify it by saying, "Well, she is an actress." I used to sort of see an actress who fascinated me and also gave the most incredible blowjobs in the history of mankind. Of course, I fucked it up, in part because my old roommate Ben nicknamed her Big Hair. Giving nicknames to girls I hook up with is typical of Ben - I've been with Big Hair, Man Hands, Man Shoes, John Wayne/The Mitt (who was so "rugged" that she could allegedly light matches off her face) and For Real (who was so talkative and annoying that Ben couldn't believe that I too didn't find her annoying, saying, "For real? She doesn't annoy you? For real?" She actually did annoy the shit out of me but she was pretty hot, so I put up with it for as long as I could before dropping out.) Anyway, the kicker with Big Hair was that she later got her hair cut and it wasn't so big anymore and it looked great. And, of course, the blowjobs. How it ends: I lose. But back to Rebecca and I...]
Soon enough, sure enough, by the grace of God and the good people at Ketel One, Rebecca and I were making out. I am an unabashed bar maker outter (I hope spellcheck later changes this word to otter, because that would be awesome). I know that making out with a stranger at a bar in front of your friends is not really the classy thing to do, but really, when a woman wants to kiss me, that feeling usually lasts for only a brief moment in time. Meaning, my window of opportunity is short so I must take advantage right away, whether in a bar or at a party or on public transportation. Also, it’s fun to kiss a girl with your eyes open while looking at your friends across the room who are looking at you. It really creeps them out. Like, big time.
One thing I’m not touching on is that by this point Rebecca and I were both pretty drunk. I mean, there is a requisite level of intoxication that one must reach – even someone as shameless as I – before it’s acceptable to be groping another person in a bar. The good news is that Rebecca and I had reached this level a good half hour before we even started making out. So we were simply now two drunks all over each other in a corner.
Eventually, when I realized that we might soon be asked to leave the bar because of the way we were carrying on, I started plying Rebecca with requests to come home with me. She protested, saying again and again that she wasn’t that type of girl, that we had just met, etc. She said that she wanted to see me again and to prove this gave me her number, then and there. We kept making out.
I don’t remember how she made her exit (again, very drunk), but we pried ourselves off each other and she left the bar. I walked over to my friends to hear things like, “Dude, that was the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen” and “The image of you holding that girl’s face in your creepy hands while you kissed her – I mean, I won’t sleep for weeks.” They were obviously jealous.
About fifteen minutes later, I looked outside the bar to see Rebecca standing there with my friends smoking cigarettes, among them coincidentally my buddy Joe (the same guy who visited me this weekend), when I thought she had left. Once she and I parted, my testosterone and boner had cooled off quite a bit, resulting me in realizing how drunk I actually was. I stumbled out to say hello to Rebecca and maybe get some more make out time in. Drunk Jason likes to make out.
I don’t remember much of us standing outside, but there was no making out or touching between Rebecca and I. We just all stood around in a circle, talking.
And then disaster struck.
Seemingly out of nowhere, a guy came over to Rebecca, grabbed her by the hand, and indifferently, casually, led her away. There were romantic overtones in these actions. As he led her away, Rebecca looked back at me with this look. I can’t explain it, but I don’t know if she was trying to exude sexiness or if it was a cocky “fuck you.” Any way you cut it, the girl I had just spent all night making out with had left with another guy.
Fuck.
At that moment, Rebecca became The Challenger. Why? Because, according to Joe, who was an eyewitness as all this transpired, I made the face that every American made on the fateful day of January 28, 1986 when the Space Shuttle Challenger exploded in the skies above Florida. I went through the same sequence of emotions: confusion about what was going on; shock when I realized what was actually happening; horror when I thought of its implications; and finally, deep and lasting sadness when I was left with its memory. Not my finest moment.
Of course, I was duly ragged on by my buddies for what had transpired. I called my friend Maryanne the next afternoon to chastise her for hanging out with such strumpets when she said, “Yeah, I forgot to mention that she has a boyfriend.”
Thanks, Mare – INFORMATION THAT WOULD HAVE BEEN USEFUL YESTERDAY. Apparently, Rebecca was out separately from her boyfriend, but they met up at the end of the night to go home together.
As you might imagine, I was confused by the whole situation. We made out all night long, she gave me her number, told me she wanted to see me again – was I played? Was I the naive victim of a conniving temptress who nearly gave me blue balls? Or was there something more here that required explanation?
I never found out. I never spoke to Maryanne again about The Challenger and though the story would occasionally be brought up by my buddies (“Remember when you made out with that girl all night and then she left with her boyfriend and you almost cried?”), it was generally forgotten about, another horror story relegated to the annals of the miserable sex life of Jason Michael Joseph Patrick Aloysius Elizabeth Mulgrew.
NOW – back to this weekend. The Challenger was now standing right in front of me. Maryanne had long-forgotten the story and off-handedly introduced me to The Challenger before realizing her mistake as the awkwardness unfolded:
Maryanne: “Jason, this is my friend Rebecca. Rebecca, this is Jason.”
Rebecca: [glint of recognition not so well-hidden] ”Uh, yeah…hi.”
Me: [sweating, clenching teeth] “Um, hi as well. To you. Hello.”
Maryanne: [realizing mistake, pooping self] ”Uh…uh…”
I pride myself on my ability to not be awkward in any situation, but when an embarrassing story I hadn’t thought about in years came to life before my eyes – after a half a bottle of whiskey, no less - well, this was a little much.
At least the place was loud and crowded with my friends, so I was able to casually slip away after making the introduction so that I could run up to my buddy Joe and tug at him like a child trying to wake his parents on Christmas morning, screaming, “The Challenger is here! The Challenger has landed! The Challenger is actually in this fucking bar!”
Within approximately eight seconds, all of my friends who didn’t know the story had been surreptitiously apprised and the stage was set for an evening of awkwardness, pregnant with the possibility of drunken histrionics.
But Dear Reader, I fear I will only let you down, like I let down my friends that night. I wish I could report that I walked up to her and confronted her, possibly calling her an antiquated slur for prostitute like tart or harlot or even trollop; or that I shit in a bag in the bathroom, walked out of the bathroom, dumped the shit out in front of her, and said, “This is how you made me feel”; or that I start making out with my buddy Joe, groping him like I had once groped her, before finally saying to her, “I found kissing you so objectionable that I became a homosexual – how does that suit you? And tell me: as you watch my boyfriend and I kiss, you wish you were him, don’t you?”
Yet I did none of these things. Instead, I did what has since become natural to me: I retreated to the ever-loving arms of my true mistress, Whiskey. Over the course of the next few hours, I did two things very well: 1) completely ignored The Challenger (who, it is worth noting, was wearing an engagement ring with a diamond smaller than most of the diamonds I find in my stool); 2) got completely fucking annihilated. I don’t claim to be a serious whiskey drinker (despite my best efforts) but I have learned to tame it over the last few months, so I know how much I can drink and what state I’ll be in if I surpass this amount.
But for whatever reason, on Saturday night, things fell apart. I can’t give you an account of the night, but as I watched The Challenger from afar, stewing in my own rage and perspiration, I got very, very intoxicated. I don’t remember the night, I don’t remember how I got home, I don’t remember anything. I remember seeing The Challenger, vaguely recall being at the bar, and then waking up. That’s all I’ve got from about 1am until 12pm Saturday night/Sunday morning.
[A story to prove this point: my buddy Terry came over my place at 5am to hang out with Joe and I. I was already passed out by that point. But apparently they woke me up and I got up and smoked cigarettes with them until 7am. I have absolutely no recollection of this. Also, I don't smoke cigarettes. But, you know, whatever.]
[Further, Joe, who's been one of my best friends for 13 years and who I lived with all through college, said the only time he's ever seen me so drunk is at the Mummers Parade, which regular readers know is a booze orgy Philly tradition. So there's that too.]
There is no resolution to this story, no great ending. I met The Challenger, I balked, and then I blacked out from alcohol. I made it through the night without confronting The Challenger or doing anything to harm myself or others. I successfully maintained my pride (I think) and self-respect but no vengeance.
I woke up only with a hangover and a story. But really, that’s all I’m looking for on the weekends, so that’s alright with me.
atque in perpetuum, Challenger, ave atque vale
This is how much I weighed when I started my diet, 60 days ago:
With some feet, since they’re probably my best feature
This is how much I weighed when I got on the scale this morning, marking the end of my diet:
Even my feet look thinner!
This is what I have to say to all the people who said I couldn’t do it:
Looking like a crazy person early in the mornin’
For 60 days, I dieted. The goal was to lose 20 pounds in those 60 days. I cut my calories dramatically. Prior to dieting, I was consuming about 3000 calories a day during the week and upwards of 5000 on the weekends. I shrank this to 1200 on weekdays and probably around 3500 on the weekends. This was, believe it or not, surprisingly easy - in part because I compensated for lack of calories with more masturbation. Which was nice.
For 60 days, I dieted. The goal was to lose 20 pounds in those 60 days. I cut my calories dramatically. Prior to dieting, I was consuming about 3000 calories a day during the week and upwards of 5000 on the weekends. I shrank this to 1200 on weekdays and probably around 3500 on the weekends. This was, believe it or not, surprisingly easy - in part because I compensated for lack of calories with more masturbation. Which was nice.
I also began “running.” For my first “running” exercise, I decided to run as long as I could without stopping from being short of breath. I lasted two and a half blocks and had to be carried back to my apartment by a Chinese family who I later learned were itinerant (the Hans – lovely people, except that little cocksucker Huan). Slowly but surely, I progressed. This past Sunday, I ran for 6.1 miles straight. And I probably could have gone on longer, but after 60 minutes the treadmill goes into a 5 minute “cooling period” and then shuts down. I now try to run at least 3 miles every time I’m at the gym. Otherwise, no masturbating when I get home.
When I started the diet, I was wearing size 38 pants. If you listened closely though, you could hear my button and zipper holding on for dear life, screaming bloody murder (“Can’t…hold it…much…longer! Smell…of semen…too strong!”). So really, my waist was at least size 39, possibly 40. As I type this, I am wearing size 36 pants and I feel comfortable and look fashionable (I also had to buy a new belt, as I ran out of notches on my old one and thought it wouldn’t be very professional to use a dart or kitchen knife to make another hole)
I have lost 33 pounds in 60 days (I had lost 20 by Day 38). I am noticeably thinner, faster, more fit. Most of my clothes fit me better; some don’t fit at all, since they’re too big. I no longer suffer from heartburn, (most) poo problems, nor do I have trouble sleeping. Even though I have yet to begin weightlifting, I’ve noticed muscles appearing in my arms, legs, and shoulders that were not there previously. If I were to make love, I imagine I could do so for a longer amount of time (because, of course, I’m usually incapable of having an orgasm when I’m making love, as I’m so drunk I might as well be having sex with an empty trash bag, so how long I last depends entirely on physical rather than genital stamina).
Most importantly, for me at least, it that for the first time in a very long time, I am under 200 pounds. Sure, it’s only 199.5, but I’m kind of a lawyer and I can tell you that 199.5 is legally below 200. All my life I’ve been 6’1″ and floating around 235. Now I am 6’1″ and under 200 pounds. This blows my fucking mind.
[I mentioned before that my junior year of high school ('95-'96) I ran for Student Council under the slogan "239 lbs of Vice President." So I'm guessing the last time I was around 200 pounds was my freshman year of high school, 13 years ago.]
But aside from the physical benefits, I feel great across the board. I feel smarter. I’ve never read books at such a feverish pace. I’ve taken to going back to my old Russian books and cds and am brushing up on the language. My bed is surrounded by books of poetry, partially to impress any women that lie there with me but also because when I read them they make me cry a little bit. And all this calorie counting has made me a human calculator. (310 + 440 = 750. I didn’t even have to look that up.)
I feel more driven. I’ve set up a number of goals for myself – physically, mentally, professionally – for the next few months and intend to meet – nay, destroy – them. I won’t get into mental or professional goals because some are gay and some are surprises, but the physical goals I can talk about. When I started this diet, I intended these last 60 days to be only Phase I of the Jason Mulgrew Reclamation Project (Phase I was also known as ”Let’s Move It, Fat Chops”). I had no specific goals aside to move more, eat less, and lose weight. Phase II (“Now We Have Something To Work With”) will last through September and October and will involve circuit training with weights and more high level cardio activity, namely running 15-20 miles per week. Phase III (“One of My Balls Could Beat Your Ass”), in November and December, will be the most intense yet. During this phase I hope to be running 25+ miles per week and, after getting my muscles under control in Phase II, getting involved in some serious weightlifting. The goal is that by January 1, 2007 I will be able to kill a man with one punch AND fuck his girlfriend AND climb a mountain to escape the police. You know, pretty much what every guy wants.
I feel more creative. Maybe it hasn’t come across here in the blog, but in terms of my projects, I feel alight with inspiration and couldn’t be happier with how things are going. Additionally, for the first time in four years, I’ve started writing music again. I know that sounds precocious and I realize that creating songs that rhyme “You hit on my dad/I attract fags” does not warrant such a pompous declaration, but it’s true.
[Also, "dad" and "fag" really do rhyme. Bet you didn't realize that before you read this post.]
This is a very good time in my life. A most excellent time, even.
But there is one problem. As you read this, I’m guessing that you’re having either one of two reactions. I hope that you are saying, “Good for Jason. I’m happy for him. And I’ll probably fuck him now.” Or you could be thinking, “Dude, stick to eating mozzarella sticks in the tub. I don’t want to hear about this shit.”
For those in the latter camp, I want to assure you that I will ALWAYS enjoy eating mozzarella sticks in the tub. I’m not just saying this either; I love mozzarella sticks and am eating one now. But I wanted to point out that this diet has strictly been limited to my personal time. The diet has manifested itself when I’m alone: eating breakfast and lunch in my office or heating up a dinner at my apartment or going to the gym after work. Never have I let it affect my social life. I get really fucked up on the weekends (and some weekdays) and drink whatever I want (I’ve mentioned many times that my tolerance has been lowered because of this diet, which is great). I have plowed through many a slice of pizza at 4am. And I’ve gorged myself on all sorts of fat-full dinners out over the past few weeks. Socially, I’m the same consumer that I’ve always been.
(If you don’t believe me, bring some mozzarella sticks to my place tonight. I’ll sit in the tub and eat them and you can sit on the toilet and watch. But keep your eyes above sea level, if you know what I mean.)
And now I promise that I will stop writing about the diet, since it is, effectively, over. Of course, I may talk about going to the gym, but that’s because it’s an endless source of material (also, I am falling desperately in love with a girl there; it’s only a matter of time before we are husband and wife so you should get to know her now, as I’ll need your approval of course). You won’t be hearing anything more about how much weight I’ve lost (especially since as I’m shifting now to a protein-based diet and will begin lifting I expect to gain 10 pounds back and don’t want to brag about that), or how much weight I’m lifting or any of that. So don’t worry. Uncle Jason is here. So is Larry. So is normal Jason. Everything’s gonna be alright.
But for now, it is a time to celebrate. My old roommate Brian and I have recently invented a new level of drunkenness: impotent drunk. As the name implies, it is getting so drunk that you are unable to get and maintain an erection. Well, I’m getting impotent drunk this weekend – all weekend. I’ve got a buddy in town from Boston and another coming from Philly this Saturday and the situation should be fully out of control by about tonight at 10pm. I may even poop myself – who knows? I’m going to play it by ear. All I know is that I’ve worked pretty hard and things are probably going to get a little crazy over the next 48 hours.
In closing, thank you for tolerating my talk of dieting. While I am apologetic about how much space I’ve used on the blog to discuss the diet, it doesn’t change the fact that I think what I’ve done is pretty fucking awesome – no apologies for that. But in the future, I look forward to talking less about it (or not at all). Except of course when I gain 45 pounds over the next two weeks. I’ll be sure to chronicle that.
[Have a good weekend.]
I was going through emails this morning and found this lovely lil’ one. Melissa from (I presume) NYC writes:
Were you walking on 1st Avenue near 12th [Monday] night? Wearing an orange shirt? I saw a guy that looks like you. If that WAS you - you have skinny legs.
Well, hello Melissa! Nice to meet you too! Yes, that probably was me, as I was walking down 1st on Monday night and rocking my orange t-shirt (one of my favorites). But I have to take umbrage with the "skinny legs" remark. While my legs may appear skinny, I assure you they are not. I have great legs. Actually, an ex of mine said that the sexiest thing about me was my legs and often remarked how "powerful" they were. So maybe you had a little too much to drink and couldn’t tell from your brief glance, but my legs are great. Of course, the ex that said that about my legs is now in prison. Which I feel kinda bad about, since I should have noticed the warning signs - what with her directing the word "sexy" at me and all. But the psychologist said that some people are just born arsonists. So that offers me some comfort. That and my powerful legs.
[On second thought, is it kind of sad that the thing my ex found most sexy about me was my legs? Not my eyes, shoulders, or bird, but my legs? Not even, like, my presence or charisma? My legs?]
[...]
[This has been one painful trip down memory lane. Thanks, Melissa. Thanks a lot. You know what - I didn't see you, but you have fat legs. How does that taste? Bittersweet, I bet. Bittersweet.]
I am the commissioner of a series of fantasy leagues called "Iron Sheik" (named after the one and only Iron Sheik, also coincidentally the name of our college softball team, the same one on which I batted .800 senior year, all the while maintaining a blood-alcohol level of at least .12). Roughly the same group of guys have been doing this since 2000, with one league per year for baseball, football, and basketball. This year’s football league is Iron Sheik XX. Of the 18 titles so far won (as IS XIX – baseball – is still in progress), I have won 4 of them. And this is a very competitive league. Translation: I am fucking awesome at fantasy sports.
But before I get into my fantasy primer, I have to admit that football was not kind to me last year. I failed to even make the playoffs, a decidedly not awesome move. But at least I have an excuse: I took Daunte Culpepper in the first round and Ahman Green in the second. Ouch. Injuries destroyed these two players and ultimately my season. That’s the joy and pain of football: because it’s only once a week, anything can happen. Which is great, except when I get fucked.
[I should note that in my leagues, we start two QBs, which makes things immensely more difficult. There are only 30 starting QBs in all the NFL and twelve teams in my fantasy league. Do the math. QBs are very important to us. However, this has no bearing on the rankings below, since I've broken them up by position.]
Iron Sheik tradition is that draft order is determined one week before the draft. On this day, a female co-worker – one who I hopefully have no made out with, but few are available - will come into my office and randomly pick out of a hat (or folder) the names of each of the league participants. To ensure validity and that I’m not rigging this, she does this while at least two other members of the league are on speakerphone.
We determined our draft order yesterday, as the draft is next Wednesday. And I got the 4th pick.
Yes, the dreaded 4th pick. It is widely accepted that 1-2-3 in pretty much every single fantasy football draft is some variation of Larry Johnson-Shaun Alexander-LaDainian Tomlinson. After that, you’re left with a mish-mash of RBs that are too similar too each other for much of a difference. And I have to pick one of these bums.
[Or maybe I'll take Peyton, but I doubt it - I'll explain below.]
So while I struggle with what I’m going to do with my 4th overall pick, I’ll give you my draft primer. First, I’m repeating the same draft tips I wrote last year, then I’ll get into the individual rankings. Good luck and god speed.
Draft Tips
1) Do your research. This may seem obvious, but if you wing it, you’ll lose. Sure, anyone with a fundamental knowledge of football can navigate through the first few rounds, but what happens in round 8 when you’re looking for a 3rd receiver and are deciding between Braylon Edwards and Donte Stallworth?
At the very least, visit the fantasy sections of ESPN, Yahoo, and CBS Sportsline to get a general idea of two things: what statistics players put up last year and where players are being drafting. Yeah, odds are good that Peyton Manning will have around 30 TDs and he’s a high pick, but what about a guy like Thomas Jones? Where’s he being drafted in relation to Cedric Benson?
Go into the draft with some stuff printed out with last year’s stats. That’ll give you a cheat sheet to look over during the draft. Additionally, I like to highlight certain guys I like, making notes on the side. Do whatever makes you comfortable, but you should have a little bit of paperwork to refer to during the draft.
2) Lie and manipulate. If you are in a league with friends, constantly engage them in conversations before the draft. Feel them out about their battle plans, who they like, etc and reciprocate with information that is entirely false. The important thing is to be sincere and seem honest. A good way to do this is by saying stuff like, "You know, I don’t even know if I should tell you this, but I think John Kitna is going to blow up this year" when you secretly think his shoulders going to detach from his body in Week 3.
Say you have the 6th pick in the first round, and you’re buddy has the 5th. You really, really want Edgerrin James, but think your buddy at 5 is going to take him. The solution: talk up another player. "Dude, I love Portis. Did you see how sick he was at the end of last year? But c’mon – don’t take him, dude. I’m calling dibbs on him." More than likely, your buddy at 5 will take Portis, in the hopes of screwing you over, and you’ll get Edge. Remember, the other owners in your league are just as soulless as you are, just much, much dumber. The point is, NEVER show your true hand. Flaunt your fake hand constantly.
3) Don’t panic, and start or stay off the waves. Countless mistakes are made during the draft because the manager was panicking. Don’t be like this. As your pick comes back to you, be sure to have at least two choices ready. This way, if the guy ahead of you takes the player you wanted, you don’t make a rash decision and end up taking a kicker in the 5th round.
A good deal of draft panic derives from position runs. This happens when a number of players of the same position are selected in a row, causing owners to think, "Holy crap! All the [QBs, WRs, TEs, etc] are going! I have to get one now!" The result is that they wind up with a not-as-good player, because they jumped on the wave too late.
My advice is to either stay off these or start them. I usually stay off rather than start them, just because it’s easier. But say you’re in the third round, and the guy a few picks before you takes Daunte Culpepper. Then the next guy takes Donovan McNabb. Then the next guy takes Jake Delhomme or Matt Hasselbeck or someone. Then it’s on. You’ll see a flurry of managers selecting QBs that shouldn’t be selected. In this situation, I would back off, take a RB or star WR, and wait a few rounds before taking a serviceable QB (Warner, Bulger, etc).
Runs or waves most often happen late in the draft when people pick kickers or defenses. I usually completely ignore these, preferring instead to take a third RB or another QB. Which brings us to…
4) Fuck tight ends, kickers, and defenses. Simply put, these don’t matter very much. There’s something to be said for having Tony Gonzalez or Antonio Gates, but if you don’t get them in round 4 or 5, forget it. In a 16 round draft, I won’t take these three positions until rounds 12-16. And even then I don’t put much thought into it. I’d rather pick up a different defense every week and draft a young WR with a lot of upside than take the Pittsburgh defense in the 8th.
5) Know your enemy. When you’re picking, it’s important to know who the managers around you already have on their teams. For example, say you have the 8th pick in a 10 person league. It’s the 3rd round, and you’re really looking for a QB, but you see that a nice WR has fallen to you. Check to see who the 9th and 10th owners have. If they already have a QB, take the WR with your 3rd round choice and then get the QB on the wrap in the 4th round, following the logic that if the guys picking after you already have a QB, they’re not going to take another one. This knowledge is key.
6) Think "best available." I’m all for filling out your roster positions, but at the same time I adhere to the principle of "best available," meaning take the best available player, regardless of position. For example, say by the 3rd round I’ve drafted two quality RBs and a decent QB. In round 4, if I see another very good RB who I think has lasted too long, I will take him over a WR that I have less confidence in. Sure, it means that I have one RB too many, but it also means that my competitor won’t have this RB on his team. It’s a wise decision to draft best available because it means a) you’ll have trade bait and b) it’s offensive by being defensive.
7) Handcuff, handcuff, handcuff. Spend the last few rounds making sure you draft the backups of your marquee players. Players get hurt and their backups step up and often times play well (especially in the case of RBs and, to a less extent, QBs). For a lesson, look at the sorry losers who drafted Priest Holmes last year but didn’t also take Larry Johnson. Um, opps.
So there are your tips. Now onto the positions.
[Note: We will assume that this is a standard scoring league with ten teams playing head-to-head, the position break-down being: QB, RB, RB, WR, WR, WR, TE, K, DEF. "Sleepers" and "busts" mean that I think relative to where these players are being drafted, they will perform better or worse. If I say that Peyton Manning is a potential bust, I don’t mean that I think he’s going to throw for 6 TDs and 20 INTs. I mean that he ain’t gonna perform like a #4 overall pick. Dig?]
QUARTERBACK
1 Peyton Manning, Ind
2 Tom Brady, NE
3 Donovan McNabb, Phi
4 Carson Palmer, Cin
5 Matt Hasselbeck, Sea
6 Daunte Culpepper, Mia
7 Eli Manning, NYG
8 Jake Delhomme, Car
9 Drew Brees, NO
10 Kurt Warner, Ari
11 Trent Green, KC
12 Jake Plummer, Den
13 Marc Bulger, StL
14 Ben Roethlisberger, Pit
15 Michael Vick, Atl
16 Brett Favre, GB
17 Byron Leftwich, Jac
18 Jon Kitna, Det
19 Brad Johnson, Min
20 Philip Rivers, SD
Peyton at 1, Brady at 2, and – McNabb at 3? Call me a homer, but he looks terrific in camp. Yeah, yeah – he’s got no one to throw to, but he didn’t for 90% of his career and had some fine years. Carson Palmer has the biggest question mark of any player in the league. Yes, he threw for 32 TDs last year, but his knee got really fucked up. As my buddy Joe and I were recently discussing, he doesn’t seem like what the announcers call "a player" – everything I’m reading is talking about how tentative he’s being. I’m not exactly saying he’s a pussy, but I am saying I hope that I don’t have to make a call on draft day on whether or not to take him.
[And I stress this every year (well, last year and this year): do not overvalue Peyton. Yes, he threw an unbelievable 49 TDs two years ago. But in the past five years he's thrown 26-27-29-49-28 TDs - which of these things is not like the others? Fine numbers and all, but expect 28, not 38.]
Potential Sleepers: Three jump out - Culpepper, Kitna, and Rivers. Culpepper burned me (and many others) very badly last year, but when he’s healthy, he’s an incredible talent. As I said yesterday, I’m a big believer in Mike Martz’s offensive system and John Kitna (I never thought I’d say this) is a good QB. As for Rivers, remember: many had him higher than Eli on their draft boards. He’ll take his lumps, but he’s got a 6’6" target who just so happens to be the best TE in the league within ten yards of him and one of the top RBs in the league lining up behind him (and a great pass catcher). I can’t think of a better set-up for a young QB than that.
Potential Busts: Culpepper. Just too damn intriguing to let slip too far, but such a painful history (so, so much pain). I only have a hunch about this, but I feel like Eli is very overrated (especially if you have Giants fans in your league) and people are a little high on Delhomme (even though I think the Panthers will win the Super Bowl).
Guys Who Might Kill Me Because I Hate Them: Drew Bledsoe, who isn’t even on this list. Fuck you, Drew. Also, fuck you, Chris Simms. You and your dad both suck.
RUNNING BACK
1 LaDainian Tomlinson, SD
2 Shaun Alexander, Sea
3 Larry Johnson, KC
4 Tiki Barber, NYG
5 Clinton Portis, Was
6 Edgerrin James, Ari
7 Steven Jackson, StL
8 Rudi Johnson, Cin
9 LaMont Jordan, Oak
10 Carnell Williams, TB
11 Ronnie Brown, Mia
12 Kevin Jones, Det
13 Domanick Davis, Hou
14 Willis McGahee, Buf
15 Corey Dillon, NE
16 Reggie Bush, NO
17 Brian Westbrook, Phi
18 Julius Jones, Dal
19 Chester Taylor, Min
20 DeShaun Foster, Car
21 Joseph Addai, Ind
22 Mike Bell, Den
23 Warrick Dunn, Atl
24 Reuben Droughns, Cle
25 Willie Parker, Pit
You really can’t go wrong with any of the top three in any order. I choose LT because he’s done it for awhile now, while LJ has less than a full season of dominance (serious fucking dominance, but still) and Shaun Alexander is a) no longer in a contract year; b) lost star o-lineman Steve Hutchinson; and most importantly c) is on the cover of "Madden 07" and thus susceptible to the Madden cover jinx. Tiki is a natural at 4 (no, I don’t believe that Brandon Jacobs will vulture too many of his TDs AND look at Tiki’s yards receiving the past few years). Portis and his shoulder scares the hell out of me, especially since the Skins traded for Duckett (who WILL vulture goal-line touches), but no one puts the fear of God in me like Edge. Yes, Kurt Warner quietly had a great year throwing to two of the best WRs in the league (Fitzgerald and Boldin), but that o-line is terrible, absolutely terrible. Edge could have an MVP-type year or, um, not so much.
Potential Sleepers: Why is everyone down on Corey Dillon? Have I missed something here? Maybe I have, but he had like a dozen TDs last year but isn’t cracking many top 20 lists. I think Kevin Jones could have a nice year for the same reason I believe in John Kitna – the RB in a Martz system is the recipient of a lot of scores (yes, I realize that Kevin Jones is no Marshall Faulk, but if he’s half that, that’s cool with me). Watch out for Chestor Taylor and DeShaun Foster as well.
Potential Busts: I think Reggie Bush is very overrated at the moment. I think I have him too high in my list, but there is always a chance that Deuce gets hurt and Reggie runs for 1400 yards, so I want to cover my ass. But I wouldn’t take him too high. I mentioned Edge’s and Portis’s potential as busts above
Guys Who Might Kill Me Because I Hate Them: Take your pick – Cedric Benson, Thomas Jones, Deuce McAllister, Reggie Bush. I have little to no idea what’s going on in these situations, so fuck ‘em all. Fuck ‘em all to hell.
WIDE RECEIVER
1 Steve Smith, Car
2 Marvin Harrison, Ind
3 Chad Johnson, Cin
4 Terrell Owens, Dal
5 Torry Holt, StL
6 Randy Moss, Oak
7 Larry Fitzgerald, Ari
8 Anquan Boldin, Ari
9 Hines Ward, Pit
10 Santana Moss, Was
11 Chris Chambers, Mia
12 Roy Williams, Det
13 Plaxico Burress, NYG
14 Reggie Wayne, Ind
15 T.J. Houshmandzadeh, Cin
16 Javon Walker, Den
17 Joe Horn, NO
18 Lee Evans, Buf
19 David Givens, Ten
20 Derrick Mason, Bal
21 Donald Driver, GB
22 Andre Johnson, Hou
23 Darrell Jackson, Sea
24 Keenan McCardell, SD
25 Joey Galloway, TB
26 Matt Jones, Jac
27 Brandon Lloyd, Was
28 Drew Bennett, Ten
29 Rod Smith, Den
30 Troy Williamson, Min
Admittedly, WR is the weakest part of my game, in part because I just can’t be bothered as much as with the other positions. A good QB will get 20 TDs and 2500 yards, a good RB 10 TDs and 1200 yards, a good WR 7 TDs and 1000 yards. So naturally I spend more time on the money positions. And it kills me almost every year.
But this year I’ve been researching a bit more on the WR position and feel pretty confident. The top 10 here and the same top 10 you’ll see on almost every list, but two things to note: 1) If Terrell Owens is healthy (and I don’t know how big that "if" is), he is going to have a very big year. Or I will assassinate him. 2) Did you ever think you’d see the day when Randy Moss is out of the top five? I had trouble doing it myself, but I had a lot more faith in Kerry Collins (and we all know how that worked out) than I do in Aaron Fucking Brooks. Poor guy. Randy, why don’t you come to Philly? Please?
Potential Sleepers: Roy Williams (see Jones, K; Kitna, J), Javon Walker (if he regains his speed, Plummer likes the bomb – could be a nice match); Joe Horn (yeah, he doesn’t score, but who else is Brees going to pass to?), Matt Jones (gotta love a white guy who learned to play WR just last year and had a good season).
Potential Busts: Depending on the fate of Carson Palmer, I’m a little concerned with the Cincy guys; I don’t even know if I truly feel Johnson should be #3, but his potential and gold teeth lure me to him like a siren song. And Hines Ward can’t possibly have a better year than he did last year. Other than that, since WR is a difficult position to predict, no one really jumps out as a potential bust.
Guys Who Might Kill Me Because I Hate Them: Because I’m not so hot on Eli, Plaxico might give me fits this season. Keyshawn gets a big fuck you, and while we’re at it, so does Jerry Porter (nicknamed by former coach John Gruden "The Rainbow" – pretty when he’s around, but barely so) and Laveranues Coles (just because I had to look at the ESPN.com site five times before I spelled his name correctly).
TIGHT END
1 Antonio Gates, SD
2 Tony Gonzalez, KC
3 Alge Crumpler, Atl
4 Jeremy Shockey, NYG
5 Todd Heap, Bal
6 Jason Witten, Dal
7 Randy McMichael, Mia
8 L.J. Smith, Phi
9 Kellen Winslow, Cle
10 Ben Watson, NE
11 Vernon Davis, SF
12 Chris Cooley, Was
13 Dallas Clark, Ind
14 Heath Miller, Pit
15 Jerramy Stevens, Sea
There is actually some pretty nice depth in the position this year; no need to fret if you miss out on Gates and Gonzalez early on. Though they still are the best of the group, if you’re in a 10 person league, I think these top, say, 12 guys are all capable of at least 6 TDs, in some case many more. I’ve been doing fantasy football for six years and I can’t recall and deeper class of TEs (translation: don’t waste an early pick on Gates or Gonzo).
Potential Sleepers: I am loving three guys later on – LJ Smith, Kellen Winslow, and Ben Watson. I think LJ finally stops dropping passes and pulls it together – reports from camp have been good. Kellen Winslow is a complete asshole, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he has a very big year – he’s been drafted rather low among TEs, so don’t forget him. And Ben Watson, well, I just feel it. I’m thinking he could pull something like 8 TDs this year.
Potential Busts: Jeremy Shockey’s 900 yards last year were nice, but when is he going to establish himself as a big-time red zone target? I have him listed 4th here and I believe that he is, but I wouldn’t draft him before round 8 or 9. Yes, everyone knows Vernon Davis is big, but don’t bite too early on him.
Guys Who Might Kill Me Because I Hate Them: None come immediately come to mind. I mean, I hate Shockey and Winslow, but I guarantee I won’t have Shockey on any teams (other assholes will take him higher than I would) and Winslow is just a dick but kinda sexy, so there’s that.
KICKER
1 Adam Vinatieri, Ind
2 Neil Rackers, Ari
3 Jason Elam, Den
4 David Akers, Phi
5 Mike Vanderjagt, Dal
6 Shayne Graham, Cin
7 Jay Feely, NYG
8 Josh Brown, Sea
9 Jeff Wilkins, StL
10 John Kasay, Car
I’m not going to do sleepers/busts for kickers and defenses because I don’t care, I don’t know enough to, and this is already really, really long. I have two rules when it comes to selecting kickers: 1) Take a kicker on an offense that scores a lot; 2) Take a kicker than plays in nice weather. I have no idea how many field goals any of these guys will kick, but I know Indy will score points and they play inside. There are exceptions (Elam, though the thin Colorado air makes the ball fly) and ol’ Ryan Longwell back in the GB days, but a kicker is not going to make or break your season so don’t take any of these guys too high.
DEFENSE
1 Bears
2 Steelers
3 Panthers
4 Colts
5 Seahawks
6 Giants
7 Ravens
8 Jaguars
9 Broncos
10 Eagles
11 Buccaneers
12 Cowboys
13 Redskins
14 Patriots
15 Bengals
More important than kickers but more difficult to predict are defenses. Unless you use some crazy scoring systems, the most important indicator of a good fantasy defense is how many TDs it scores (whereas in the NFL defenses are ranked on yards allowed). How the hell can you guess how many TDs a defense will score? Frustrating owners further is that statistically, there is only a slight (or at least erratic) correlation between the NFL’s best defenses and fantasy’s. Fuck. So use this list, use another list, or just make it the fuck up: as long as you don’t take a defense too early, we can still be friends.
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There’s your 2006 fantasy football primer. Wow – almost 4000 words. Do you see what happens when I’m allowed to write about sports? Thank you for indulging me over the past two days and tomorrow we return to our regularly scheduled programming. Good luck on your fantasy football drafts and I look forward to the 200 or so emails I’m going to get calling me an asshole who doesn’t know shit about football. Don’t expect a response.
I know, I know – it’s not fall yet, but it’s coming. The oppressive heat and nasty smells of the summer will soon be gone, leaving behind cool nighttime breezes, sleeping with the windows open, finally having an excuse to cover up any exposed parts of my body, and of course, football.
I love football. I love both the game itself and the experience; there is nothing like waking up at noon on Sunday with a hangover, kicking whatever random girl you’re with out of your bed, ordering a pizza and 50 wings, and spending the next ten hours watching football. A better way to spend a day, I can think of none.
What follows is my 2006 NFL preview. Many of you know that my favorite team is my hometown Philadelphia Eagles, who had a bad season last year. However, what’s past is past and we must look forward to the future. And now let’s never talk about the 2005 Eagles again. Thank you for your support.
[Note about the preview that I give every year: I have neither the time nor the mathematical prowess to count every team's projected record to make sure the league's cumulative record is even at .500. So just give me a break on that, ok?]
NFC EAST
New York Giants 10-6
Philadelphia Eagles 9-7
Washington Redskins 8-8
Dallas Cowboys 7-9
Why do I have to start with this division, which, I believe, is the best in football (not that I’m biased or anything)? I think the Giants are the best in the division but are a bit over-hyped (I don’t think this is the year Eli makes "the leap" and yes, I realize how many Giants fans are going to email me after his first 4 TD game). I like the Eagles, I truly do. I think they could even make a potential run at the playoffs if only because they solved a major dilemma from last year: the shitty d-line. When you blitz, if your front four can’t get pressure, the whole thing is fucked. This is what happened last year (oh yeah, and some injuries and something with one of their receivers). They are now DEEP at d-line but I have no idea who’s playing outside linebacker and I will never feel happy with Westbrook as a feature back and let’s not get started on the receivers and those last few games in this year’s schedule . So I’ll put them at 9-7. Washington seems mediocre and much depends on how tender Portis’ shoulder is. And finally…Dallas. Though I put a futures bet on them to win the Super Bowl, it already seems like it’ll be tough: weak O-line, Romo breathing down Bledsoe’s neck, and, oh yeah, T.O. I think it’s only about three games before Parcells and T.O. are fighting. Three weeks tops.
NFC NORTH
Detroit Lions 10-6
Chicago Bears 10-6
Minnesota Vikings 7-9
Green Bay Packers 4-12
I’m a big believer in Mike Martz’s system (please, at least try to conceal your laughter). I know it’s a little crazy, but I think Detroit has a lot of weapons. Maybe they turn it around this year. The debate now in Chicago is Grossman or Greise and my suggestion is: who gives a shit? Let’s get Cedric Benson 400 carries and ride that defense out. The Vikings, well, I don’t think they’ll be any boat cruises, but Brad Johnson just lost his #1 WR to a DWI and Chestor Taylor as your main guy? Much has been said of Favre’s comment that this is the most talented team he’s played with…let’s just make sure we all start our fantasy defenses when he’s playing.
NFC SOUTH
Carolina Panthers 11-5
New Orleans Saints 9-7
Tampa Bay Buccaneers 8-8
Atlanta Falcons 5-11
Carolina is freak nasty as long as nothing major happens to Steve Smith; by Week Six it should be obvious that they have the division wrapped up. I think New Orleans will surprise many people this year and yes, Reggie Bush will be starting by midseason at the latest. Tampa could make some noise but I just can’t bring myself to believe in them with Chris Simms at the helm. I can not say this enough, even though I’ve been saying it for years: Michael Vick will never be truly successful as an NFL quarterback. Yes, he scrambles, but so did Randall Cunningham. Both guys are the same: all tools, no brains. And no, I’m not being racist, even though Steve Young, a nice white boy, scrambled and was successful.
NFC WEST
Seattle 12-4
Arizona 10-6
St. Louis 6-10
San Francisco 3-13
If Seattle doesn’t win this division, someone needs to be fired. Arizona, with Matt Leinart at the helm, will make the playoffs (even though the o-line is highly suspect). And really, what can anyone say about St. Louis and San Fran other than, "Eh?"
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AFC EAST
New England Patriots 10-6
Miami Dolphins 10-6
Buffalo Bills 6-10
NY Jets 4-12
Though they win the division, this is the first year that the New England dynasty takes a serious hit. I see a couple of failures where failures previously did not arise. Just an instinct. Everyone is all over Miami. I like Saban and his system, I like Ronnie Brown. Daunte Culpepper, after what he did to my fantasy team last year, will never be the beneficiary of my love or trust. Also, their uniforms are still teal and orange. Buffalo, sadly, will remained mired in its horrid post-90′s quagmire and it’s going to be a looooooonnnnnggggg year for Gang Green. Ouch, baby.
AFC NORTH
Cincinnati Bengals 11-5
Pittsburgh Steelers 9-7
Cleveland Browns 8-8
Baltimore Ravens 5-11
Yeah, I know the Bengals love getting arrested and I know that Carson is still tentative about his knee, but I think he’s going to be nasty this year. They have a stud QB, a very good RB, a great WR, a solid defense, and a very good coach. You know how one Super Bowl team misses the playoffs the next year? Say hello to Pittsburgh. I’m not feeling you, Ben. Sorry. Cleveland is my version of New Orleans…I still don’t know who Charlie Frye is and I’m listed as their second-string center and Kellen Winslow is just such a fucking cocksucker, but I really think I’d like the city of Cleveland, so let’s let them at least be .500. And Baltimore…this is Brian Billick’s last year there. Mark it down.
AFC SOUTH
Indianapolis Colts 12-4
Tennessee Titans 9-7
Jacksonville Jaguars 8-8
Houston Texans 5-11
No surprise: the Colts win a lot of games. I think the Titans make a little noise and sneak into the playoffs – remember, Vince Young is NOT Michael Vick (Vick never passed for 3000+ yards in a college season; Vick never passed for over 2000). Jacksonville doesn’t continue on the momentum of their 12-4 season last year and Houston fucking stinks (I understand that they needed help on their d-line more than in the backfield, but really?).
AFC WEST
Denver Broncos 11-5
San Diego Chargers 8-8
Kansas City Chiefs 8-8
Oakland Raiders 6-10
Denver has another solid, spectacular season (no, Jay Cutler will not start). San Diego falters but Rivers shows flashes of brilliance. KC under Herm is inconsistent, winning or losing by a lot, giving gamblers fits. Oakland – do you really think Aaron Fucking Brooks is the answer? Man, I feel bad for you.
[Notice though, that even if I seem to have taken some risks (i.e. Detroit, Arizona, Miami, etc), they're really not that risky at all since they're the "hot" NFL picks. But I'm a wuss. I applaud any man who can pick the Titans to win the AFC South or the Rams to win the NFC. 'Cause I ain't doing it.]
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PLAYOFFS
NFC
1) Seattle Seahawks
2) Carolina Panthers
3) Detroit Lions
4) NY Giants
5) Arizona
6) Chicago
Wild Card
#3 Detroit over #6 Chicago
#5 Arizona over #4 New York
Inspired by their first playoffs games, um, almost ever, Detroit and ‘Zona overtake the Bears and G-Men with their gumption. John Kitna turns in a Christ-like performance as the Lions win 10-0 while Leinart proves he’s much better-looking and better-playing than Eli on this day: Cards 24, Giants 16.
Divisional
#1 Seattle over #5 Arizona
#2 Carolina over #3 Detroit
Though they had a nice run and made for a heart-warming story, both Arizona and Detroit are crushed by the two teams that have been the cream of the crop in the NFC all season long. Both teams cover the spreads: I buy a boat.
Conference
#2 Carolina over #1 Seattle
Carolina continues its nasty season and dispatches Seattle at home - without even shoddy officiating.
AFC
1) Indianapolis Colts
2) Denver Broncos
3) Cincinnati Bengals
4) New England Patriots
5) Miami Dolphins
6) Tennessee Titans
Wild Card
#6 Tennessee over #3 Cincinnati
#5 Miami over #4 New England
6’6" 320 pounds Albert Haynesworth falls on Carson "Pretty Boy" Palmer’s knee: Titans 23, Cincy 17. Miami shuts up 60,000 Massholes by stunning the Pats at home (told you it was the beginning of the end for New England).
Divisional
#1 Indy over #6 Tennessee
#5 Miami over #2 Denver
While Vince Young may be a stud, the uber-nerd Manning wins the day as the Colts rout the Titans. Miami, led by the nasty Ronnie Brown, runs all over Denver and – shockingly – Mike Shanahan chokes in the playoffs.
Conference
#1 Indy over #5 Miami
Finally, Indy gets to the Super Bowl in a boring game in which Miami never challenges. Also, at halftime, I get a blowjob. Just a hunch.
SUPER BOWL
Carolina over Indy
I’ve gone on record to say that Peyton Manning will never win a championship, so I can’t go back on that now. Carolina is going to be champs: a B+ defense, depth at RB, one playmaking receiver and another who’s just a dickhead enough to cause some problems, a QB with experience, and solid special teams. Carolina, Carolina, Carolina. Mark it down.
[Tomorrow, tune in for our annual fantasy football preview.]
So I did what they did before television and went for a walk, enjoying the beautiful Manhattan night.
The point: maybe I should focus on paying my cable bill instead of getting a car. I mean, I’m not a financial planner or anything, but that seems like the smart play. A car, I can live without. But if I can’t watch my BBC World News, my murder shows, and Tivo’d episodes of my favorites sitcoms, well, that’s not going to be good for anyone.
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Re: my bachelor party post yesterday. Those present, after reading my post, reminded me that I forgot two very important elements to the party. Of course, now out of the context of the post, they aren’t going to sound very funny. But in the interests of journalistic integrity (to really "surround the story"), I offer them to you now.
1) Dave & Buster’s, the place where most of the bachelor party took place, is an arcade-type place. Like most arcade-type places, they award tickets for high scores (like my high scores in ski-ball and foul shooting) that can be redeemed for prizes: anything from junk like plastic toys to fo’ real shit like microwaves and televisions.
One of the guys in the bachelor party is currently seeing a girl with a kid, a daughter who’s a toddler. He’s ok with this, but we sometimes "have fun" with him about it. The daughter’s name is Hannah.
All night it became a running joke that we were trying to achieve (in Lebowski parlance) in the various video games in order to win tickets to turn in for presents for Hannah. My buddy Ryan started this, screaming, "Hannah’s gettin’ a bracelet!" after he scored high in foul shooting. As each person kept playing and winning more tickets, we kept upping the prize for Hannah. Finally, when I blew everyone away with a 71 in foul shooting, I screamed, "Fuck it – Hannah’s gettin’ a pony!" After that, the joke sort of hit its ceiling. But, um, it was fun.
[See, I told you it wouldn't be funny a day later.]
[Or maybe, ever.]
[But conversely, there was a running joke on me. I've told you that no one can really tell that I've lost weight, and after a few drinks, barbs starting flying about this. Stuff like, "Dude, it was a really good idea for you to go on that strict diet, because I can totally tell that you've lost weight" and "So now are you shopping at Gap Kids or what?" Again not funny, but painful. Very painful.]
2) I have a disease. I would make up a cute name for it like textmessagitis, but I’d just as soon make out with a cousin. Basically, I text message EVERYONE when I’m drunk (or even getting drunk). If I have your number, odds are 99% that you’ve gotten a text message from me in the last two or so weeks (especially with last week’s weeknight drunkenness).
Generally this is not a problem. Most of the people I text I know pretty well (I mean, I have their numbers) and they know to take it as a joke or brush it off. And I’m not texting anything weird; my favorite last week was a quote from The Royal Tenenbaums: "Did you tell Margot about the letter I wrote to you?" (Richie asks Eli this). But I sent this to people who only knew the joke – the rest got something random and harmless.
But sometimes it is a problem. I’m hiding the fact that, in keeping with my creepy style, I’m a number collector. If we made out three years ago and you gave me your number, I still have it (even if we had never spoken again). I have numbers from people from college I haven’t spoken to since. Worse yet, I have numbers of girls I made out with either in college or post-college that I have not spoken to for a very long time.
And, as you might guess, these people get texts too. Again, stupid harmless stuff that can be as simple as "Hi" or "Do you smell that?" But sometimes I get a little faux-randy and send out a "Seriously, what are you wearing?" This is all fine to friends that I speak to regularly, but if I last spoke to you in a bar in November of 2003, well, it’s not so good.
My buddy Kyle is aware of this and always jokes with me about it. In the incipient stages of the night, he saw me reaching for my phone and texting away. He offered to take the phone from me so that I couldn’t text, watching it in case anyone called or texted me. I agreed. I realized I needed help.
I was ok with it during the night. I only missed my phone as a watch (since I don’t wear one, it tells me what time it is). But then there was a problem.
Kyle was supposed to be checking my phone for incoming calls or messages. But, being drunk, he kinda forgot. Finally, when we were leaving the strip club (at about 3:30), he gave me my phone back. Much to my chagrin, I had missed some texts – Kyle didn’t do a very good job of checking at all. Most of them weren’t important (like my old roommate Brian asking me where I was even though I had told him several times during the week and even the night before that I was in Philly – I guess he was, shockingly, pretty banged up).
But then I got an unsolicited message from a girl that in a previous life I used to make out with. She was in Philly. She knew I was in Philly. She wanted to see what was up. She had messaged me three hours earlier. I was unhappy.
Since Kyle failed to achieve, even in the modest task that was his charge, it cost me a potential make-out session. Desperate loser that I am, I immediately fired back a text to the girl. However, since bars close in Philly at 2 and it was now almost 3:30, I did not get a response. Fuck.
I suppose it’s for the best – I was probably too drunk/tired to get an erection anyway (assuming that an erection would even have been called for) and at least I got my broccoli cheese puffs. But I learned an important lesson: it’s better to be addicted to text messaging than to miss out on (potentially) making out. So fuck that. For those of you whose number I have, expect some texts this weekend.
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Finally, some extracurricular reading courtesy of Misha in Baltimore. This is an article from a Washington Post from last week, listing the smelliest places in NYC. I would like to point out that the first location they mention is literally two blocks away from my apartment. And I don’t mean to spoil anything, but I’m actually kinda pissed that they found that it wasn’t the stinkiest place in Manhattan. I mean, wtf? I’ll have to check out the winner and report back.
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And really finally: you’re going to get a lot of football over the next few days. You have been warned. If you want to just come back Friday, I’ll understand. See you then.
I left NYC on Friday night for a bachelor party in Philly on Saturday. I could have stayed in NYC on Friday night and left the following "morning," but that would not have been a good idea. We were to meet at a buddy’s house on Saturday at 4pm to start the festivities. If I had stayed in NYC on Friday night, I would have gone out, gotten bombed, woken up at 1pm, then would have had to rush home with a hangover. Not a good idea.
(To give you an idea, NYC to Philly via Amtrak takes about 1.5 hours, but costs $70. NYC to Philly via local trains – NJ Transit and Septa – takes almost three hours, but costs $20.)
Since I was planning on getting a train at 10pm, I opted for Amtrak, since I did not want to be riding the rails (with a 30 minute layover in Trenton) too late at night. You know, because I’m a pussy. So I shelled out the $70 so that I could get home to Philly sooner.
Bad idea. My train was delayed an hour and then was slow moving, for a total delay of over an hour and a half. I didn’t get into Philly until about 1am. Which sucked.
But then it got better once I got home. I was a real party boy last week, going out pretty hard several nights, and when I finally got to my dad’s place I just wanted to crash. Add to that that I always sleep like a bear in the other bedroom of my dad’s place, and I was in for a good night. Add to that that when I got to my dad’s I took two Xanax, and we were in Awesometown.
I slept from 1:30am until 12:30pm. It was wonderful, just wonderful. Even though prior to last week I had been sleeping pretty well (with my new pillows and all), you just can’t beat 11 hours of solid sleep. And to be honest I think I could have slept longer if my phone didn’t wake me up.
There’s a barroom debate that my friends and I have gotten into in the past which goes, "Rank the following in order of importance to you: food, sex, sleep." For me, without a doubt, it goes sleep, food, sex. Don’t get me wrong – I love the other two. Food is a passion of mine, but every giant piece of chicken parm comes with the guilt of overeating. And I really, really love sex, but I’m so bad at it that I wind up feeling ashamed and having to go to the bathroom. Sleep is the only unconditional of the three. Blast the AC, pop a Xanax or two, read a little, and then pass the fuck out. That’s what I’m talkin’ about.
(And God – that’s more than a little sad.)
So when I woke up on Saturday I was completely refreshed and ready for the bachelor party.
2) A bachelor party in an arcade is not that bad of an idea.
This bachelor party was a little different than most that I’ve been to. In this case, the best man, the person in charge of organizing the shindig, was the groom’s brother (my buddy Greg is the groom). And he happens to be 17 years old (the best man, not Greg). So it was safe to assume that there would be no tittie bars (or any bars) during the evening.
But I think we did pretty well, all things considered. Most of the guys spent the morning/afternoon golfing, but since I grew up poor, I don’t do that shit. I met them at a buddy’s house after that for some beers. Then we headed to Dave & Buster’s. Yes, that Dave & Buster’s, the restaurant/arcade. This was our happy medium; the groom’s brother would be able to attend, while at the same time we’d be able to get drunk.
Admittedly I was a little reluctant about the whole thing (a bachelor party in an arcade?), but I had a total fucking blast. I’ve never done anything like that before; after dinner, we loaded up on drinks and hit the gameroom, where we spent the next two or three hours fucking around and getting drunk. It was kinda fun to sit in one of those race car games with a drink in your hand, racing against your buddies. And yes, I’m 27. Hi.
But also there was an element of competitiveness. Put a dozen drunk guys in a room with flashing lights and noises and things are going to get a little crazy. And by "get a little crazy" I mean "play a lot of ski-ball." At this time, I’d like to point out that yours truly had high scores in both ski-ball (260) and the foul shout game (71). So, suck on that.
After a while, we left Dave & Buster’s and went to a nearby bar (sans best man) but we were all itching for a little something extra: unattractive naked girls.
3) I hate strippers.
Since it was almost 2am, any strip clubs that serve booze were about to close. Instead, we went to BYOB place (though we didn’t BOOB – get it?) in my neighborhood. And, well…not so good.
Maybe I’m getting soft in my old age, but something about drunk, sweaty men throwing quarters and other change into a woman’s vagina, well, it really doesn’t do it for me anymore – especially when the vagina belongs to a woman that I wouldn’t make out with sober (and I’d make out with just about anyone).
So after watching this and being approached by several unattractive strippers (who were on me like a moth to a flame – fat guy with beard! fat guy with beard!), I fell out of the mood. I was getting sober, since we weren’t drinking, but there was absolute chaos around us. I guess the transition for ski-ball to vaginal quarters was a little too much for me.
But the good news – in order to salvage the end of the night I took a cab to my local 24 hour diner to get an order of broccoli cheese puffs, which I ate while walking from the diner to my dad’s place, so burning my mouth that I can still feel it. But it was entirely worth it.
4) Hungover, I am indestructible.
The next day, after sleeping for only five hours, I woke up, showered, and had a bowl of Honey Smacks (a very underrated cereal). Then I got dressed, walked 3 miles to the gym, ran for over 6 miles (!) on the treadmill, and walked 3 miles home.
Running for 6 miles – without stopping – on a treadmill while hungover and with a belly full of broccoli cheese puffs is easily the greatest athletic feat I’ve ever accomplished (even better than my graceful drink-save in The Bahamas). I mean, over 6 miles! That’s more than a hour of running, straight through, no stopping. My previous record for non-stop running was 3.33 miles. And now 6. Thank you, Hangover. I couldn’t have done it without you.
(Of course, today I can barely walk and there’s an 85% chance that I blow out at least one knee in the next four days, but whatever. Oh, and I no longer have nipples, but rather two holes in my chest.)
(And there’s no way I’m putting either Band-Aids or Vaseline on my nips. That Bodyglide stuff, maybe. But as of now I’m hoping that the nips toughen up.)
(And thank you for the computer suggestions – running AdAware improved performance and I’m working on the pictures.)
5) I might get a ride. For real.
After getting home from the gym it was time to head back to NYC. Since I dropped $70 on an Amtrak train that was verily delayed, I decided to take the local trains.
As I was bemoaning my forthcoming journey to my dad as he drove to the train station (Philly to Trenton, layover, Trenton to NYC – both trains making all local stops), I blurted out something without thinking: "I should just get a car."
My dad said, "Hey, if you can do it, why not?" There was silence and I moved on to thinking about other things (most notably who I’m going to bring to Greg’s wedding, since I responded +1 but don’t have a date), when I realized, "You know what? I can get a car."
And so from that fateful moment, I’ve been consumed with the thought of owning a car. I travel at least one weekend a month. The Philly traveling cost me $100. I’m going to Boston for a long weekend after Labor Day – that’s a $200 round trip. At the end of the month I have Greg’s wedding – another $100 for a rental car (unless my date has one – if you own a car and are free at the end of September, please email pics and resume immediately – caveat: overnight stay required). The following weekend, back in Philly for a party. You see what I’m getting at.
My dad is a mechanic. He would love nothing more than to buy a piece of shit and fix it up. Since all I’m looking for is something that runs on itself, my upfront cost would be no more than $3000 (or a little more, but still). I can swing that – provided I ever get paid for my projects.
Insurance wouldn’t be more than $100 a month. That’s 75% of one night of drinking. So if I go out less, that’s not a problem. (Not as I write this, at least.)
The problem lies in parking. There is very little and limited street parking in Manhattan, and certainly this is so in my neighborhood of Chilita. For my own sanity, I’d have to put it in a garage where I’d pay a monthly rate. Not a big deal, I thought, as my dad and I talked it out. I mean, how much could monthly parking be – $150 a month, tops?
This morning I called the garage nearest to my apartment, asking about monthly parking rates. I stumbled when they asked what kind of car I had, saying that I was still shopping for one but it would be "normal." The guy asked me to hold on and then came back to the receiver to tell me it would cost $500 a month to part there.
$500. In parking. Fuck.
As you might imagine, my dreams of owning a car have taken a major hit. Although I haven’t given up hope yet. I looked into other garages and will continue to look at places in Brooklyn (which is only a short subway ride away) and if I can get it down to $200 a month, it may still be worth it. But this is going to be much harder than I thought. And, like I said, I’d actually have to get paid for my projects.
[Notice how that here I qualify Brooklyn as "only a short subway ride away" when in previous posts or when asked to go there to meet friends I act as though it's 200 miles west of Milwaukee.]
Owning a car would be a real dream though…part of the reason I want to move out of NYC is so that I can own a car. The freedom to be able to drive wherever I want, whenever I want, excites me, as it’s not just the costs of the trains that bother me, but their rigid time schedule. Instead of leaving Philly thinking, "Ok, well, the 6:09 gets into Trenton at 6:51; then, the 7:14 will get me into NYC at 8:41", I could just come and go as I pleased.
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At any rate, a very good overall weekend. And now I have something new to obsess about: car ownership. I can’t wait to do something completely financially irresponsible.
Some shout-outs that are ever so deserved of shout-outing:
1) If you are not checking Cracked, you are missing out. Among other things, the article a few days ago on Kimmie Gibler is brilliant. Great site and time-killer.
AND you should go out right now and buy Cracked – the actual, real-live in-print magazine – because it’s funny but also because, well, guess who contributed to it? That’s right. In addition to being a blogger, soon-to-be memoirist, kind of sitcom writer, and bearer of tiny testes, we can now add "freelance writer" to my list of titles (and it’s paid!).
(You can find Cracked wherever magazines are sold.)
2) While I’m congratulating myself, I’m on the cover of a paper in Philly called the Irish Edition, which, not surprisingly, offers news and information to Irish Americans. The article is very nice (and the cover picture ain’t that bad) and will be posted here, along with my appearance in NYC’s Irish Examiner from last month, under the "Press" section on the right once I get in touch with Site Guy Brendan. Finally, this Irish American stuff is working out for me. Whew.
(It’s a monthly publication so get out and get the August issue, Philly peeps.)
3) If you enjoy this site – which might be a big presumption on my part – you are doing a disservice to yourself if you are not watching the Comedy Central show "Dog Bites Man." I’ve pimped this before, but I just got reacquainted with my Tivo and watched a few episodes last night and this is the funniest show since "Ali G." There were actual tears coming out of my eyes watching it – and those who know me know that I don’t laugh at very much. The dream dinner with Kevin Beekin bit was incredible. Check it out.
4) This blog is fucking terrific. So is this one. And of course, the only blog I check 20 times a day (though I know most of these guys, so that might be cheating). Spread the word, treat them like you have treated me, and tell them I sent you (in case they have any female friends they can introduce me to).
5) Blue Diamond "Smokehouse" Almonds are possibly the greatest things I’ve ever tasted. I could eat these all day long – and I do.
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I don’t want to give an update on the diet this week. The final weigh-in is next Friday (8/25) and I want to surprise you then. Also in a moment of weakness I had a donut this morning. Fuck.
Two things to discuss though:
1) Guys, I’ve done a lot of field research on this and have made an important discovery that should be immediately instituted into the Rules of Gym Etiquette:
There is no reason to be balls-naked in a locker room for longer than seven seconds.
There are two types of guys in the gym locker room: those who change at a normal speed and those who act as though they are in their own bathrooms, traipsing around completely naked, twig and berries flopping in the breeze.
I’ve timed it and seven seconds is a perfectly reasonable amount of time for a man to switch from a towel to a pair of underwear. Seriously, next time you do this, count it off in your head. Seven seconds is more than enough time to make the switch.
[Go ahead, count in your head right now. I'll wait.]
[...]
[Told you, right? Seven is fine.]
Yet that doesn’t prevent many gym goers for walking around with the gennies out for every man to see. Yesterday, I got to the gym pretty late, which meant that as I was changing to begin working out many were coming out of the showers and dressing to go home. It was crowded so I couldn’t get a locker in my normal place and had to settle in in a unfamiliar territory. Next to me, not three feet away, was a jacked black dude getting changed. Not a big deal. But then the dude took off his towel, put it on the bench that my bag was on, and sat down balls naked on the bench. I don’t know what he was doing during this time, as my back was turned to him, but he sat there naked the entire time I got ready (we’re talking three or four minutes of completely unnecessary nudity).
I mean, what the fuck? I get it, dude – you’re jacked and your bird is probably bigger than my forearm, but I’m not interested in what you’re selling. Well, not totally uninterested, but not at that time.
Then there’s the 40-something Asian guy who sits on a bench in a locker room stark naked leisurely reading the paper. You have to remember, this is the NYC Sports Club in Soho after work. It is NOT empty. While getting dressed or undressed, you are within two or three lockers of someone else. It’s packed in there.
I have no idea what compels a man to do these things. I’m not a prude by any stretch (well, actually I kind of am) but even if I were buff and well-endowed, I still wouldn’t flash my shit to 50 other guys in a sweaty locker room. The word that keeps coming to mind is "unnecessary."
So let’s try to get that time down to seven seconds, gentlemen.
[Note: the only exception to the seven second rule would be guys who are getting weighed. As someone who is now obsessed with his weight, I realize the importance of being nekkid when getting weighed. These guys get a pass.]
2) I don’t think it’s too much to ask for my nipples to stop bleeding. Really, really not cool. I remember in college at BC watching the Boston Marathon and seeing runners trudging along with blood dripping from their nips down their shirts. I thought this was horrible. And now it’s happening to me.
My point is that I look bad enough at the gym – I don’t need to be running, red-faced, sweating, panting AND holding my moobs (man-boobs) so that my nips stop brushing up against my shirt. It’s not so bad that they bleed then and there like the guys’ nips in the Marathon, but they bleed a little bit and get cuts on them and they hurt. Fuck, man. It’s my nipples. I’m willing to go pretty far for this diet, but running until my nipples fall off, well, I can’t do that.
*****************
We have two problems that, while not potentially fatal to the health of this blog, are at the very least highly detrimental. And so, as in many moments of weakness, I turn to you, dear readers, for help.
Problem #1: My laptop is dying a slow and miserable death.
In August of 2004, I bought a laptop. As someone who doesn’t know anything about computers, I turned to Site Guy Brendan and said, "Dude, pick me out a laptop. All I need it for is for writing, music, internet and porn. That’s all."
So Brendan went on over to the Dell website and put together a $2600 (!) monstrosity that weighs about 75 pounds (I read a review for it – after I had purchased it – and it said, "For the user for wants a desktop laptop," which is good because it’s not like I travel one weekend a month).
Now, after years of stealing music and porn, it’s starting to get slow. I have about two hours with it before its performance starts lagging: it takes forever to open new programs (Firefox, Word, iTunes, etc), when I type there is a delay with each letter (typing the word "transubstantiation" would take at least a full minute), and it just generally sucks.
Please tell me how to fix this. I know nothing about computers but it seems like it needs a tune up or something. But if it means deleting my porn or music, we gonna have a problem.
Problem #2: I am a complete fucking retard when it comes to posting pictures.
I like putting pictures up on here. Judging by the emails that I get, you guys do too.
But the post earlier this week, between my slow computer and my inability to properly manipulate the pictures, took me about four hours to write. Four hours! I don’t spend that much time on this blog all week.
And of course, like last time, after I posted the pictures I got a number of emails from people with dial-up or slow computers or whatever saying they are too big and taking forever to download (seriously people, shell out for some high speed internet).
So can someone tell me a) how to resize the pictures properly without compromising the integrity of the photos? and b) get them properly loaded in WordPress?
Just remember that you are dealing with someone who is very, very bad at technology, so if you do venture to help me on this, you’re going to have to make it very simple, like:
1) Download this
2) Open this
3) Take your dick out of your hand, etc.
I’m heading to Philly this weekend for a bachelor party so I won’t be able to check email much this weekend, but in order to prevent a deluge (because you guys are the greatest!), let’s make the cut-off for this Saturday at noon (so if you are reading this after Saturday at noon, please don’t email me). If when I get connected again on Sunday evening I haven’t gotten any help, I’ll readdress then.
Thank you in advance for your cooperation. Please don’t make me stop downloading porn. Thanks again.
*****************
I received a goodly bit of emails about yesterday’s post, but it’ll take me a while to get through all of them. The consensus is that yes, being a dickhead works and for further information I should read "The Game" by Neil Strauss. Although I did receive a nice email from a female reader saying, "I’m sorry, Jason, but you would have to be much, much better-looking for your plan to work." I would say "Ouch" but hey – she’s just looking out for me.
*****************
This isn’t going to be funny, but since it’s something that’s made a big difference in my life, I wanted to share.
Over the weekend I finally got my shit together and bought some new pillows. Since I sleep on my back or my side, I like firm or extra firm pillows. The pillows I had been using had been reduced to the size of a short stack of pancakes.
So I went to Bed, Bath & Beyond and got my firm pillows and – WOW. I’m not even sleeping anymore – it’s beyond that. I think I actually partially die between the hours of 1am and 8am. It is wonderful.
Add to that that yesterday I washed my sheets (for the second time this month!) and this morning when I woke up I was in such a deep sleep that I contemplated calling out of work for a month or two just to lay in bed. I love my bed and it’s (clean!) 800 thread count sheets, I love my firm pillows, and I love my air conditioner, which is back working without a problem again.
…
I’m sorry – I told you it wasn’t funny, but since I’m in shout-out mood today, I needed to mention my bed. Fucking A, it’s great.
*****************
Six Songs
Taking a cue (queue?) from my dear friend Ace over at Slack, I’m going to start linking to the Six Songs when possible. We’ll see how this works out.
"Time Bomb" The Format
STOP WHAT YOU ARE DOING RIGHT NOW AND DOWNLOAD THIS SONG. Katie from Florida, who coincidentally is smoking hot, recommended this song to me last week and it immediately rocked my balls off. It (the song, not the band) sounds kinda like The Darkness if they had stronger pop tendencies. Well, not really – I don’t know what the hell it sounds like, aside from "awesome." Very, very, very, very catchy. Do it. Do it. Do it.
"Down to the River" Ray Lamontagne
If all spirituals kicked this much ass, maybe God and I would not be feuding. Alas, they don’t, and last week I left a flaming bag on shit on His porch. God 184, Mulgrew 3.
"Book of Love" The Magnetic Fields (free sample here)
I thought for sure I had recommend this song, but according to the archives I have not. Beautiful song, I think.
"Don’t Stop" Fleetwood Mac
Speaking of rocking my balls off, the live version of this song from "The Dance" really gets me going. I’m not ashamed to admit that I like Fleetwood Mac, but should I really be saying that I rock out to them? Let’s just move on…
"Waste" Phish
Continuing with the shame, it’s very lame for me to admit this, but this song reminds me so vividly of college make-out sessions that it will forever hold a special place in my heart. I miss those days of being underage in a bar, meeting a girl, bringing her back to my dorm and putting on songs like this – songs that I naively believed set the mood – and enjoying a good old fashioned consequence-free hook up. Some sweet, sweet (and rare, rare) times. That autumn New England breeze coming in through the open window, mingling with the scents of her perfume, my Abercrombie & Fitch "Woods", our Miller Lite, and the acrid smell of Nonoxynol 9 from my seven year old Trojan, blending over the sounds of students coming home from the bars and parties, the yelling, the crashing, the laughter, the roommates outside the door saying, "Mulgrew’s actually with a girl? Are you sure it’s not Barry? Did anyone get a look at ‘her’?". Those were some blissfully easy times.
…
Wow – I should really be a poet. It’s good to know I have a back-up in case this whole "blog" thing doesn’t pan out.
[Speaking of poems, "Waste" has always reminded me of one of my favorite poems, "Bei Hennef" by D.H. Lawrence - except Lawrence has a twist at the end that Tom and Trey do not. I'm saying this for no other reason than I'm trying to get you people more poetry literate because every once in a while I'll lift a line from one of my favorite poems and pass it off as my own and no one calls me out on it. I particularly do this when signing off on "letters" like this one. The last three lines of the adieu are from Sonnet XVII of Neruda's 100 Love Sonnets, which can be read in it's entirety here. 100 Love Sonnets is good but I prefer The Captain's Verses, which should either be re-titled or at least subtitled Don't Read This While Drinking Alone in the Shower or You Will Try to Drown Yourself Out of Sadness and Love. Try reading "The Potter" ("Your whole body has/a fullness, a gentleness destined for me") without peeing yourself a little. I dare you.]
"Crazy For You" Madonna
If "Waste" makes me nostalgic for college sex, "Crazy For You" brings me back to childhood sex. Not that I was having sex in my childhood (for the most part), but this song represented to me as a kid everything that was sexy about sex. Even now, when I hear it, I can see myself as an eight year old, wondering why this song makes my bird get big.
[I swear, next time I find someone to have regular sex with me, she and I are going to do it to this song. Like, all serious and slow-like, sensually but not dirty, making love equally with our souls and our genitals. If any women in the Philly area this weekend are interested, drop me a line. I'll bring the vanilla-scented candles and various sexy red things. All you have to do is show up really, really drunk. We'll make an afternoon of it.]
*****************
Off to Philly either tonight or early tomorrow for a bachelor party. Have a good weekend.
But today, with this hangover, I feel invigorated, alive. I woke up on my own 45 minutes before I normally do and took my time getting ready for work. I didn’t feel at all tired and was even moonwalking to "Thriller" as I got dressed in my bedroom. I continued the Michael Jackson lovefest on the subway platform when, thinking I was alone, I pulled one of MJ’s moves while listening to "The Way You Make Me Feel" - the left hand on belt buckle-right leg kick-full body spin – but was caught in the act by a little Indian woman aways down the platform. It could have gotten awkward but fortunately a homeless man entered our line of vision and began carrying on about something (probably not having a home or whatever it is homeless people carry on about).
And I’ll tell you something: I am learning a lot about women this summer. The summation which is: they’re tough to operate.
Previously, my approach to women was simple and straightforward.
[approaching Girl at bar ordering drink]
Me: "Hi."
Girl: "Hi."
Me: "What’s going on?"
Girl: "Um, noth -
Me: [sweating, speedtalking] "I don’t really know how to tell you this but I’m kinda famous and a comedy writer with a book coming out and possibly a show and last year I was one of People’s 50 hottest bachelors!"
Girl: "Ok, I – "
Me: [having mild panic attack] "You know what? Just take my wallet!"
[relaxes slightly, looks Girl up and down]
Me: "Our children are going to be beautiful. And hopefully lithe."
[Girl walks away]
Sadly, this approach rarely worked (the exception being those girls that were so drunk that one needs only the ability to call a cab and tie a simple bowline knot to get laid).
But now, everything is changing. Like I said previously, Larry Awesome is running the show now and Jason is pretty much dead, his role reduced to cashing checks, speaking to/dealing with family members, and occasionally going to church and begging for God’s forgiveness.
Since I’ve changed my appearance (kinda) by losing the weight, I’ve begun a series of other changes. For example, I decided that since I’m 27 years old and a future writer with his own two bedroom apartment in Manhattan, I should probably have some sense of style. Or rather, I should at least put some thought into buying clothes aside from going to Banana Republic every three months and buying every XL shirt in the sale rack. Larry, in connection with most of the girls I know and male friends with some semblance of fashion sense, is working on this but results are not to be expected for another six to eight weeks (although the groundwork was laid this weekend with a few purchases). I feel like much progress will be made once I get to my friend Corinne, a pseudo-but-not-really-hipster who constantly criticizes my taste in clothes. I need a little more constructive feedback from her other than "Oh wow – another Gap polo shirt! Cool!" and "Are you going to wear the blue striped shirt, the not-as-blue striped shirt or the dark blue striped shirt tonight?" But again, this will take some time.
[And fear not: I will have limits. If any of you ever see me in a bar wearing a blazer, I invite - nay, implore - you to come up to me and punch me in the throat. And to quote my friend Meg, "Nothing says 'I'm gay' like a guy wearing a $150 pair of jeans" so we don't have to worry about that either.]
Yet more immediate progress can be made in the realm of intersexual relations. See, for years, I have had a fatal flaw in my game: I actually believed women wanted what they said they wanted (here’s where I sound bitter, when I’m not – I’m more grateful than anything else).
For example, let’s look at the following syllogism that, on the surface, seems correct:
Women desire a man who is funny. I am a man who is funny. Therefore, women desire me.
Wrong. This syllogism is imperfect because one of its premises is flawed – at least when it comes to the social situations in which I usually find myself (think: $6 Bud Lights, dim lights, pool table).
Women say that they want a guy who’s funny. And I’m not doubting this. I think that sure, they do. I mean, hey – everybody gets fat and bald and wrinkly and impotent in the end, so you might as well be with a man who’s going to give you a naked picture of himself for your birthday every year you’re together, even long after it stops being funny, but because he continues to do it year after year after year it kinda gets funny again.
It seems to me that women’s wants, in order to be fully understood, must be divided into two categories: elementary and ephemeral.
The desire for a mate with a sense of humor is an elementary want. As the name implies, it is basic, inherent, practically indisputable. Other elementary wants is a man who is capable of providing stability, a comfortable life, and non-retarded children; who is physically attractive; and who is respectful and caring.
But when you meet a woman, elementary wants are difficult to manipulate to your advantage because it can be hard to appeal to those elementary wants in such a short time (literally a matter of seconds as she decides whether or not she’ll continue talking to you, provided you stop spitting on her of course). And more importantly, I’m usually so drunk that it’s a fucking miracle I can even get out the words "Maker’s Mark and ginger," let alone convince a woman that I have virtually no history of heart disease, cancer, or retardation in my family. So while it can be done, I ain’t the one to do it.
Instead, it’s better to focus on a woman’s ephemeral wants. What does she want from her night? Is she looking to get laid? Does she want to get tanked? Is it a girls’ night out? By assessing where she’s coming from, it might make approaching her easier.
But there is one want that is both elementary and ephemeral at all times: the want to be wanted. That’s what it’s all about, baby.
In high school I was head over heels "in love" with one of my female friends. But it was doomed from the start; she happened to be one of the most beautiful girls in neighborhood while everyone in the neighborhood thought that I was gay (or at least bi-curious and VERY experimental), so I never told her about my feelings (at least not until much later). Once, in maybe sophomore year, she and I were on the phone late at night and the Lenny Kravitz song "Believe" came on the radio (she was on the other end of the phone listening to the same station). Overcome with a sense of teenage desperation over unrequited love, I repeated the lines, "Because it’s all just a game/We just want to be loved" after Lenny sang them and added a maudlin, "Man, that’s so true." There was a slight moment of silence before she broke into hysterical laughter, leaving me with the most profound sense of embarrassment I have felt to this day.
But wasn’t Lenny, in his infinite wisdom and leather pants, onto something there? From the moment we arrive on earth, we are looking for love, searching for something to project our feelings onto but at the same time gives us that warm and fuzzy feeling inside (that I haven’t had in a long time but fortunately have discovered that whiskey provides something similar). I say yes, he was. Whether it’s as a baby or as a 20-something sucking down mojitos in an Upper East Side bar, we just want to be loved.
Now, armed with the knowledge that all anyone – man or woman – wants is to be wanted, what should you do? Larry says: Completely fucking ignore that desire.
From this point forward, Larry Awesome is changing the way that I (we?) meet women. Instead of being the "trying to hard funny guy who desperately trying to work into the conversation his stupid fucking website," we’re rocking more this style:
[going up to bar to order drink next to Girl]
Me: [surly] "What’s up?"
Girl: "Hi."
Me: [rolling eyes] "Whatever." [walks to other side of bar to order drink]
I’m pretty certain that if I actually got the balls to pull this off, said Girl and I would be making out in the coatroom in under forty minutes.
In an environment in which people are drinking, being agreeable elicits no reaction. Being a dick elicits an often visceral reaction. Perhaps this is an incorrect extrapolation and sure, I’m probably still a bit drunk as I write this, but is this the same kind of thing as "there’s no such thing as bad press?" Meaning, isn’t any sort of gut reaction better than indifference?
I don’t think that I could ever pull this off because I’m too soft (although we shan’t underestimate Larry) but there has to be something here, I think. Forget all the mumbo jumbo when you’re at a bar. Everyone wants to be wanted. By showing disinterest you only pique interest which can then be used to your advantage. I’m not claiming this is groundbreaking here – it’s pretty much textbook manipulation. But I’m wondering if it actually could work in a real life setting.
Here is where I begin to stumble – and not just because on second thought I’m not still drunk but rather my hangover is starting to kick in and its making me unhappy. I asked Site Guy Brendan if there was any way to turn the comments on for one post because I wanted to see what you guys thought about this issue, but apparently it’s not possible (and by "apparently it’s not possible" I mean "Brendan hasn’t returned my calls"). So I guess I’ll have to read whatever emails this inspires and perhaps put the new strategy into practice tonight or this weekend (though I don’t think I could go out again tonight for fear of death).
So I’m sorry to disappoint you with this ending. Much like the way I make love, I got you involved, got you all riled up, and then suddenly finished and am now going to heat up some pizza. But this post was born out of a discussion which was born just after Drink #7 last night and I wanted to at least flesh out what I thought about the issue and see if y’all could provide any insights. It’s an interesting topic, no? Additionally, everybody is slow at work in August, so in keeping with the recent motto here at jm.com, "Hey, at least it’s long."
And now I’m seriously going to heat up some pizza. Fuck this diet. I’m getting a wicked hangover.
On Sunday, I did what I normally do on Sundays: walk aimlessly around New York City trying to get over a monster hangover. But since the weather was so nice and my hangover wasn’t too bad, I decided to bring my camera along. I’ve long been wanting to give you a better idea of ChiLita (Chinatown + Little Italy, where I live) and generally what I’m all about and decided there was no better time than the present (or the past, as it were). Also, my camera was on my desk because I had taken some naked pictures of my friends during the night. So there’s that, too.
I live on a street that runs perpendicular to Mulberry Street and Mott Street. Mulberry Street is Little Italy. While Little Italy was once much larger in area, the ability of the Italians to procreate was far surpassed by the ability of the Chinese to bring in relatives from Beijing and hide them in their closets. More and more Chinese started coming into the area and now Little Italy is reduced to one street (Mulberry) stretching from Canal up to Kenmare. Only a few short blocks.
Mott Street, on the other hand, is full of Chinese and one of the main thoroughfares for markets in Chinatown. I joke with visitors that I live on a street between a touristy area of Florence (Mulberry Street) and a fucking Beijing street fair (Mott Street), as the contrast between the two is so stark.
On this particular Sunday, I made a left out of my apartment to walk up Mott, deep in Chinese territory. I’ve been trying to think of ways to convey this gently without offending either my neighbors or the Chinese-American community (and more importantly, readership) but facts are facts. Chinatown stinks.
Welcome to Chinatown, Lady on the Right Clutching Her Face and Wretching!
This does not mean that the Chinese people themselves smell; on the contrary, they smell lovely (I made out once with a Chinese girl and she was at once one of the loveliest and best-smelling girls I’ve ever smooched). But this is an offshoot of the fact that Mott Street is filled with these open-air markets where all matters of nasty fish and shit are sold.
Mmm…fish.
I like fish as much as the next guy, but I’m not sure that it’s such a good idea to leave fish laying out all day in the hot August New York City sun. And by the way, there are about 500,000 per square mile. Dead fish + heat + thousands of people = it stinks.
In addition to fish, you can find other nasty things in these markets around the corner from my apartment. For example, if you’re looking for innards, you can get them for only $4.39/pound in Chinatown!
Mmm…whatever the fuck this is (guts? mussels?)
But maybe fish and fish innards aren’t your thing. Well, you’re in luck. In keeping with Chinatown’s unofficial motto ("If you want it, we sell it"), you can also buy yourself some frogs on a Sunday afternoon.
I don’t think they sell these for pets.
The frogs, even moreso than the fish, fish guts, and vegetables that I had only previously read about in the stories of C.S. Lewis, are the most difficult thing for my friends visiting me to understand. But that’s just how they roll in Chinatown. If it lives, it can be eaten. I’m certain if you knew the right codes words, one of these Chinese vendors would take you to the back of his store where you could buy your very own unicorn (at the negotiable price of $8.99/pound).
After Chinatown, I headed north. Typically, my walk is about the same: I walk from my apartment up to Central Park and back. It’s a good walk – about 11 miles in total – and takes a few hours. It’s a tremendous way to waste time.
I’ll pick different avenues each way though, so that I don’t get tired of the scenery. For example, I might take 1st Ave up to 59th Street, walk over across the park, and then take 8th Avenue down. And yes, I really am this lonely.
I took Madison Avenue up to Central Park, stopping and enjoying various tree-lined streets and a NYC street fair on Madison in midtown. I also took the time to taunt an old enemy.
These mother fuckers have been after me for years.
But soon I was at Central Park. It’s a cliche, but I love Central Park. I’m a city boy for sure, but maybe it’s because growing up I didn’t have a yard and the first time I saw a horse I thought it was a really big dog that I appreciate (or at least enjoy) nature so much. And Central Park is pretty much all the nature we have in NYC.
But that’s what makes it so special - it’s an oasis in the middle of a metropolis. The contrast between scenes like this and towering buildings nearby and masses of humanity around it only adds to the beauty of the park. It’s fucking awesome.
And then there’s this:
Mmm…junky hair.
This is a lock of human hair I found on the street not 25 feet from where the previous picture was taken. I am certain that this hair once belonged to a junkie who, in the middle of the night Saturday night, ripped it out of her head in a meth-induced mania. (I’m certain of this because I actually sold said junkie the meth and watched the whole thing – it was totally fucking awesome.) God I love New York City.
I walked away from Central Park, ready to return home to ChiLiTa, via 8th Avenue. There, I spied my favorite building in NYC: the Hearst Building.
Fucking sweet.
Rising like the cock of the walk just 8th Avenue, you can’t beat the Hearst Building. It’s got it all: size, class, and cool hard angles. Kinda like me.
At this point I was getting pretty tired and was thus unable to operate my camera, needing to conserve my energy for the five mile walk that stood between my location in midtown and my apartment. So I hunkered down, drank six Diet Cokes, had a minor heart attack, and was soon back in Little Italy.
Little Italy: Always Something Fucking Going On.
Oh, good ol’ Lil’ Italy. There are times when I hate living there – like when I’m coming from the gym, covered in sweat, and I have to walk through two blocks of tourists gorging themselves on nine kinds of sausages when I have Lean Cuisine baked chicken waiting for me at home – but then there are other times when I love it. Sure it’s crowded and loud and the food is overpriced and really not that good, but when I see the joy that brings that couple from Kansas or that family of guido assholes from Long Island, well, that makes me happy. For a while at least.
This sign also makes me happy.
"Eh – whaddya want from me? I’m eating my spaghetti and meatballs!"
This sign sits outside a restaurant near by apartment. I’ve written about this restaurant before (though I can’t find where in the archives), saying that it was the first to employ attractive women as hosts/employees who run up to you on the street sticking menus in your face, whereas all the other restaurants use pushy guido/Eastern European/Costa Rican men for this purpose. Though the talent has fallen off considerably this summer (I can only assume that last year’s super-hot hostesses were "discovered" and are now living with divorced stockbrokers in their late 40′s in New Jersey, exchanging affection and semi-violent blowjobs for ice and Lexuses), this restaurant is still always packed.
But back to the sign: my friends and I have taken this sign and run with it. This is going to lose something here because it’s a private, "you had to be there"-type joke, but needless to say, whenever we pass it we immediately play off the look on the guy’s face and put on our best Italian-American accents and go off, ranting about "Eh – what do you want from me? I’m eating my meatballs!" and "My wife says, "Whaddya want for dinner?’ I said, ’Marie, we been married twenty-eight years and every night I eat the same thing – my meatballs and my pasta! So that’s ‘a what I want!"
…
I told you you have to be there.
At the end of a long day, I wanted to crash in my apartment. But as I approached the place, I noticed it was louder than normal. The reason? The radio station Mix 102.7 was broadcasting live from the restaurant I live above. Of course. How could I have not expected that?
The view from my window.
So I had to sit in my apartment, watching morons congregate outside, masturbating to said mornons, and listening to dance music.
So yes, it was the perfect Sunday. I love New York.
Down 25 pounds in 47 days. I’m running three miles a day. I am an animal. The Spaniards at the gym having taken to calling me "La Machina de Fuck," which I think means "The Chubby White Boy Who Sweats and Pants A Lot and One Time Threw Up on the Treadmill."
There is a possibility that, maybe not by the end of this diet (final weigh-in is Friday, August 25) but by the end of August, that I will be under 200 pounds. Good lord. My junior year of high school I ran for Student Council under the slogan "239 lbs. of Vice President" (I won). Now, ten years later, I might be 40 pounds thinner. Wow. And 6’1" and under 200 is really not fat. Goddamn.
But we’re facing a tough stretch. I don’t diet on Fridays, Saturdays, or Sundays. That doesn’t mean that I’ll pig out on these days, but rather that I’ll entertain any reasonable request (Jersey Sloppy Joe for lunch – absolutely; 12 beers and 2 two slices of pizza after midnight – I’m listening; pint of Haagen Dazs at 4am – I’m sorry, but you’ll have to try back in a few weeks). This weekend will be especially difficult though because I have three buddies coming up from Philly for the weekend and a Yankee game on Saturday (I’m dreading this), so there will be no time for eating even close to reasonably. Then I have hot dates on Tuesday and Wednesday of next week, which means real actual meals that don’t require microwaving or George Foremaning and some beers. And then next weekend I’m heading to Philly – the place where diets go to die – for a bachelor party. So in reality I’ll only be dieting for two of the next ten days. So forget about that under 200 thing.
But otherwise it’s going well. I’m noticeably smaller and though I have not been lifting weights, I’m starting to notice muscles in my arms which had previously been covered by a good-sized layer of mashed potatoes. So I’m kinda able to tell the difference now, and not only because my clothes are so much looser (my friend Annie told me last weekend that I was "swimming" in my shirts – and I’m pretty sure she didn’t mean anything about sweating).
Yet there’s still one problem that will keep me shirted at the beach: my back hair. The good news is that this is much more easily resolved than 25 pounds of spare flesh. I’ve been thinking about getting it waxed but I haven’t been able to pull the trigger. I mean, I’m a man’s man – I like titties and beer and sports – I don’t know if I can get a waxing. More importantly, I’m scared shitless, not so much for the pain but for the potential embarrassment.
But there is hope. A buddy of mine, who shall remain nameless at his request, has upped the ante and is getting his back hair LASERED at a place appropriately named Silk Skin. This sounds more appealing to me then waxing because when you get your hair removed via laser it is gone permanently. You have to get in done in sessions though, going once a month for six months. My buddy, who may or may not have the initials C.G., is in his fourth session and raves about it when drunk (as though he’s putting it in my face that he’s moving from the community of the hairy to the community of the hairless).
And to be honest, I’m considering it. He says that the place is very man-friendly, that’s it’s not a big deal, and that it really fucking works. And I’m much rather get lasered once a month for six months by a professional – and never have to do it again - than waxed once a month for the rest of my life by some Russian broad whose cigarette is ashing onto my back. And at the very least, it’d make a great post.
But if I were to lose this weight AND the back hair, well, I just don’t know what would happen. And I’m afraid. But like I said, all it takes is one solid binge and I can gain ten or so pounds. So pray for me.
(And I know I said last week that I wouldn’t write as much about the diet, but give me a break – sometimes it’s hard to come up with six things to write for these posts and I’m a little hard up for material this week.)
***************
Over the weekend I was walking around in midtown and I stopped in a Starbucks for a water and to take a whiz. I got in the bathroom line, which was three people deep, despite the fact that there were only about five people in the Starbucks in total. And I waited with the three other people. And waited. And waited.
Suddenly, a kid who was about 17 or so, kinda hipsterish, complete with bad tattoos and earrings, came up and started banging on the door. He then put his face in the doorjamb and started speaking into the bathroom. I couldn’t really hear what he was saying, but caught stuff like "People are waiting" and "Let’s go" and the like.
He walked away and a few seconds later the bathroom door opened and out came two of his friends, young hipsters his age, and boy and a girl, looking all disheveled and sweaty. It was obvious to everyone in line that they were totally fucking each other in the bathroom. They made no attempt to hide this when they walked out, aside from lowering their flushed faces and walking from the bathroom straight out of the Starbucks.
I had never seen anything like this before. Prior to actually witnessing it, I would have guessed that my reaction would be something along the lines of "Oh – awesome! Those two just had sex in the bathroom! God that’s hot! Wow. I mean, wow. Christ, I would really pay like $200 right now to be able to make out. Fuck."
Instead, I was completely and utterly disgusted – so much so that I wanted to chase the couple out of the Starbucks and say something like, "I just wanted to tell you that that was a really classy move in there." I was repulsed and pissed off, surprising myself with the depth of my anger.
I don’t really know why. Was it because I was mad that I then had to take a piss among their fluids and body heat? Or because they were too young to be involved in such behavior? Or maybe it was because the chick was busted?
I don’t know, but I know it’s not a good sign. Maybe I’m getting mature. Maybe I realize that it’s inappropriate to be doing each other in public coffeehouse bathrooms.
Or maybe I’m just jealous. Yup, that’s probably it. All over New York City people are having sex in public bathrooms and last night I hooked up my ancient VCR to watch the porn tapes that I enjoyed so much in college.
…
This "internet quasi-celebrity" stuff is a crock of shit.
***************
I get about five spam emails a day to my work address. There is something I could do about this (I can’t explain the technology behind it, because I’m not tech savvy), but it would risk spamming and thus not receiving personal emails. What, then, would I do all day at work, if I could not email my buddy John about the fate of Derrick Lee or my old roommate Brian on the sex crimes I nearly committed the previous weekend? So I simply get the spam and delete it.
Earlier this week, I got a spam email from a "person" that has the same first name as one of my ex-girlfriends (and she doesn’t have a very common name). However, all I saw was the first name and immediately thought, "Holy shit – why the hell is my ex-girlfriend writing me?" I quickly grabbed the mouse to pop open the email but then realized it was spam. My heart rate returned to normal.
But then they kept coming. But they weren’t from the same full name. By that I mean, let’s say my ex is named Cindy. The first spam email was from Cindy Walker. Then the second spam email was from Cynthia Hoyt. The third from Cindy Gorman. Three spams, all in one day, with the first name of my ex. Coincidence? I think not.
I don’t know exactly why Fate has intervened like this, but I’m going to assume that this is a green light for me to leave a very long voicemail for my ex this weekend around 4am. I mean, that seems like the logical thing to do, right? We haven’t spoken in a long, long time, so there’s no better reason to break our silence than because I got a few spam emails from someone with her first name. I’ll have to remind myself to bring this up in the message, slipping it in somewhere between "So I’ve lost a bunch of weight" and "I’ve slept with, like, eight girls since we’ve broken up." It’s going to be magic. Or magical. Whatever.
***************
Someone is impersonating me by leaving comments on random blogs. I know this because I’ve gotten several emails from blog proprietors responding to my comments. For example, I did not leave the comment attributed to me on this blog post.
I don’t really care about this, but if you’re impersonating me, you really need to reassess your life. Because the only thing sadder than being me is pretending to be me. I mean, wow.
(Well, I guess making love to me is saddest of all, but I don’t want to get too down on myself right at the start of the weekend. I need good self-esteem if I’m going to try to make out. I’ve been reading a lot and apparently girls like confidence. But it also says that they like a sense of humor, and, well, we all know how far that’s gotten me. I’m the funniest person I know and last Friday night I would have made out with a man to conquer my loneliness. So I don’t even know what to think anymore.)
***************
This morning on the ride into work, I noticed an interesting 311 subway ad. For non-New Yorkers, 311 is a number to call for just about everything that isn’t an emergency, from reporting potholes to asking for help with your alcoholism to finding out when your trash will be picked up.
Anyway, this ad had a picture of a woman’s face, which was black and blue. Underneath the picture, the ad, whose purpose was to encourage abused women to call 311 for help, said, "38% of battered women will be victimized again within six months."
Is it wrong that the first thing I thought of after reading this was, "38%? That’s really not a high percentage."
I’m not trying to make a cheap joke here – I’m being serious. Beating women, which is not funny at all, seems like one of those things that once you break the seal or cross that line, you say, "Well, fuck it. I did it once – I might as well do it again." It’s like how serial killers always say that the hardest victim was the first one, but after that, it was pretty easy.
…
You know what? I don’t like where this is going, so let’s just stop here and get on with the fucking music.
***************
Six Songs
Some really good ones this week, so be sure to get them all.
"Torn & Frayed" Rolling Stones
Sing it with me – "Heeeyyyyy, let him follow you down…" This is another random/awesome Stones song, again from Exile on Main Street, an incredible album. Also, this is the flagship song of a new playlist I created, "Whiskey, You Son of a Bitch." More will be added later – probably when I’m drunk. God I fucking love the Rolling Stones and so wish they weren’t a complete travesty now.
"Death Letter" White Stripes
I mentioned "You’re Pretty Good Looking (For A Girl)" in a post earlier this week. Great song. Well, the whole album, De Stijl, is terrific. I’ve been enjoying the White Stripes for years but only downloaded this album a few weeks ago and am kicking myself for not doing it sooner. This is just a total fucking badass song, which immediately grabs you by the balls and shakes you around. And you’re all like, "Whoa – let go of my balls!" and it’s all like "Fuck you, bitch! Shut up!" and you’re like "Um, ok." That’s how badass it is. Please download it.
"It Ain’t Easy Being Me" Chris Knight
I’m still liking the country very much. Something about the simplicity of the lyrics really gets me. Don’t get me wrong - I’ll always love the witty wordplay of Elvis Costello, but when it comes right down to it, can you really beat:
I shoot the lights and I curse the dark
I need your love but I break your heart
And I know the words that’ll bring you back but
But I don’t say nothing as I watch you pack
I don’t think you can, sir. I don’t think you can.
"She Moves in Her Own Way" The Kooks
Recommended by Erika in Boston, a tremendously catchy little ditty, even if the lead singer’s accent is so thick I can’t really understand what the fuck he’s saying. Of course, that hasn’t stopped me from playing and singing along, speaking total gibberish. Great stuff.
"Fill My Little World" The Feeling
Also from Erika, making her the first reader ever to get two songs into a single Six Songs suggestion. Good ol’ fashioned Brit power-pop at its finest.
"To Be the One" Ryan Adams
"The empty bottle, it misses you/But I’m the one it’s talking to." Yup, it’s official – after my spectacular death in a hotel fire nine weeks from now (a hotel fire I started, mind you), someone should immediately contact Ryan Adams to start composing the music for the film about my life. Not that it will take him awhile to do the music, but we’ll want him to get it all down before he also dies in a hotel fire, seven weeks after I do.
[Have a good weekend.]
Last Friday, I wrote this about my diet:
But there is one thing I have not yet received: compliments or recognition. It’s not that I’m seeking them out and I’m not fishing for them here (from friends who read the site), but I’m being honest when I say that I really can’t tell too much of difference when I look at myself. I’m still fat and hairy. My clothes are a little looser, but I’m still a monstrosity when I’m naked. I feel better and have more energy, but I still can’t masturbate completely nude, as my body turns me off. So while numerically I’m making progress, it hasn’t made an effect on my appearance. No one has ever said, "Dude, you look different." It’s been more like me saying, "Dude, I’ve lost 16 pounds" and a friend saying, "Yeah, well, you’re still fat." And they’re right.
Apparently, several members of you read this:
I’m really depressed that no one is giving me credit for my weight loss. So why don’t you have a few glasses of wine tonight, take off all or part of your clothes, and a take a couple of pictures to send me? They can be tasteful, playful and not trashy OR they can be so trashy that they make me blush (some so, so trashy that they need to be immediately deleted). Whatever works for you. Just send me some nudie pictures. Please. As soon as possible. Like, do it now.
The point: lots of naked pictures sent to me by y’all this weekend (I’m not sure if this is entirely appropriate to talk about, but hang on). It’s weird – sometimes I won’t get any for two months and then whammo! Smiling, happy boobies waiting for me. There was even one pic of one of you this weekend that was so awesome that I actually said "Wow" out loud and offered air- and cabfare to the girl who sent it, provided she could make it to NYC in under four hours (as after that time I would have masturbated myself to death). Sadly, she didn’t respond. I’m guessing because she was drunk when she sent the pic and sober when she got my email. The circle of life is a thing of beauty, isn’t it?
But since we’re talking openly about naked pictures, I’d like to institute a New Naked Pictures Policy here at jasonmulgrew.com. I realize that this may prevent me from getting as many naked pics of you in the future, but I feel that it must be adhered to.
From this point forward, when you send me a naked picture of yourself, could you not black out or otherwise hide your face? To a lesser extent, if you’re sending a picture of just your boobies, it’d be nice to see a face as well, as headless boobies can only be so appealing.
The problem is, ladies, that you’re making me look like a goddamn serial killer. If someone were to stumble upon my "Naked Pictures of Fans" folder on my computer – even though it is very hidden – I would immediately be reported to the authorities. I can’t say with 100% certainty, but I’m pretty sure that I have the world’s largest collection of amateur boobies-without-faces pictures. Just two boobs. No face. Maybe some chin and a little bit of belly, but mostly just boobies.
And there’s nothing wrong with this – too much. I understand your need to protect your anonymity and respect that. And hell, we all know it’s the boobies I’m after, so I appreciate you getting right to the point. But now, after years of being totally fucking dominant on the internet, I’m developing quite a collection and it’s weirding me out a little bit.
[Hold on, what's weirder: that I have received too many pictures of boobies without heads or that I'm collecting these pictures? I think we should retitle this post "why no one will ever marry me." Wow.]
[And yes, I sound like an asshole. But really, when don't I? If I can talk about jerking off in a Pepsi can or eating pizza in the tub, I don't think this subject is beyond the pale.]
But the faceless boobie shots, I really don’t mind as much (what’s weirder are the faceless cleavage shots – when one of you sends me a picture of yourself clothed but in something low-cut and/or pushing her boobies together – because then it looks like I’ve been hanging out in malls or dorms taking those pictures myself of unsuspecting busty females).
It’s the modified face pictures that really make me look like a serial killer. For example: you send me a picture of yourself in the shower that your boyfriend took (she’s a keeper, boyfriend). Then after taking the picture, the two of you decide to photoshop it so that your face is either a) completely blacked out; b) scribbled over; or c) fuzzed by some sort of translucent circle. Then it’s sent to me.
Pictures like these make me feel both happy and icky. Sure, it’s totally sweet that I’m able to see a naked or half-naked girl. That rules and will always rule. But something about the blocked out face…well, makes me feel kinda like a pervert, when in reality I just like naked women.
(A lot. A whole lot.)
So it’d be nice if I could see a face. I don’t mean to be creepy by asking you to not block out your face. It’s not like I’m going to use the IP address from your email address to find out where you live, then maybe take a week off from work to hang out in your town in the hope of finding you (though that could be easy – after all, Mission, British Columbia is not a large town), then when I find you I’ll watch you for a few days – maybe from a tree on your street or from my rental car, slowly building up the confidence to approach you, finally doing so in the supermarket, at which point I’ll ask if you if you’d like to have a drink at a local bar near the Red Roof Inn where I’m staying, and you’ll be so surprised to see me you won’t be able to say anything but yes, then we’ll head to that bar, have some gin-based drinks, and wind up doing it in my rental car (as the Red Roof Inn will have burned down while we were at the bar).
It’s just that I’ve watched enough Law & Order: SVU to know that it’s not psychologically healthy to block out or scribble over anyone’s face in a picture. Of course, I realize that I’m not the one doing it – you’re doing it to a picture of yourself, for a very different reason than a desire to inflict harm. But by possessing these pictures with blocked out faces (possession is nine-tenths the law, right?), I cross the line over to completely deranged serial murdered when I’m really just a fan of amateur porn and a man enjoying the fruits of what little power he has.
So please, include a face or don’t send a picture. Or maybe find some other way to conceal your identity without making me feel so creepy. For example, maybe you can send me a fully nude picture of yourself but instead of your face, use Santa’s face? I mean, who doesn’t get happy when they see Santa? Just a suggestion.
At any rate, a heartfelt thank you for these pictures. Just when I’m feeling down about having to come up with something to make y’all laugh, I get a nice pair of boobies and I’m reminded of why I started doing this in the first place: breasts. God bless ‘em. And god bless you.
Looking forward to your naked Santa pics,
Yours eternally, meaning now, then, and forever,
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride,
so I love you because I know no other way,
- Jason ("Tu Chuleta")
Here’s the intro:
Here’s the intro:COLUMBUS, Ohio — Maurice Clarett was charged with carrying a concealed weapon after a highway chase early Wednesday that ended with police using Mace on the former Ohio State running back and finding four loaded guns in his sport utility vehicle, police said.Officers used Mace to subdue Clarett after a stun gun was ineffective because the former Fiesta Bowl star was wearing a bullet-resistant vest, Sgt. Michael Woods said.
There is no doubt in my mind that Maurice Clarett was going to murder someone. You don’t go for a casual drive with four loaded guns while wearing a bullet-proof vest. Trust me. My dad used to do shit like this all the time growing up. And it never ended well.
I wish I could offer some additional commentary but I’m too shocked to be funny. Also, I was up all night having nightmares that I was the main character in a novel I’m reading. Strange, especially since the character is a Montanan real estate speculator in his early 50’s going through a divorce. So we don’t have much in common, aside from the divorce.
Anyway, kudos to you, Maurice Clarett. It’s crazies like you that make me feel less bad about my own actions. Just when I think I should take a break from drinking, I learn that you were impervious to a tazer. What a great country we live in.
******
ADDENDUM
After I put up this post, I received this email from my friend Corinne:
"A half-full bottle of vodka was found in the SUV, but no breath test was administered because police had no indication that Clarett was intoxicated.”
Really? No indication that he’d been drinking? Driving around ignoring any and all traffic laws with a bullet proof vest and loaded guns laying about? Hmm…
Excellent points by Corinne. I get pulled over all the time and I’m a harmless-looking white guy with a beard. Clarett is a giant black man, resisting arrest and tazers, with a half-full bottle of vodka and four loaded guns in his car. Oh yeah – and he’s wearing a bullet-proof vest. I guess that’s normal behavior in Ohio. Which means, of course, I’m moving there.
Any readers out there want to show me around? I’ll bring the Kevlar vests.
Two very large and delicious dinners this weekend with mixed results. Let’s get right into it, shall we?
Dinner 1: Saturday NightI woke up on Saturday with a hangover (nothing goes better with Shark Week than vodka) but went to the gym and ran for 2.5 miles. 2.5 miles! With a hangover! Six weeks ago I couldn’t run three blocks without collapsing into the arms of some unsuspecting tourist, panting and sweating and ranting about the forthcoming Race War and Armageddon and would you like to get a drink with me. But I ran 2.5 miles Saturday. It’s a start. And if it keeps up, I may actually have to buy condoms - and not just for decoration or for putting on and dancing around when I’m alone and feeling silly. I mean, groundbreaking stuff here.
But I paid a price for this running. While running, I thought, "This is awesome." Afterwards, I thought, "What the fuck did I just do to my body?" My legs were sore in a way that they had never been before (as I probably ripped apart every tendon in them). It wasn’t just my legs – my back was killing me. Sweet. My hangover was gone, but I was overcome by a feeling of the worst kind of exhaustion: when you feel tired and just want to sleep but you’re body is too awake and won’t let you. No good.
It was under these circumstances that I met my editor Brian for an early dinner at Angelo & Maxie’s, a steakhouse here in the city. This was our long awaited celebratory dinner, a "Congratulations - you wrote a book" meal, even if it was qualified with "Maybe not a great book, but at least it’s pretty long and there are only a few spelling errors. Also, you use N-word way too many times, but we’ll talk about that some other time."I may have been physically out of sorts, but that didn’t stop me from eliminating all the food put before me (and a few napkins and my half of the table cloth). Remember, I’m used to Lean Cuisine baked chicken and Slim Fast shakes. Brian and I had fried calamari, proscuitto with mozzarella and tomatoes, 15 oz steaks, and piles of creamed spinach and mashed potatoes. It was so good that as I write this tears are falling off my cheeks onto my keyboard. Because it smells in my office. Kinda like throw up.
But just as I paid a price for my overexertion, so I did for my gluttony. Halfway through the meal, I could practically hear my body saying, "Dude, what the fuck are you doing? Is this some kind of fucking joke? Do you want the puking to come before the heart attack or vice-versa? Maybe both at once?"Brian noticed how slowly I was drinking my beer, so to step it up instead of desserts we got spirits. I had myself a nice aged Bourbon and that gave me some legs for a while. After dinner, we met with some other book-related people, two guys who drank Guinness faster than their pints could be poured. In order to keep up, Brian and I kicked back our drinks, both whiskeys by this point, with the same speed.
We all went to a bar after that to meet some friends and by then I was bombed, tired, and feeling a little sick. Around 2am I pulled an Irish Exit, saying that I was going to the ATM but then taking off (and despite that I was feeling ill, this didn’t stop me from breaking a cardinal rule and getting two slices of pizza, which I inhaled in the short cab ride back to my place). For the second night in a row, and the only weekend that I can remember, I was in bed before the bars closed on both Friday and Saturday nights. Unprecedented and pathetic.Performance: D+
Total bitch moves on my part. Inexcusable.
Had some serious potential if not for my cop out. Good food, good company, good drinks, lame Jason.
Dinner #2: Sunday night
My friend Annie was in town from Seattle this weekend. Sunday was her last night, so my friend Nicole and I had dinner with her at Pastis.
I discovered the Sazerac, a whiskey drink, a few weeks ago after having dinner on my birthday. It was the closest I’ve come to love at first sight in my life. It’s a little sweet, but it’s got some real kick to it and, most importantly, gets you very, very drunk.
The Sazerac is one of the specialty cocktails at Pastis. When I saw this on the menu, my eyes lit up. Then when the drink came, my belly got warm. Then when the waiter returned, I ordered another. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Though I wasn’t drunk after dinner, I was certainly on a roll. Nicole, Annie and I headed across the street to the rooftop of the Hotel Gansevoort.I have to take a minute here to explain to non-New Yorkers why I love having Nicole back (and Annie this weekend) in the city as my go-to classy female friend (background: Nicole and Annie lived in NYC for two years two years ago, both moved away, Nicole just moved back). I do not belong at a restaurant like Pastis or on the rooftop bar of the Hotel Gansevoort. For example, one of the last times I was at Pastis was for an "entertainment industry meeting" and Ben Stiller and his wife were eating not ten feet away from me. I have been on the roof of the Gansevoort before for similar "entertainment industry" stuff and did not have to pay. This time, when the waitress brought our three drinks and I offered to get the first round, it cost me $50 (including tip). $50 for three drinks. Yikes. But I paid and smiled, knowing that this was only a temporary thing and that soon I would return to my roots (i.e. Wendy’s and any bar with the word "Pub" in the title). Besides, Nicole (and Annie) is teaching me to be versatile. I have mastered the art of drinking in the pub. Now, I must move on to Drinking in the Lounge (notice the caps) if I ever want to fuck some seriously hot chicks. I mean, if I ever want to court a classy lady.
We did not stay long at the Gansevoort, not only because of the cost but also because Nicole was babysitting her family’s seventeen year-old cat (!) at her apartment on the Upper East Side and had to return there to administer the cat’s medicine. It was still early, so we agreed to go give the cat its medicine (sadly, not a sexual expression) and then head to a neighborhood bar around Nicole’s place.
At that neighborhood bar, whose name escapes me because I was pretty drunk by that point (somewhere in the 80′s), the three of us set up shop. Nicole left after a few drinks, having work the next day, but Annie, who kept guilting me about how she won’t get to see me anymore once she’s back in Seattle, and I stayed, drinking very quickly, almost violently. I started with what I had been drinking at the Gansevoort – Maker’s Mark and ginger ale. But after a few of those I realized that the ginger ale was not really serving any purpose so I went with only the Maker’s Mark and some ice.I’m learning a few things as I continue my journey with whiskey. First and foremost among them is that whiskey drunk sneaks up on you. Because it tastes so good and goes down so easy, you don’t realize that you’re poisoning yourself at an alarming rate. And it’s a different drunk than a beer buzz, which leaves me bloated and irritable. Whiskey drunk is a nice warm feeling. It’s as though the whiskey fills the control room of your brain that’s supposed to warn you to slow down the drinking with the soothing sounds of Sade and maybe there are some massages involved.
Near the end of the night, I got up to go to the bathroom. I suppose you’re waiting for me to say that the whiskey hit me as soon as I stood up, but sneaky devil that it is, it didn’t. I walked seemingly soberly to the bathroom and took a whiz. Everything was fine. But it was when I started to wash my hands that I felt a sudden surge of drunkenness. It was almost supernatural; like I was either possessed or there was a poltergeist in the room that suddenly pushed me. I stumbled a bit, laughed it off, finished washing my hands, and returned to Annie, thinking only, "That was a little weird. And man I have to do something about my pubes."It was getting near 3am and I had to work the next day, so Annie and I called it a night. Outside the bar she finished off her cigarette and hailed a cab, offering to share it with me. She was surprised when I brushed her off, telling her I was going to walk. But it was a beautiful New York City night and I wanted to enjoy it.
There are nights in the summer, though they are rare, that are prefect. After sitting in the stuffy bar for several hours, the air was almost cool. And it was quiet. There is a strange beauty to walking the streets of New York, the greatest city in the world, with a solid buzz on while everyone else is asleep.I finally reached my building and walked in. I passed the doorman and went straight to the elevator, which was open and waiting for me. In good spirits, I started singing The White Stripes’ "You’re Pretty Good Looking (For a Girl)" to myself after I pushed the button for my floor and leaned against the elevator, looking forward to being home. After a good meal and a long night of whiskey, I was going to enjoy the cold comfort of my bed.
And then I realized something: I don’t have an elevator in my building.I don’t have a doorman, either.
Hmm…I figured out that in a bourbon-induced haze I walked not to my current apartment - in Little Italy, 90 blocks south of the bar - but to my old apartment in the Upper East Side, only ten or so blocks from the bar. You know, the apartment I moved out of in May 2005. I was so wrapped up in the beauty of the night that I didn’t realize this until I was in the elevator of my old building. Also, I was really fucked up.
Oops.So when the elevator stopped at the 21st floor, I didn’t get out. I sheepishly pushed the "L" and snuck passed the doorman on my out to the street and hopped in a cab.
But no, I was not finished. The cab took 2nd Ave all the way down to my neighborhood. I’ve mentioned before the Chinatown/Little Italy is downright scary at night, easily the most terrifying neighborhood I’ve lived in in NYC. It’s so full of life during the day but eerily dead at night.The cab pulled onto my block and soon stopped in front of my apartment. When I leaned up in my seat to pay the cabbie his fare, for some unknown reason I said: "Excuse me, sir, but would you mind waiting until I get into my building before driving away? I was shot a few months ago outside of my apartment."
???The cabbie looked at me, half-frightened, half-quizzically. I think he nodded, but I hopped out the cab and go into my building. When the door closed behind me, he beeped. Then he pulled away.
???To be honest, I have no idea why I told the cabbie that I had been shot outside of my apartment. I don’t know if I said it to be funny (which I’m not sure it is – it might be very funny but it also might be too fucking weird), I don’t think I said it out of fear (though the neighborhood is scary, there was no one there except me and I had to walk eight feet to my building), and I don’t think I said it to be a dick (I’m usually not that much of an asshole to fuck with the Pakstani cab driver).
[Seriously, to paraphrase Karen's mother in "Goodfellas," what kind of person tells a cabbie he was shot outside of his apartment for fun? I mean, what the fuck?]But I do know one thing: I don’t think I would have said that if I had been drinking beer all night.
Longtime reader and emailer Nate from Texas emailed me a few weeks ago after I announced my new love affair with whiskey. He said something to the effect of, "Whiskey will only destroy you in the end. Beer is the one true answer." I replied, "Well, I guess that’s something every man has to learn on his own." And while I’m not beating my wife or robbing banks, I think I may be starting to learn this.The question is, then, do I keep going? I truly believe that, on the night I stayed in my apartment drinking whiskey and listening to George Jones, I would have continued drinking forever had I not run out of bourbon. I would have continued to drink and drink and drink with a smile on my face, singing my George Jones, not having a care in the world. Like my comment to the cabbie, I’m not sure if this is awesome or scary.
But I think I’ve figured this much out.Beer, for me, is my girlfriend. She’s safe. She takes care of you – fixes you dinner, is pleasant company in your free time, gives you regular sex. And you take care of her - take her to dinner, buy her presents, spend your money on her. Sure, once in a while things might get a little crazy and you’ll fuck on the kitchen floor or in a stairwell, but for the most part you know what you’re going to get: a nice, even time. You love her because you need her. That may not have always been the case, but it is now.
Whiskey, for me, is my whore. She’s nuts, and it’s precisely her insanity that drives you crazy. She’ll toy with your emotions, lulling you into a sense of security, before she’ll pull away from you entirely, make you look like a jerk in front of your friends, leave you lonely and confused. But you put up with her because when you have sex her body because a piston (a piston that spews forth the dirtiest words in the English language – or any other language, for that language). And because nothing cures boredom quite like danger.Doug Fieger, lead singer of the band The Knack, said he wrote the song "My Sharona" about a girlfriend he once had. He said, "I had never met a girl like her – ever. She induced madness. She was a very powerful presence. She had an insouciance that wouldn’t quit. She was very self-assured…She also had an overpowering scent, and it drove my crazy." Doug nailed it. The uniqueness, the madness, the presence, the insouciance, the self-assuredness, the scent, and back to the madness. A crazy woman and a bottle of whiskey.
…But I think I miss my girlfriend.
(I actually first hit 20 pounds lost on the 38th Day, but 40 is much more theatrical. So just fucking play along.)
In sooth, I never thought this diet would actually work, so I don’t really have anything prepared to say. I don’t want to gloat, because I’m afraid that if I keep talking about all the weight I’m losing I will lose the "fatty" portion of my readership (just as I have lost the gay portion after yesterday’s post). Then I will only be left with the college students (of which there are not many), the stoners (lots) and the criminals (tons). However, all three of these groups don’t buy books and I have a career to think about ("Hitting Shelves in April 2007, The Long-Awaited, Much-Anticipated Memoirs of Jason Mulgrew – Everything Is Wrong With Me: An American Childhood Gone Wrong! Free Handjob From the Author With the First 5000 Books Sold (Limit Three Per Customer)! Start Saving Your Change Now!").
But yet I would be remiss if I didn’t say how I did this or the effects it has had on me. Also, I’ve been kinda hard up for material this week, so if you want a post today, this is what you’re going to have to read. At least it’ll probably be pretty long.
To be honest, the whole diet thing has been very easy and has worked because of five things:
1) My love of music
2) My obsession with numbers
3) My significant anger issues
4) My taste for booze and intoxication
5) My stubbornness
My love of music
First and foremost, none of this would have been possible if I didn’t have an iPod and the most excellent taste in music of anyone I know. If you’ve read even a little bit of this website, you know that I’m obsessed with music; I listen to it when I wake up, listen to it all day at work, listen to it while falling asleep, listen to it when I shower, masturbate, clean – all the fucking time (and no, I’m joking about the masturbate thing – I dare you to masturbate to a Sigur Ros song while jerking and tell me your orgasm is not heightened).
So when I joined the gym and started this diet, half of the "adventure" was the working out itself, but the other half was creating the greatest work-out mix in the history of mankind. I had had two very old workout mixes from my old gym days almost two years ago ("Hype" for cardio work and "Punch Your Goddamn Balls" for weightlifting) but they had grown stale.
My first order of business was creating a "Balls Out Workout" mix, combining the best elements of the previous two, as well as a number of new songs. For hours I poured over the 7000 songs in my iTunes, looking for a select few for the playlist. And since we’re not doing a Six Songs this week and because many people have asked, here’s a sampling of songs from the "Balls Out Workout" mix (10 of the 90 total on the list):
- "Barracuda" Heart
- "Feather Boa" Marah
- "Golddigger" Kanye West
- "Kick in the Door" Notorious B.I.G.
- "Marry Me" Drive-By Truckers
- "Red Morning Light" Kings of Leon
- "Spread Your Love" Black Rebel Motorcycle Club
- "Take the Fifth" Spoon
- "The Blues Are Still Blue" Belle & Sebastian
- "The Girl I Love" Led Zeppelin
It’s a nice mix, with rock and rap intermingled. Many of the other songs I’ve already mentioned on here (some of those listed I’ve mentioned before) or are well-known songs that one would guess would be on this sort of mix, but those are ten random ones that I especially rock out to.
Once I had the music all figured out, I was halfway there.
(Well, not really. But in spirit at least.)
My obsession with numbers
I’m sort of a little crazy when it comes to numbers. For example, I told a girl I met recently that I’m fascinated by her birthday: November 21 (11/21). This is because, as I told her, it "resolves" itself. For example, 1+1=2-1=1. Then if you take that 1 and reintroduce it to dates, it’s 1+1+1=3, 3-2=1, 1-1=0. See? It resolves itself. But sadly, just as you stopped reading after "For example," she too stopped listening and we did not spend the night together. Yet.
Numbers are also why I am excellent at fantasy sports (save for one baseball league this year – thank you Vlad, Jake Peavy, "King" Felix, Cliff Floyd, Aubrey Huff, Zach Duke, JD Drew, and a litany of other losers). I know Chase Utley’s average, on-base percentage, and slugging percentage by heart and I can tell you how many total bases Carlos Beltran has in the last month. Fantasy baseball has more to do with manipulating and projecting data than sports.
I took this approach to dieting. My diet plan was simple: it’s all about calories. Forget carbs, trans fats, South Beach, Atkin’s – all that. Dieting can be deconstructed into one simple condition: If you burn off more calories than you consume, you will lose weight. That’s it.
Over the course of this diet I’ve become so consumed with counting calories that I’m now almost autistic. And the weird thing is, I kind of love it. I think that maybe I love numbers, especially in the case of the diet, because I love control. I like knowing that by the end of the day I have consumed 1000 calories and burned off 800 at the gym. According to this website, I burn about 3000 calories a day just by being myself. That’s a net calorie loss of 2800 calories a day. That number is so big it gives me a boner.
…
Ok, I’m getting a little excited here. Let’s just talk about something else before I start masturbating here at my desk.
…
Actually, no – one last thing because I think it might be useful to others.
I drink at least 2.5 liters of water and poop about twice per day. All told, I go to the bathroom 7 to 9 times a day.
Three weeks ago I came up with an idea. Instead of using the bathroom on my floor, every time I had to pee or poop I’d use the bathroom three floors above me or three floors below, taking the stairs back and forth. In this way, I’d be climbing stairs when I didn’t have to, and by doing it in small intervals, I wouldn’t feel too stressed or sweaty but it would accumulate into something larger by the end of the day.
So I started doing it and keeping track of how many times I went to the can, multiplying the number of trips by the floors walked to get a final number. On my first day, I went 8 times, walking up (or down and back) three flights of stairs each day. So by the end of that day, I’d climbed the equivalent of 24 story building. Not something I’d do in a normal day.
Two weeks ago, I went from three flights to four. This week, it’s up to five. Yesterday, I went to the bathroom nine times, meaning I walked up 45 flights of stairs in a day. Not a bad way to get secret, easy exercise in. However, I don’t think I’ll increase it to six floors next week, because I’m pushing it at five; I’d really rather not shit or piss myself at work, which has come dangerously close to happening.
My significant anger issues
One thing that I hadn’t realized about the gym is that it’s totally ok to go there and be a) sweaty and b) really, really pissed off. The sweat is great for me, since by the time I get to the gym I look like I’ve been swimming with my shirt on again. But the anger is even better.
I’m learning that I may have some anger issues. I know, I know – by day and on here, I’m mostly a mild-mannered chubby kid who jokes about his little penis. But at the gym, I become a fucking maniac.
I’ve never before in my life done anything physically taxing for an extended period of time. While I played Little League growing up, that was more about drinking soda and talking about masturbating than exercise. So for the first time in my life, I’m pushing my body. The result is that all this testosterone is suddenly appearing. And at the gym, I become a spitting, cursing, crazy person, running on the treadmill (yes, actually running), sweating pouring down my face, screaming at myself, "You pussy! C’mon fat chops – let’s get a move on! You think the girl on the treadmill next to you would ever fuck a guy with titties like yours! Faster! Run like it’ll make your dick bigger, cockass! ARRRGGHH!"
After the gym, I return to my normal mild-mannered self. I heat up my Lean Cuisine dinner and watch the BBC World News, which I tivo every night for this reason. Then I’ll have a glass of wine or a Manhattan and either read (I’ve read like six books in the past six or seven weeks – thanks again for all the recommendations) or sit at the computer to type. Then a quick shower and a Xanax and I’m under the covers, strangling my penis, an old pair of boxers in my left hand to receive my "not this time" children. Just a simple man. Content. Happy. But sometimes crazy.
My taste for booze and intoxication
Probably what I’ve written most about the diet is it’s most unintended consequence: I have been getting seriously fucked up lately. I don’t need to get too into this because you’ve already heard about it, but when you eat little and work out a lot, you tolerance decreases dramatically. This is like freshman (well, sophomore for me) year of college drunk. And sure, maybe it has something to do with me drinking whiskey instead of beer before I go out nowadays, but the fact is that these last few week’s have been awesome, thanks mostly to my diet and the booze.
My stubbornness
My worst and best quality is that I am astonishingly stubborn. It either makes me a horrible person or a driven man. I can do anything you tell me I can’t do. I’m a world beater. I just don’t lose. I was on food stamps as a kid, got scholarships to every school I attended, and last year walked out of a meeting in which I made more money in 45 minutes than both of my parents make in a year combined (you know, if I ever actually see that money).
I know I sound like a total dick with a huge ego, but you have to remember – Larry Awesome does NOT fuck around (and he is a total dick with a huge ego). So when I announced this diet to my friends, I was almost glad that it was greeted with universal skepticism, even by my most sensitive and sincere friends. Larry Awesome then went into overdrive mode and has pretty much taken over the show, especially since after I was finished whining about my birthday. It’s been all Larry, all the time. And it scares me a little.
But Larry gets results. The doubt has been a prime motivator throughout this process and will continue to be. It’s a good thing my friends are unencouraging assholes.
[And don't worry, I'm going to share the wealth. Not with you guys, of course, but I already know exactly what I'm getting my mom and dad once that money comes through. For my dad, it's an all-expenses paid trip to Richmond, Virginia to the Phillip Morris factory, so he can actually see his beloved Reds being made. For my mom, I'm going to hire an actress to impersonate her. Then, this actress will go into her second job when she's scheduled to work - I will keep her out by distracting her - and the actress will fuck everything up and get "her" fired. This is the only way I think I can stop my mom from working 70 hours a week.]
**********
Since I committed to 60 days, I will continue to 60 days. I hope that by the end I’ll have lost between 25 and 30 pounds, which is reasonable (although this weekend will be tough because I have dinners on Saturday and Sunday nights, the Saturday one being a FREE dinner at a fancy steak place which will be followed by FREE drinks, so I may gain the whole 20 back just in that night).
But there is one thing I have not yet received: compliments or recognition. It’s not that I’m seeking them out and I’m not fishing for them here (from friends who read the site), but I’m being honest when I say that I really can’t tell too much of difference when I look at myself. I’m still fat and hairy. My clothes are a little looser, but I’m still a monstrosity when I’m naked. I feel better and have more energy, but I still can’t masturbate completely nude, as my body turns me off. So while numerically I’m making progress, it hasn’t made an effect on my appearance. No one has ever said, "Dude, you look different." It’s been more like me saying, "Dude, I’ve lost 16 pounds" and a friend saying, "Yeah, well, you’re still fat." And they’re right.
The good news is that I really don’t care. The ultimate goal of this diet was to get in better shape, which, presumably, would lead to more opportunities for carousal with the opposite sex. And while these opportunities have yet to present themselves, I am able to sustain the vigor for my new lifestyle because of the shrinking number on the scale and such encouraging signs as actually being able to run on the treadmill now (when when I had started the diet, the most exercise I could do was a slow, up-hill walk).
So we (Larry and I, mostly Larry) will continue onward and upward with the diet. I won’t be charting progress as much anymore, since I’ve hit my goal and I’m sure only about 1/3 of the people who started reading this post are still reading it. But hey, I warned you right away. And I was right – at least it’s long. So if you’re reading, at least you’ve killed ten minutes, right?
But now we’re done. Since it’s Friday and I don’t diet on Fridays, I have to get to the cafeteria before they run out of Sloppy Joe’s. Have a good weekend.
On Sunday while in LA, I got a call from my old college roommate Tom, who was in Italy. Tom is very, very dear to me, mostly because he is (or was) an incredible drunk. I won’t get into his stories here (since he might want to write a book about them later), but we rather unoriginally called him Jekyll and Hyde. He’s the only person I’ve ever known in my life whose demeanor, facial expressions, and body language would change after each drink, charting his descent into alcoholic madness. It was incredible. In college, after his first drink, we’d say, "Uh oh – Hyde just left his apartment." The second would find Hyde on the T, the fourth and Hyde would be on campus. By the sixth, Hyde would be in the elevator of our dorm and shortly thereafter Tom would be half-naked throwing towels in the oven. Tremendous, tremendous stuff.
I tried to catch up with Tom before he went to Italy with his family, but was unable to. Still, I was surprised that he’d call from Italy to shoot the shit. But he didn’t want to shoot the shit. He had a favor to ask.
Tom explained that the girl he is seeing, Christine, would be in NYC for a week. Tom had mentioned her before in an email, but I really wasn’t paying attention. Tom asked if I wouldn’t mind showing her around.
My first reaction? Crap.
I love women. Love them more than anything really. Even the gross ones are beautiful in some way. Supposedly.
But the prospect of one-on-one time with a woman I’ve never met – never even spoken to or emailed – is a little scary to me. I have a lot of female friends (or had, until I alienated all of them by trying to make out with them), but again, I had no idea about who Christine was. What if she was crazy? What if she was high maintenance? What if she took offense to me staring at her lustily all night? So many what if’s.
Of course, I couldn’t say no, so I agreed. While Tom was saying that she’s a great girl, I was already thinking about breaking out the ol’ date skills. I thought that maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all. It’d be like a free lesson in dating, just in case I ever again have to spend time with a woman not in a loud bar or on an airplane or in line at the free clinic.
Yesterday, I rushed through the sea of sweaty people after work and went back to my apartment to shower, change, and get ready. By that point, I had already spoken to Christine a few times to both arrange our hanging out and to answer her questions about NYC and she seemed to be a very nice girl. I decided that we’d have dinner at Sea, which is where I take every person who comes to NYC. If you have not already eaten at Sea, stop whatever you’re doing and go there now. Order the tup-tim fritters and chicken pad thai. Eat them. And once you are down cleaning up the shit that has come out of your body due to the extreme goodness of this Thai food, please call me to thank me. My number is 646.388.9280.
I met Christine and right away my fears were allayed. She was not needy, crazy or handicapped in any way. She was actually quite normal and cheerful and there were no lulls in the conversation. As an added bonus, she’s in grad school studying to be a marriage therapist, particularly a sex therapist (or something). Though I was hoping to maintain my perfect gentleman facade, when she first mentioned this, I realized it was only a matter of time before I’d have too much to drink and ask her questions like, "Why don’t women like me? Is it because I steal from them when they’re sleeping? And by ‘steal’ I mean ‘touch’ and by ‘sleeping’ I mean ‘on the subway.’" and "Right now, my approach to sex is: 1) Start making out; 2) Count to 100; 3) Stick it in. Is this bad?"
After Sea, Christine and I went to d.b.a. which is a favorite nice weather haunt of mine for its outdoor backyard. Of course, since the heat index was still over 100, even at 9pm, we decided to stay instead. Also, d.b.a. has a ton of whiskey, although I haven’t been really drinking whiskey in public (it’s more of a private thing, you know?).
Christine and I sat there for an hour or so, shooting the breeze. She asked me all sorts of things about Tom, and all I could think about was, "Dude, don’t say anything that’s going to get him in trouble." Tom is a rare breed. While he takes Japanese and ballroom dancing lessons, he once wasn’t allowed on a plane because he was so drunk and one night in college I watched him pick up a passed out girl’s vomit and throw it around a stranger’s apartment. I emphasized the first two attributes and was mostly silent about the last two.
After a short stint at Beauty Bar where we met up with my friends Mark and Matt and their friends and later my buddy Jeremy, we walked across the street to the King’s Head Tavern. Then things started getting weird.
First, by this point, all of us were pretty drunk. And by this point, like I had thought, the perfect gentleman façade was dropped, especially when my friends learned that Christine was studying to become a sex therapist. We spent the rest of the night peppering her with questions about weird things that girls we did did, which she answered in turn.
Second, the bar was empty except for us and four musclehead dudes playing beer pong right across from us. But they had that musclehead look that says, “I work on my triceps for my boyfriend.” Since my friend Jeremy and I are bigots, we immediately started calling them funboys (behind their backs, of course – they might have liked men, but their muscles were still pretty big).
We continued drinking and all niceties were dropped. Soon we were discussing The Shocker (“two in the goo, one in the poo” has replaced “two in the stink, one in the pink” when it comes to Shocker slogans) and at one point I demanded that everyone proclaim me King of the Virgins. [One of the things I’m most proud of is that I have many more v-cards than any of my friends, but that’s because I was basically genitally-engineered by the Lord himself to take virginities. After all, you have to start with training wheels before you hop on the Harley. And hey, it can only get better from that point on. Meanwhile, is there any fate worse than having to walk the earth your entire life knowing/admitting/saying “Jason Mulgrew is the first guy I had sex with.” I mean, wow. I’m kinda tearing up just thinking about it.]
The Funboys were getting a little looser too, carrying on and partying and getting touchy-feely. But I have to stress that they weren’t flamingly homosexual; it’s not like they were speaking in lisps and talking about Cher. They were just a couple of party boys in tight shirts getting loose. (By the way, I love gay people. I have many gay friends. I promise.) Jeremy soon left, leaving the four of us. It was a mistake on his part.
Christine and I were sitting with our backs against the wall, facing the four guys playing beer pong. Matt and Mark were sitting opposite us with our backs to them. Suddenly, when Matt was talking about a crazy Philippino girl he was dating, I looked over his shoulder to see two of the guys kissing each other.
Well.
Again, I hope this doesn’t sound homophobic, but you have to understand the circumstances. It’s an empty bar. Four guys are playing beer pong. My friends and I are sitting not six feet anyway from them. I look up and two of them are going at it.
I grabbed Christine’s knee to as if to say, “OHMIGOD TWO DUDES ARE MAKING OUT OVER THERE LOOK RIGHT NOW BUT BE COOL DON’T MAKE IT OBVIOUS” After the initial surprise wore off, I watched (maybe a little lustily) and figured it out their game.
Their rules of beer pong were slightly different from the ones I played in college. The way I remember playing is that when I hit a cup, the opposing team had to pull that cup off the table and drink it. These guys added another level: after a cup was hit, it had to be pulled off the table and drank. Then the guy whose cup was hit had to kiss the guy who threw the ball.
Ladies and gentlemen, Gay Beer Pong (or Gay Beirut, if you prefer).
So I sat there watching this game play out and watching these dudes make out, fascinated, fixated, and maybe even a little turned on. I mean, every time they hit a cup they leave their ends of the table, walk to the middle, and make out. Like, for a while. All four of them – it didn’t matter who. Fascinating.
[Again, I’m concerned about sounding like a homophobe because I’m a big deal in the gay community, but c’mon – this was my first game of Gay Beer Pong.]
[As for Matt and Mark, they were aware of what was going on, but they couldn’t exactly turn around in their seats to watch the dudes make out. I mean, I would have, but they were raised right, I guess.]
Anyway, the night ended anti-climactically (for me at least, maybe not those guys), as we decided to part ways after 1am. When I got home I was starving and sweating. So I stripped down to my boxers and sat in front of the air conditioner in my living room eating salsa with my fingers (Tostito’s were not available and would be too fatty anyway). Aren’t you glad I’m not the first person you’ve had sex with?
So what have we learned?
- I’m a nice guy to women I don’t know
- Sex therapists make interesting conversationalists
- My friends are degenerates
- Gay Beer Pong is real, very real
- Salsa is even more delicious sans shirt and with hands
Yup, pretty typical Wednesday night.
I’ve been very busy at work and socially the past few days. Maybe later, maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow, but I promise I’ll take care of you. Trust me.
If you’re really as bored as you say you are, you can work on my Wikipedia entry recently pointed out to me by Lisa in Philly and my old roommate Ben in Seattle. And no, I didn’t create it. More or less.
(No seriously, I didn’t create it.)
But lay off me. You’ll get something soon. Promise.
Love,
Larry A.
Whenever I go to the airport, I always call work to order a car the day or night before my flight. I don’t charge this to clients or anything and pay for it out of my personal account – it just beats trying to flag down a taxi with my luggage. I call the taxi desk at work, give them my employee ID number, and I’m done. For a few dollars more than a yellow cab, I have a nice luxury sedan pick me up at my door and drive me to JFK or LaGuardia in comfort and style. Because that’s how Larry Awesome rolls.
On Friday night, in preparation for my Saturday flight to Los Angeles (leaving at the reasonable time of 12:25pm), I called the work taxi desk to order my car. But it did not go as smoothly as it normally does. When the operator asked me for my employee ID number, I responded “Um…err…†Despite the fact that my employee ID number is one of four numbers that I know by heart (the others being my phone number, my social security number, and the number of women I’ve slept with – though the last is a little fuzzy, since once you hit triple digits it gets blurry), I was too fucking drunk to remember it. I had been hitting the whiskey pretty hard that evening, and when asked for the number, I completely fucking blanked.
So I did what any reasonable person would do in that situation – I panicked and abruptly hung up on the operator. Then, quick goat thinking, I wrote down the number, fixed myself a drink, called the taxi desk back, blamed our “disconnection†on bad cell phone service, and properly ordered the car. By the way, this was at around 9pm, three hours before I even left my apartment to go out.
This is not what you want to be doing the night before a six hour flight and a very important weekend. But sometimes, well, fuck it.
***
My plan for Friday night was to be in bed by midnight. I’ve documented on here that I don’t fly well. Therefore, I had very little interest in sitting on a plane for six hours for a massive hangover.
But then I started drinking that damn whiskey again.
When the lights came on at the bar at 4am, I was bombed and hadn’t yet packed. My friends Brian and Brendan spent the night trying to convince me to fly to LA with only the clothes I was wearing. While rolling up to the ticket check-in with no luggage or carry-ons or even a plastic bag was certainly appealing, I couldn’t bring myself to pull the trigger. So when I woke up 30 minutes after I was supposed to on Saturday morning (with a brain hemorrhage as well), I threw a bunch of shit in a bag and was off to LA.
Of course, when I arrived at the airport, I learned my flight was delayed 45 minutes. And of course, this only made my hangover worse. I immediately doubled up on the Xanax to ensure that I would sleep through the flight and eventually boarded the plane.
But again, more bad luck. Sometimes, no matter how drugged up I am on a flight, I can’t sleep. No matter how tired or hungover I am, I’ll sit in my too small seat, squirming this way and that, feel groggy and miserable and unable to do a damn thing about it.
Of course (again), this flight was exactly like that. Despite that I was on the aisle and the middle seat was unoccupied, and despite that I was exhausted and in desperate need of sleep, I was unable to fall asleep. And I spent a fitful six hours on a plane, absolutely fucking miserable.
My impromptu LA trip was not going well.
The day before, I had agreed to meet some LA people for drinks at 6pm on Saturday evening. Then I got shithoused on Friday night and had a horrible (and delayed) flight. So I pulled out of the drinks, citing severe ill health. I needed to get to the hotel so crash for a few hours. My friends, God bless ‘em, were understanding.
As I had plans to go out on Saturday night with some other friends, I was convinced that if I took a nap at the hotel I could turn the night around. After all, I had nothing to do now except sleep, several hours to do so (and eat and shower). Plenty of leisure time to relax.
But again – I couldn’t. I tossed and turned in the hotel bed, sweating the Xanax out of my body, trying harder than I’ve ever tried before to JUST FUCKING FALL ASLEEP. I was driving myself crazy. The hangover, the little sleep, the shitty flight, and now this. Throughout my whole horrible experience, I looked forward to the hotel, and the time when I could blast the AC, crawl under the covers, order the all-day porn-pass, and after roughing up the suspect, take a nice, long nap, falling asleep to the blissful sounds of a woman asking to have her face ejaculated upon. And now that this wasn’t happening, I was upset.
But then, Divine Providence, in the form of Taco Bell, wine, and Red Bull, stepped in and made everything right.
After tossing and turning, I hopped out of bed and decided to gather some supplies for the evening. The plan was to meet my friend Allan and some friends at a bar/restaurant called El Carmen for a birthday party. I spoke to Allan and knew I had a few hours to kill. Sleeping wasn’t working, so I decided to fall back on my other two favorite hobbies: drinking and eating. My first stop was at Taco Bell. Since I’m still on this fucking diet, I haven’t been able to enjoy Taco Bell very much recently. But I took a three-day LA hiatus from the diet and went with my standard order: two beef burrito supremes and two soft taco supremes (all with no tomatoes). I threw in one of those crunchwrap supremes for good measure. It was going to be a good night.Next, in keeping with the “two†theme, I stopped at the supermarket and got two bottles of wine and two cans of Red Bull. It was going to be a very good night.
The next three hours I can only describe as a Bacchanalian feast the likes of which (I’m certain) that hotel room had never seen before. Between the sour cream, caffeine, booze, and masturbating, it was a one-man orgy: drinking, eating, and fucking (myself). No longer will I fantasize about Miss America contestants or remember steamy sex with ex’s when I masturbate. I will think only of those three glorious hours.
(Is anyone else grossed out by my comfortable use of “steamy sex with ex’s?†I mean, ewww.)
By now, the night had completely turned around and I was ready to go. (Pretty much) Drunk and full of caffeine and Taco Bell, I headed to the bar to meet Allan and friends.
Well.
…
Let’s just say that I do much better in LA than I do in New York, as the women there are much more receptive to what I have to offer. Let’s do some comparisons, shall we?
In Los Angeles, saying “I have a development deal†to a woman is equivalent to saying “I have a ten inch penis, I love kids and my mom, and I donate half of my income – which is substantial – to help orphaned children with AIDS in Africa. I also spend most of my springs in Africa, killing lions who threaten the AIDS orphans, with my bare hands. Actually, my hands are not bare, but rather wrapped in soft and fluffy pillows. Otherwise, it just wouldn’t be fair to the lions.â€
Saying “I have a development deal†to a woman in NYC does not work nearly as well. When I mention the deal to women in NYC, the response I get is usually, “You have an onion ring in your beard. Or maybe it’s funnel cake. I can’t tell – it’s really mashed in there. Is that your balls that I smell and did you throw up on yourself?â€
In LA, the “I have a deal†line gets something like, “Do you want to see my tits now or later? I know a nice alley close by. Can I buy you a drink? Maybe rub your dick a little? Wanna see me make out with my friend?â€
Why, again, do I not live in LA right now? I am unstoppable out there. Absolutely unstoppable. I thank my LA friends for this, who introduce me to new people by saying, “This is my friend Jason – he is a very talented writer†and then mention the TV show and book. Again by comparison, my New York friends almost never introduce me to new people, and when they do it’s more like, “This is Justin or something. He pays people to watch them jerk off. Also, he’s got the hairiest back I’ve ever seen. He’s like a gorilla, but without all the strength and strange eroticism. Hey, do you have any drugs? I’ve done so much cocaine my dick is buzzing.â€
[But I can’t get too full of myself. Out in LA I met a girl who works at People, a friend of a friend, and when the friend told her that I was in the “Bachelors†issue last year, she said, “Oh, I remember you.†Then I did my standard joke whenever the People thing is brought up, which is to say, “Yeah, well, 2005 was a slow year for bachelors.†Usually the girl laughs at this. This girl didn’t. Instead, she got pensive and said, “Yeah, I was in that meeting and we really didn’t have much.†Ouch baby. Very ouch.]
At the bar, I saw a girl that I went to college with, an attractive Eastern European broad. However I didn’t say hello, even though we made eye contact and we both know each other. Our relationship soured in my junior year when she learned that I wrote (and was frequently performing in post-bar jam sessions in my apartment) a song called, “Elena, I Want Your Slovakian P-ssy.†I personally did not want her Slavic special place, but a buddy of mine did. Generous guy that I am, I wrote the song for him (I was kinda like the Kris Kristofferson of the Boston College class of 2001 – and no, I’m not entirely sure what that means). It was only a small hit though, not nearly approaching the popularity of my other hits “Monkey Man,†“Eviction,†“Masturbation,†“Fucked Up for the Weekend,†and my last hit, “It’s Not My Fault I Like to Drink (It’s Not My Fault I Like to Puke Some),†all of which were co-written with my old college roommate Dan. God I fucking miss college. At any rate, I did not feel like this was the appropriate time for me to try to mend our fences, what with me now reeking of tequila and self-importance and her with some guy in his late-30’s who looked like he owned a Hummer (and possibly several other cars) and had an STD.
At the end of the evening, my friends invited me to an after-party in one of the Canyons or something, but I had to decline. Not just because there was mention of a jacuzzi at this place and I did not want to stand awkwardly in the corner while the dozen or so girls and guys I was with were having half-naked fun, but also because I reminded them that I actually had an important meeting the next day that I could not be (too) hungover for. Well, mostly it was the awkwardness of the Jacuzzi that kept me away and not so much the meeting. Whatever.
The bar was about a fifteen minute walk from my hotel. I turned down a ride and instead chose to walk, taking advantage of the gorgeous Southern California night. If I were sober, I would have enjoyed it more, but instead I sang Hall and Oates’ “I Can’t Go For That†to myself as I zig-zagged down the street, text messaging nearly every girl in my phone book, writing either only “hi!†or “.†hoping to illicit a response (the period worked much better than the “hi!â€, which was generally ignored). Though no one responded that night (since all but maybe three or four of the text messages went to people on the East Coast), I did have a dozen responses the next morning, which required me to apologize for my weird behavior.
I woke up without too much of a hangover, got a grand tour of LA from a friend, and had my meeting, which was excellent and left me convinced that I’m going to make bundles of money (read: I will be eaten alive). An excellent day. The following day after a leisurely brunch I made my way back to NYC, just in time for the 115° heat index.
On the flight home, I watched “V for Vendetta†(sweet movie) and wondered why I don’t live in LA. The weather is great, the people are nice, and I’m pretty sure that I could probably get laid out there, maybe even on a consistent basis, maybe even by a woman who’s not sleeping with me just so she can buy formula for her baby. So what’s the hold up? What’s keeping me in NYC? I have a good job here, but we have an LA office. I have some friends here, but many have moved away. And I have no girlfriend keeping me here, only certain “women†that I have cybersex with (and that chick with the kid). So why don’t I just move to LA?
But then on the cab ride home from JFK, I looked at the skyline of New York City and was nearly moved to tears by its beauty. And I realized I how much I love it here. For better or worse, I am a New Yorker. For all its faults – the high rent, the millions of tourists, the B&T trash from Jersey and Long Island, the alarming rate of HPV, the oppressive summers and frigid winters, the lack of fake breasts, my Chinese neighbors who sell live fish on my street all summer long, the fact that I’ll never have a car or a yard as long as I’m here – this is my home.
And then in a perfect New York moment, the cabbie, in his soft Haitian accent, said, “Hey, hey – fattie, fattie†and angled the rearview mirror slightly, just enough to give me a view of his exposed penis, which he was wiggling in his hand. I smiled, nodded, and gave him $7. And I knew it was true: I loved New York more than ever.
It was good to be home.
Remember back a few years ago when Pete Townshend was found with a bunch of kiddie porn on his laptop? You probably don’t, since the incident was immediately swept under the rug. Ol’ Pete claimed it was research for a book he was writing and I guess that was all it took for Pete to get off the hook. Somehow, I don’t think the same excuse would work for me (though that doesn’t mean that when I finally do get busted I won’t use it).
For some unknown reason probably borne out of too many cans of Bud, Brian and Corinne are intent on reminding the public of Pete’s pederast tendencies. And how, exactly, are they planning on doing this? By introducing a line of t-shirts, of course.
Yesterday, I spent the afternoon with Brian and Corinne emailing t-shirt slogans back and forth. I don’t want to give too many of these away, since I really think we should make t-shirts, which then I could sell on here for a hefty profit. But more than the profit, it’s about reminding the world about a child pornographer. He may have written Tommy, but he also probably touched him.
A sample t-shirt can be seen on my MySpace page, courtesy of a comment Brian left. Corinne also has one on her page, but down a bit. As of right now, when I click on Brian’s page, it says "Invalid Friend ID," which means that someone that he works with probably discovered his MySpace page and he had to delete it. Or maybe he finally got caught in one of those Dateline NBC "To Catch a Predator" segments. Whatever.
The point is that just as we dispatched with the guitarist for the Smashing Pumpkins last week, we now have our sights set on a bigger prize. I am hitching my wagon to Corinne and Brian’s star and we are going to take Pete "the Predator" down. Bet you thought you’d get away with it, eh Pete? Not on our watch.
(Maybe I’ll see Pete Townshend when I’m in LA this weekend. I think he has a house there.)
********************
There’s really no better way to spend the morning than talking to your credit card companies and trying to get an increase in your credit limit. That is just so fucking sweet. It really builds the self-esteem, especially when one of them says, "Um, no – you’re a deadbeat" and you have to beg and plead with the other, saying, "No, you don’t understand – I’m actually somewhat famous, but I haven’t been paid yet. I’m developing a sitcom for a major network and writing my memoirs for a major publisher, but right now I would suck dick for $18. Soon, I will be rich. Eventually, I will be rich. Ok, probably, I might be rich. Please just increase the credit line. I can’t eat. Please. I’ll suck your bird. I’ll even cut you a break – $14. It’s the Friday special. Please. Help. $14. You can’t beat that."
The good news is that they eventually gave in. But I had to go down to $12 (no pun intended).
Does anyone want to buy some old clothes or a barely working laptop (tons of porn and music on it, but so riddled with viruses that it runs like a computer from 1996)? If so, please inquire within. Like, immediately. I think I’ll make rent next week, but come September 1, it’s anybody’s game.
(Maybe instead of recommending Six Songs I can sell mp3′s of me singing them? Because I hear that is a lot of money in mp3′s.)
(Well, at least I’m going to LA this weekend.)
********************
But hey, at least my diet is working. We’ve passed the one month mark and we’re at Day 33 and I’m down 18 pounds, only two pounds away from my goal with 28 days to spare. I’ve decided that will continue to day 60 to see how much I can lose, but really, it’s all moot anyway, since I’m going to gain it back.
At least I’m not sick of it. I’ve found that I kinda like the gym, as it allows me to a) listen to angry music; b) be angry; c) sweat without being judged (too much); and d) stare at sweaty, barely clad women. So really, what’s not to love?
As far as the eating restrictions, they’ve become so routine that I don’t even mind them anymore. I eat a little bit, but I’m not starving and I occasionally cheat (over the weekend I got the crab cake fritter and the mac and cheese from 24 Prince, which was dynamite).
I will say something (something that will entirely curse this diet): what is going to happen to this blog if I’m no longer fat? I know this is wishful thinking, especially since these last few pounds are proving to be real bastards and are hanging onto my body for dear life, but how negatively would this blog be affected if instead of "fat" I was "slightly above average in size?" What’s more damaging: me being not as fat or me having a real-life girlfriend or lover? I really can’t choose between the two, but I’m certain both will destroy my career. I guess we’ll have to find out.
(But not really – like I said, there is no way that I don’t go on a two week eating binge once this diet is over. Every time I take a step on the treadmill, I think "WHITE-CASTLE WHITE-CASTLE WHITE-CASTLE." It’s going to be ugly. And by ugly I mean really, really fucking awesome.)
(God, I can’t wait to eat White Castle.)
(Also, I’m going to gain like eight pounds in LA this weekend anyway. I’m having at least one In-and-Out burger, probably more like three.)
********************
Two completely disparate celebrity sightings this weekend:
1) One of my favorite bands, the Eagles of Death Metal, outside the Hotel QT in midtown, trying to hail a cab on Saturday afternoon. At first I thought it was the band, but then as I looked them over I thought they were simply older hipsters, but Brian confirmed that it was indeed them. Then Brian and I spent five minutes singing "I only want you!" in high pitched voices, but they either didn’t hear us or ignored us. I still like them.
2) Freddy Prinze Jr. on Tuesday or Wednesday of this week around the corner from my office building, taking a break from filming a movie or commercial or something. I was tempted to go up to him and say, "Hey Freddie – I know your wife" since I stood next to Sarah Michelle Gellar in a parking lot waiting for my car one of the last times I was in LA (we’re actually represented by the same agency). Only her car was something fancy and mine was a minivan. Needless to say, there was no small talk, probably because I was fondling myself and snorting while I ate bbq potato chips and stared at her.
Anyway, I saw Freddy Prinze Jr. I’ll probably see more celebrities in LA this weekend.
********************
I will be in Los Angeles (for part of) this weekend, arriving Saturday afternoon and leaving Monday afternoon. I have one meeting on Sunday evening and otherwise absolutely nothing to do. If you hear anything on the news about an arsonist who drinks Manhattans, it’s not me. Got it? Definitely not me. Alternatively, if anything awesome happens near the Beverly Center, it was probably me. Especially if it relates to drag racing. I love to drag race whenever I’m on the west coast.
********************
Six Songs
"Cry Me A River" Joe Cocker
I’ve said it before: the best thing about Joe Cocker is that every time he sings he sounds like he’s drunk. And not just a little drunk either, but really really fucked up. And it’s beautiful, especially in this foot-tapper, which says, "Suffer for me like I suffered for you, bitch." Nothing like drunk anger. Nothing like it in the world.
"Angeleyes" Abba
I’m not gonna lie – I fucking love Abba. And not just because their name is the prime example of chiasmus, but because they made some of the most perfect pop music ever. This track is not as popular as the rest (I think this one’s on More Gold, the sequel to Gold) but it’s nice, very nice.
"Year of the Rat" Badly Drawn Boy
I’ve pimped this before, but can one of you please come over to my apartment to teach me how to play this song on piano? I don’t play piano, nor do I have one, but I’m a quick learner and a very gifted musician. And it doesn’t sound that hard and it’s a beautiful song . C’mon – we’ll make a day of it: you teach me the song, we have a couple of drinks, I kiss you, you pull away, say, "What are you doing?", I say, "Like you don’t want it," then you say, "Dude, I’m not gay," and I say, "Nothing matters but the emotion," then you punch me in the face and leave. A perfect lil’ Saturday.
"I Could Drink a Case of You" Keller Williams
What a lovely version of this song. I can appreciate that Joni Mitchell is a great songwriter and all, but whenever I listen to her, I’m afraid my testicles are going to fall off. After about ten minutes of her stuff, I can feel myself starting to menstruate. Good lord. The solution? This lovely (live) cover by Keller Williams, which does not make me like a woman at all. Very good version, which, if you ask me, is better than the original.
(And to prove I’m not sexist, I feel that some covers of men’s songs are better than the originals. The first example that comes immediately to mine is Garth Brooks’ cover of Dylan’s "To Make You Feel My Love." Bob Dylan sounds like he’s just come out of an eighteen month coma when he sings that song, whereas Garth gives it a proper treatment. Billy "Just One More" Joel does a cover of the song too, but I can’t take him seriously anymore.)
"Living in Paradise (Early Version)" Elvis Costello
You’re not going to find this song. I’m not even talking about the version that’s on This Year’s Model, but the one on the bonus disc of the My Aim is True re-release. It’s the same song, but the early version is much less produced, much more raw, and much more angry.
Anyway, I think the song is about politics, but I don’t mix my politics and my music, so I pretend it’s about women or love or whatever. Elvis ends the song by singing over and over "And you’re/Already looking for another/Fool like me" in a voice that is half-whine and half-yell (read: my normal speaking voice). And it is incredible, perfectly encapsulating that heartbreaking/pissed off feeling you get when you hear that your ex is onto someone else. I remember I broke up with an ex-girlfriend and then about a week later I heard that she was making out with her former high school teacher all over a local bar. At first I was pissed, then I was sad, then I was like, "Wait a minute – her old high school teacher? That’s more funny for me and sad for her than anything else. Winner: me." But still, I took solace in Elvis’s line, as I believed that in our relationship I was a victim of her craziness, and already she was, well, already looking for another fool like me.
(Then the following weekend I got a blowjob in the middle of the woods of Vermont after my band played a show at Middlebury College. That’s when I learned something: if you get on stage and look like you’re all into it, even if you’re thinking about why the hell your ex would hook up with her old teacher, someone is going to put your penis in their mouth. A true life lesson.)
"Touch, Feel & Lose" Ryan Adams
That’s it, Ryan – get pissed off! Yell! Fucking let it out man! Fuckin’ A!
This song, like Ryan Adams himself, kicks ass. From that intro, you’re probably thinking this is a rowdy one, but it’s actually quite slow and bluesy. Until it picks up when Ryan sings, "I never wanted to be your rolling train/I never wanted to be your dancing shoes" and you can hear him almost spitting with anger and sadness over the line "I just wanted you to love me." Not like I can relate to that or anything. It’s just a kick ass song, which I spent figuring out (for some reason it’s not tabbed online) and playing and singing for about two hours last night. Also, it’s very easy to solo over, so even though I haven’t touched an electric guitar in about two years, I was still able to do something halfway decent. And yes, I’m only writing this to impress you. God I’m so lonely.
(Not really.)
(Have a good weekend.)
What a fucking company man.
I don’t talk very much about my job here because, well, I’m not stupid. A regular paycheck is something that I enjoy and I would like to keep receiving. Also, insurance is nice, especially since 120 pills of Xanax would cost me a pretty penny on the street (through my insurance: $5).
And to be honest, there’s not too much to say about my job. I do marketing/pr/financial research for a large corporate law firm. I like it a lot. I find the work interesting. My co-workers are cool. The job is zero stress. The pay is good. I can walk to work in about 25 minutes. And I rarely work late (my average day is 9:45 to about 6:30). I might even love my job. I don’t know how many other non-famous 27 year olds can say that about their employment.
I could honestly do what I do for the rest of my life and not complain. Sure, I’d like salary increases and promotions and all that jazz, but I could make a good, happy, comfortable living at my job and be content. I can see myself in ten years living in a suburb in New Jersey, loving a sweet unsuspecting wife who maybe is missing something physical (hand, knee, etc), raising two horrendously obese children, owning a large dumb dog and a luxury automobile, carrying on an affair with one of the lawyers I work with, drinking myself into a state of emotional deadness, spending sleepless nights praying for a heart attack - basically, living the American dream.
But of course, that doesn’t mean that I don’t aspire to other things. While I can appreciate how good I have it right now in the corporate world, that doesn’t mean that I wouldn’t like to get paid to write jokes about shitting myself while sitting in my underwear in my bedroom, taking frequent beer and jerk off breaks. Also, with a big bag of Tostito’s and a jar of Amy’s Organic Black Bean & Corn salsa, which is the greatest salsa I’ve ever had – by far. Great fucking salsa.
And I’m kinda close to this writing poop jokes while eating/drinking/masturbating for a living thing. Or rather, I recently tasted its sweet sweetness. Regular readers know that I took off almost four and a half months from October to February to "work on my projects," namely this and this. The former was "rolled," which means I’m only starting it now, and the latter I’ve learned is more like an ongoing, never-ending process that will end only if I die or if I lose my eyesight. Since I’ve been doing a lot of experiments recently that involve fire and cans of hair spray, I’d say the blindness is more likely, but death is not that far behind.
What I’m trying to say is that during those four-plus months off, I did very little. I actually can’t remember a single day from any of those days. I’d wake up around 1, eat, and hang out. Then my old roommate Brian would get home and we’d hang out. Then when he went to bed, I’d "write," which is to say, I’d sit at the computer, get drunk, and compose long, harshly-worded emails to ex-girlfriends that I’d never send. Then I’d go to bed. Repeat 130 times. I wish I were joking here.
Now, I work full-time, spend an hour a day at the gym, write this blog, work on both projects, AND still find time to live a (semi-)happy and (not really) promiscuous lifestyle.
So today when I realized that I’ve been working for five years, I felt pangs of regret because I took so little advantage of that time off. The most exciting thing I did was drive from Seattle to LA, but we all know how that ended up. Otherwise, nothing.
And never again will I have that sort of time off. Which makes me very sad. For the rest of my life, I’m stuck here, at my desk, doing shit for someone else. And none of this hit me until today.
(Let’s face it: all this other stuff is going to fail. And I’m not saying that so you’ll send me emails saying "Oh come on Jason – it’s gonna be great and you’ll be a success!" I’m saying it so you’ll send me some booby pictures. Seriously, what gives? I used to get a few a week, or at least one a week, but I haven’t gotten booby pictures in probably two months. Was it something I said? Something I did? Just when I thought I was going to break the record for most pictures of boobies without faces, the well runs dry. Thanks a lot, jerks.)
(You know what – forget it. Don’t even THINK of sending me them now out of pity. I don’t want your goddamn pity boobies. Keep them to yourself.)
I don’t even know where I was going with this, but the points are:
1) I’ve been working for the same company for five years and I just turned 27 (though I like my job)
2) I’m pissed at myself that I didn’t take more advantage of my time off
3) I’m busy now and it sucks
4) I don’t want your pity boobies
5) This post is completely fucking retarded or at least very incomplete because I have great difficulty writing anything about work
Yeah, that about covers it. Um, more tomorrow.
God,
You know the drill by now, since we do this every July. While this past year, my 26th, was mostly kind to me, I still have not tasted the sweet sweetness of a championship in my city. To add insult to injury, you even caused the referees to botch the last Super Bowl after I flew 2400 miles to be in Seattle, hoping I’d experience my first conscious championship (the Sixers won when I was 4). Just like how when I moved to NYC the Yankees were a dynasty and they haven’t won since. Also like when I left Boston, the Sox and Pats sucked; after me, the Sox won their first championship in 86 years and the Pats won three of four Super Bowls.
(Not that I was a bandwagon fan for these teams – it’d just to be nice to be in a city that wins a championship.)
Though history has not been kind to me, I remain optimistic. I know that I will experience a championship, a championship by one of my hometown Philadelphia teams. I ask You now, as a supplicant for Your mercy, to allow the Eagles to win the Super Bowl this year. For this, I will give you anything. You can insert a proclivity to mental retardation in my genes, make me bald(er), cause me to loss a substantial portion of my monies in a succession of bad investments, take 30 years off my life – whatever pleases You. I say without an ounce of exaggeration that nothing – nothing on earth – would give me more happiness than a Philadelphia Eagles Super Bowl victory.
(Seriously.)
Please think of me, God. I know that there are others more needy than I, but few people who deserve this more than myself and my fellow long-suffering Philly fans. Plus, I did many good deeds this year. For example, I wore a condom with over 40% of the women I slept with. Also, I cleaned my office. Lastly, I considered giving the money I received from readers on my birthday to some charity or some shit. But You and I both know that I’m really hard up for cash at the moment and that’s not possible. Still, I considered it, which, I think, really says something about my character.
I know that we’re a longshot, that the division is much tougher, that few of the team’s needs were addressed in the off-season. But maybe, just maybe, this is the year. Maybe the "underdog" role will suit the team just as it does the city. Maybe with the fucking asshole bitch diva Terrell Owens gone (good luck again, Cowboys fans), the team will come together. Maybe health will be on our side, allowing our key players to play the full season. Maybe, just maybe.
You don’t have to answer now, God – just consider it. There’s plenty of time until the season starts, and even after that, I won’t need an answer until, say, Week 7. That usually when I start to lose my shit entirely.
In the meantime, please give me the strength to be patient, to read each story from mini-camp calmly without hurting myself or my loved ones, to be sane for as long as I can be, to ignore the deluge of "the Eagles fucking stink" emails that this post will invite. In return, I promise to do something nice today. Or tomorrow. Because it’s already pretty late in the day.
Yours,
In wind, fire, water, earth,
My love feeds on your love, beloved,
And as long as you live it will be in your arms,
Without leaving mine,
I am,
Jason MJPAE Mulgrew
PS – Please stop all the Mideast stuff. If you can. Thanks.
I was not about to go to this party. Standing around in a stranger’s place, hiding in a corner, rifling beers while deflecting the dirty/pitying looks, was not how I wanted to spend the first part of my Saturday night. I would stay at home by myself and fix myself some drinks, like a real gentleman. Like a real goddamn gentleman.So around 8, I broke open the Maker’s Mark, dropped some vermouth into the shaker, added a dash of bitters, and we had it: my first homemade Manhattan, looking pretty with two cherries in my glass (one for each teste). I sat down on my couch, turned on the TV, and it was love at first sip. It was going to be a good night. [And I'll save you assholes the email: I know you're supposed to stir, not shake Manhattans. But how fun is it to shake cocktails?]After the first one went down, I made a second and headed to my bedroom. You probably can’t tell, since I’m not really sharing it on here, but I’m riding a wave of creativity that comes along with about the frequency of the solstices. I thought: “This is perfect. I’ll sit at the computer, write a little bit, and have some fancy drinks. Then in a couple hours I’ll go out and show my penis to a stranger. This is going to be a great night.” And so write I did. I sat there, banging around on the old computer, plowing through the Manhattans. My face was flush by now and I was rocking out, having a grand old time, pounding away on the pc. And then I made a discovery that changed everything. From that moment forward, my night, and quite possibly my life, would never be the same. I discovered the music of George Jones.For those of you who don’t know, George Jones is a country singer who writes songs about women, booze, and, well, that’s about it. I believe that a reader had recommended his music to me awhile ago, but I never got around to checking it out. But here I was, drinking whiskey by myself, and George Jones seemed a good fit. I read a little about him while some of his songs were downloading and saw something about how “his career was marked by heroic periods of substance abuse.” Heroic substance abuse? That’s almost an oxymoron, but if it is, it’s awesome. This got me excited and I drank faster. I kept reading about Jones and was fascinated; here are two excerpts from his Wikipedia entry: The decrease in hits accurately reflects the downward spiral in Jones’ health in the late ’70s, when he became addicted not only to alcohol, but to cocaine as well. Jones became notorious for his drunken, intoxicated rampages, often involving both drugs and shotguns. Jones would disappear for days at a time. He began missing a substantial amount of concerts — in 1979 alone, he missed 54 shows — which earned him the nickname “No-Show Jones.”
andThroughout 1981 and 1983, [Jones] had eight Top Ten hits. Although he was having hits again, he hadn’t kicked his addictions. Jones was still going on crazed, intoxicated rampages, which culminated with a televised police chase of Jones, who was driving drunk, through the streets of Nashville. Before I had even heard a note, I decided that George Jones was one of my top five favorite musicians of all time.When I did hear a note, I was not disappointed. The first offering was a little ditty called “If Drinkin’ Don’t Kill Me (Her Memory Will).” By the end of the first minute, George had covered drunk driving, suicide by alcohol, and using his own blood to start a whiskey still. Ladies and gentlemen, it was on.Over the next five hours, I got drunk off my ass. Blind, filthy, stinking drunk in my apartment by myself, listening to country music. I finished the bottle of Maker’s Mark, pounding those fucking Manhattans like they were iced tea. When I started drinking, I was using a jigger to measure four jiggers of bourbon, two of vermouth, and drinking the Manhattans out of a highball glass. Once I discovered George Jones however, I was using eight-ten jiggers of bourbon, four-five of vermouth, and drinking out of a pint glass. I downloaded dozens of George Jones songs, songs with titles like “She Thinks I Still Care”, “Just One More”, and “He Stopped Loving Her Today.” After I got the hang of them, I started singing along and ultimately grabbed my guitar to play along. Then I decided, for whatever reason, to put on a suit. I can’t really explain this except to say that I really look good in suits, and, I guess I wanted to look good. So there I was in my apartment, in a suit, alone, drinking Manhattans out of a pint glass, playing guitar and singing lines like “I’ll keep drinking, it won’t matter/I’ll just remember that I once had her.” I realize that this may sound depressing (horribly, horribly depressing), but I had a fucking ball. An absolute blast. Just because the songs were sad doesn’t mean I was; indeed, I’ve gotten a lot sadder by being out at bars, looking at attractive unapproachable women and the douchebags they were with. The songs didn’t inspire sadness in me, but rather a profound awe. I couldn’t believe that a) people wrote songs like these; and b) I hadn’t heard them in my 27 years. Bottom line, there is a lot to be said for getting blackout drunk by yourself (on bourbon, no less), listening to country music. And if you can’t appreciate that, well, then I don’t think you should keep reading this. By now it was about 2:45 in the morning and I realized that if I didn’t leave the apartment I was going to put myself in the hospital. Although I was just about out of whiskey, I had an almost full bottle of vodka, two bottles of wine, and about a half a case of beer. I was prepared for war. I called Brian to see what the status was with the partygoers, but he had been elusive all night. I really wanted to meet Brian out tonight because his new roommate was out with him, who is supposedly very attractive. I say supposedly because Brian is doing everything is his power to keep his roommate and I apart and I have yet to meet her. Unlike me, Brian is not a scumbag. Whereas I would view a new, young attractive roommate as a potential victim, Brian has established an almost older brother-younger sister relationship with her. And Brian knows just how dangerous I can be, especially now that I’m all thin, fast, and drunker. Brian remained elusive and I never met him or the roommate that night. Instead, I got in touch with a friend who invited me over to smoke a bowl, because, you know, that’s what I really needed at that point. I headed over and brought a can of Chef Boyardee as a gift and spent about an hour hanging out, getting high, and sitting on a couch in front of the coldest air conditioning vent in all of lower Manhattan (I was out of the suit by this point, thankfully). Eventually it was time for bed and I left their place a little high and a lot more sober, certain that I wasn’t going to drink anymore when I got home. So it actually worked out pretty well for me, at least in terms of the whole “drinking myself to death” part. When I got home, I did have one last vice to cross off the list. After a bottle of whiskey and a couple of bowls, I couldn’t stick to my diet and ate almost an entire bag of Tostitos, the equivalent of about two days worth of calories on my diet. I tried putting on the George Jones while this chip orgy was going on, but it didn’t feel right – like our moment had passed, like waking up next to the stranger you brought home from the bar the night before. So I switched it off and went back to feeding. I don’t regret it because fuck it – I was very, very messed up – but the next day when I weighed myself I had gained 2.5 pounds in a day. God I love binging and starving. I don’t remember going to sleep, but when I woke up the next day (at 1:30), it was the nicest day of the summer in NYC and I felt spectacular. I had not a hangover to speak of and nary a headache, but a desire to get out and enjoy the day. I showered, dressed, and then went for a walk that took me over seven miles away in the Upper West Side. Just a great afternoon. And another spectacular weekend in the books. I have two new loves, Mr. Whiskey and Mr. Jones, and I think we’re going to be in the honeymoon period for a long, long time. This could be the start of something very beautiful – as long as I only keep one bottle of Maker’s Mark at a time. Any more than that and it might get ugly. Or awesome. Whichever.
BEN,
The PONZI SCHEME has COLLAPSED. EARTH. PLEASE call me when you get this. It is NOT an EMERGENCY (NOT), but we should TALK. I have NO phone.Love,
LUCAS/jason
At any rate, this is how slow my Friday is. I can almost taste the beer in my throat. If I had a TV in my office, I would have turned it off by now, having grown sick of watching it. I’m not really sure if that makes any sense, but what it means that I’ve been so bored that…forget it.
I think I’m going to go for a walk. It’s a perfect day to head down to the Seaport to make eyes at all the underage tourist girls.[And yes, I realize that this has no point and is not funny, but I wanted to share my boredom with y'all. So forgive me.]
[Besides, I thought the fax was pretty funny. Maybe you have to know Ben.][Oh, and I feel better. Not 100%, but probably around 82%, which is coincidentally the percentage needed to get the green light to start drinking whiskey right after dinner. So that's nice.]
[And have a good weekend.]
(During one of the gargling/spitting up intervals, a thought occurred to me: how do married people do this? If my wife was sleeping next to me, making these godforsaken gargling noises, then waking up every 30 minutes to cough up mucus, I would flip out. I mean, flip the fuck out. I found myself getting angry at myself for making such disgusting bodily noises. But hey, I guess that’s where love comes in. Must be nice.)
(And is it gargling or gurgling? Since we started with the former, let’s keep going with it.)
But, though sick and very tired, I am still in work. I don’t know why really; this is a very good reason to stay at home. But when I woke up, I felt like I had to get out. Maybe I would feel better if I interacted with the world, get my mind off how much I feel like shit.
Big mistake.
So I’m at my desk, eyes half-closed, blowing my noise constantly, and groaning. What’s worse is I haven’t heard from my mom, who I’ve both called and emailed. Since I’m a pussy when I’m sick, I need her, and she’s abandoning me. If I don’t start talking about something else immediately, I’m going to start crying.
At any rate, send me some get well vibes. And if you are a (reasonably) attractive woman who lives in the vicinity of Chinatown/Little Italy and would like to practice her nurturing skills, please contact me asap. Thank you.
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Many moons ago, we used to have a feature on this site where I’d list some of the search terms that people entered into Google, Yahoo, etc that brought them here. Then it was copied by just about every blogger under the sun, so I stopped doing it. Also, I stopped obsessing and/or masturbating over site traffic, because, after all, I’m now Larry Awesome. Larry Awesome doesn’t have to worry about how many people view his site, because he’s Larry Awesome.
However, inspired by an email I got asking what happened to those search word write-ups, I headed to the admin page for the site to look over some of the search terms that brought people to this here website recently. And there were some real gems.
Without further ado, a list of search terms in the past month that have brought people to jasonmulgrew.com:
- steps on how to squirt white stuff out your dick
- guide to awesome sex
- there’s at least 1 person on your myspace that wants to date you or sleep with you/or make out with you
- one night stand indian lady want sex women of india want sex sex by indian women
- why does my vagina tremble after sex
- my semen is yellow what is wrong
Don’t worry sister, my vagina trembles after sex, too. As for the first one, it’s nice to know that jasonmulgrew.com is educating the youth of world on love, sex, and how to squirt the white stuff out of your dick. I will sleep well tonight.
- celebrity armpits
- please give me some tips for wide the penis
- herpes convention
- eating your own semen
- men peeping at women pooping
- craziest belly punching pics
I should note that jasonmulgrew.com is the net’s leading resource on eating your own semen, celebrity armpits, and belly punching. Way too many people came to this site using either of those search terms for me to feel comfortable. Way too many.
- if loving me is wrong than goddamn you do it right
- italian licked my moustache
- std via licking whipped cream
- how to lie about we met on the internet
- how can i make sex more exciting instead of just lying there
- i was married to the ultimate warrior
Wow – if the Ultimate Warrior’s wife is still reading this site, please contact me. I would like to date you.
- uncomfortable with my gay roommate always walking around naked
- should i make myself throw up? and drinking
- my aunt caught me masturbating my penis
- i desperately need a tomato sauce bottle signed by the big brother ninjas in my life
- grinding the corn sex act
- mickey mantle blowjob
I think I have a new way of talking about jerking off: "masturbating my penis," as in, "Well, I was masturbatin’ my penis and Cheryl came in and was like, ‘What you doin’?' And I said, ‘What’s it look like I’m doin’ – I’m masturbatin’ my penis!’ Man, she’s dumb." (It also works better if you read that in a Southern accent.)
- take me somewhere internet
- was johnny damon really apart of color me badd
- of what ethnicity is anthony keidis is he greek?
- how to recuperate after masturbating
- my bicep in her vagina
- why does doing doggy style hurt me?
Those last two are quite antithetical: one person is hurt by a normal sexual position, the other is trying to stick his upper arm into his girl’s special place. The internet is a wonderful place, no?
- my wife wants to lick another mans ass in front of me
- on the way back to the dorm mike told me to open my shorts. i did. looking at my shaved crotch made me think of
- if a women suck my finger does that mean she want to suck my penis
- i want cheerleaders to tie me up and piss and shit on me
- kindly show me the indian sexy girl for sex
- t shirt spanish triathlon drinking eating fucking
Think of what? Think of what??? C’mon! You can’t just end it there!
Also, I thought we covered a number of justifiable reasons for murder recently, but we have another: you can legally kill your wife is she says, "I want to lick another man’s ass in front of you." You wouldn’t even need to hire a lawyer for that trial, because there’s simply no way you’re going to get convicted of that crime. Good lord. I’ve heard some pretty damaging things from women in the bedroom, but fortunately, nothing about licking another man’s ass in front of me. I mean, wow.
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Today is Day 25 of the diet and so far I’ve lost 13 pounds (goal: 20 pounds in 60 days). I’m on the lighter side of 220 for the first time since 2000. Which is nice.
However, I still can’t really tell when I look at myself naked, gazing longingly, holding a torch, doing jumping jacks. Sure, I’ve lost some weight, but I am still fat. However, there are two reasons for celebration:
1) I can now remove my jeans by simply pulling them down, even when they are zipped, buttoned, and belted (I’ve already gone down one notch on the belt and am moving toward a second). So this means that if I have to have sex in a flash, I can certainly do so. Maybe not something that has to be in the forefront of my mind, but encouraging nonetheless. While a month ago I was a size 38 waist pushing 40, now I’m probably about 37.
2) I still can’t really run at the gym on the treadmill, so I do what I call ralking. It’s walking very quickly up a steep incline. In this way, I get the maximum benefit I can without having to actually run and embarrass myself in front of other gym goers. That’s pretty much all I ask for at the gym: a solid workout with being pitied by the women around me (though sometimes, this is too much to ask).
Over the weekend, I was walking around the city and got caught in the middle of the street when traffic started moving. So I ran from the middle of the street over to the sidewalk. And I was, dare I say, explosive (and the only time that word was used with me previously was when it was followed by "diarrhea"). It was a moment comparable to when Peter Parker first shot web out of his wrists: how did I do that? I looked back and thought, "How did I get from there, to here, so quickly?" I was shocked at how quickly and effortlessly I moved and I had a total boner the rest of the day. So it looks like I may not be giving up on my dreams of playing in the NFL just yet.
Anyway, it’s going well, I haven’t died from anorexia, and am still getting fucked up. All good things. I realize that this last few pounds will be the hardest, but I’m confident. It’s about time I actually accomplished something.
(Also, I really want to start dating hot chicks. This fat stuff isn’t helping me in this department.)
(One question: can someone tell me where I can buy normal mesh shorts? I’ve looked everywhere, but I don’t want shorts that the ballers wear that come down to my feet. Nor do I want ball huggers that runners wear. I’m just looking for a normal pair of shorts. I mean, how fucking hard is this? I have only two pairs that I’ve been wearing to the gym and come wash time, there is significant plant life growing in them. So I need some more. What the fuck.)
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Thank you to all those who sent in birthday donations. I really do appreciate it. Like I said, it is your donations that help me lead the life I do, for better or worse, so thanks for that. I love you guys.
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Like reading intelligent, impassioned prose about love and death? Like characters with depth? Like finishing a book and saying, "Wow"? Then check out Johnny Dufresne book Johnny Too Bad, a collection of terrific short stories.
I don’t want to give much of it anyway, because I don’t want to muck it up. But trust me, it’s a terrific read. I read it in about three sittings over the weekend and have started on one of his novels, Love Warps the Mind a Little, which I’m enjoying (though I’m only 60 or so pages into it).
Secondly, recommend me some books. I read a couple of books a month and I have a very impressive book shelf that women are floored by when they’re in my apartment, drunk, stoned, frightened, and, most importantly, fresh out of mace. But I’m running out of things to read.
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Six Songs
"Come Back" Pearl Jam
The best song on Pearl Jam’s new album. Also the slowest and the saddest. That’s just how I roll.
"Mama You’ve Been On My Mind" Jeff Buckley
Speaking of slow and sad, this song was written by Bob Dylan, covered by Sir Rod Stewart, and given life by Jeff Buckley. This is a live cover from a radio show, but you should be able to find it through LimeWire. But, be warned: do not listen to this if you’re feeling down. This is the flagship song on my "Sad as Fuck" playlist. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Bob’s version is ok, Sir Rod’s is almost comical (and my love of Sir Rod has been well-documented here), but Jeff Buckley’s…wow. That whiney voice, that reverby guitar, that empty room: get ready to miss someone.
"Cruising Together" Smokey Robinson
I’m convinced: this is the song played in the waiting room in heaven. Beautiful song.
"I Feel For You" Chaka Khan
Do yourself a favor and learn how to lip-synch the intro to this song. It will really come in handy at parties, weddings, and corporate events. Trust me.
"A Little Less Conversation" Elvis Presley
I’ve been listening to a lot of Elvis lately, but I’m not ashamed to admit that I prefer the remix of this song to the original. The original seems a little…punchless. If you think about it, this is a pretty ballsy song: "Shut up and let’s get to the doing." The remix really builds to that, which is nice.
Man, I miss Elvis.
"1000 Seconds" The Secret Machines
Really pretty and intense when we get to the "And did you think that I had planned it all along?" and "And did you leave because you thought that I would stay?" parts (Also, "I need love/That doesn’t mean that I need you" isn’t too shabby either). It’s rather moving when you can basically transcribe an argument with your lover and turn it into a song, which is what I feel this song does (or at least, that particular part does).
(God, I really hope that I get seriously famous because there is truly no better way than to get back at (or just get at) former loves than through art. There is a girl who those lines are about, who so affected her lover that he was moved to create for her, about her, because of her. This is why women are the most wonderful things in the world. Men are clowns, extant for utility; women are gods, here for beauty, life, art, love – all the good stuff.)
(No, not goddesses – gods. I know what the fuck I’m doing.)
(I shouldn’t even say this, but the idea for my sixth book is a chapter by chapter discussion of every woman I’ve slept with. And yes, books with only two chapters do qualify for the Pulitzer. However, we might have to open it up to include any woman I’ve loved, because though I know a good bit about my first girlfriend, I don’t know much about that girl from the parking lot of the Pink Floyd concert in 1999. I remember she had only one ear, but that’s about all I got. I think her name was Laurie, but that could be very wrong. So the book would be pretty lopsided with the current "every woman I’ve slept with" idea. But hey, it’s my sixth, so we have some time to work it out.)
But as much as Annie and Nicole meant to me as sources of information and guidance, it worked both ways. And when they left the city, I lost a role that I had been playing par excellence for years: the role of the gay best friend.
(Well, I’m not gay. Now. But you know what I mean.)I had been playing the role of the gay best friend from just about the time that my testicles descended. Forever, I was “the nice guy” (read: the asexual guy). At my peak, in my early high school years, I would spend hours a day on the phone, talking to all the girls in the neighborhood about their boyfriend problems, while secretly lusting after them:
Girl: “I don’t know, I like Billy and all, but sometimes, you know, I don’t think he, like, understands me.”
Me: “Well, that certainly is a conundrum. Have you ever spoken to him about this?”
Girl: “I tried to, but we don’t really talk. All we ever do is have sex.”
Me: [grimacing, pushing the mute button and whispering "Goddamn it!" through clenched teeth] “Well, maybe it’s time for a change, you know? Maybe you should find someone that you have something in common with, someone who you can talk to. Like my favorite Grateful Dead song says: ‘Once in a while you get shown the light/In the strangest of places if you look at it right.’”
Girl: [understanding] “Oh…I get it. You’re saying I should start dating outside the neighborhood? Like maybe some of the Italian kids from 16th & Jackson?”
[Jason pushes mute button, begins sobbing, rubbing genitals]
I rocked this role and this role only until I learned an important lesson in college: if you want chicks to make out with you, you have to get drunk and get them drunk. This worked out pretty well, and at one point (I believe it was the summer between my junior and senior years) I was ranked the #4 Lover in the World in my weight class (behind a Chinese guy, a Canadian guy, and some dude from Tucson). Not too shabby.
This didn’t mean that I gave up my gay best friend role. I still was the GBF to my female friends, but then I’d get drunk and try to get their friends to let me take pictures of them in my clothes. And maybe a deer skin or something. Yeah, a deer skin. That’d be hot.
Then Annie and Nicole left New York. And I was sad. Coincidentally, about that time I stopped getting ass. That also made me sad.
BUT – though Annie is still stuck in the Pacific Northwest, Nicole is back in New York City. And I’m a gay best friend again. Yay!
Last night, Nicole took me to dinner for my birthday at the Mercer Kitchen. There, I gorged myself on all sorts of delicious foods: a shrimp salad, a steak, mac and cheese that may actually be better than Schiller’s, and some cake. Oh, and a lot of booze. Which was nice.
But what was nicest of all is that Nicole and I got to re-bond and I was able to get back to being a gay best friend. While dinner for me was waiting to see if my ex-girlfriend and current girlfriend would call to wish me happy birthday (they didn’t, but at least I won a bet with Nicole and now get a bottle of booze of my choosing; Nicole said they definitely would, that they had to, and I said no way, that I am pretty terrible; the lesson being never underestimate my ability to disappoint, piss off, or otherwise alienate women), Nicole took the time to ask me all sorts of questions about love and guys. Nicole has just started seeing a guy who’s constantly texting her and trying to get her to go out. It’s a little much.
Nicole: “So I don’t know what to do. I mean, I like hanging out with him but he’s a little too much right now.”
Me: “Eh, just fucking blow him off.”
Nicole: “I don’t want to do that.”
Me: “Ignore his texts for a little while then surprise him with a random expression of warmth. That’s how you have to do it. Trust me. I know everything about women.”
Nicole: “No you don’t.”
Me: “Have you slept with him?”
Nicole: “No!”
Me: “So be a dick, then sleep with him. You’ll have him all confused and will own him. You’ll be like the puppetmaster or some shit.” [starts singing circus theme song]
Nicole: “I don’t want to sleep with him.”
Me: [disgusted] “Look, sleep with him, don’t sleep with him – whatever. [turning away] Waiter, can you bring us another bottle of this wine? [turning to Nicole] You’re paying for this, right?”
I admit: I’m a little rusty.
But the good news is that the more we talked, the more we drank, and the more we got drunk. When I’m drunk I’m sensitive, and I think I was able to help Nicole out in the end.
Me: [slurring a little] “Let me tell you something: omnia vincit amor. Do you know what that means?”
Nicole: “‘Love conquers all.’”
Me: “Wrong! It’s Latin for ‘love conquers all.’ I took Latin.”
[four seconds of silence]
Nicole: “So what does that – “
Me: “Love conquers all, Nicole. Love. Conquers. All.”
[five seconds of silence]
Me: “Four years of Latin.
Nicole: [sighs]
Me: “You can’t stop love.”
After dinner, at which I swore that I would murder Nicole if a troupe of Mexicans came from the kitchen singing Happy Birthday to me, we went to the Pegu Club to meet friends Jeremy and Meredith. There, buoyed by the martinis and the wine, I decided to start drinking whiskey.
My first drink was a Manhattan, which was delicious. Then another Manhattan, which was also delicious. Then something called a Sazerac, which I decided I would have one a day of for the rest of my life. Somewhere in there, I peed myself a little bit. I was warm, happy, and, like I said, I peed myself a little bit. It was awesome.
I don’t really have an ending here, since I don’t really remember the rest of the night. But as I was being helped into a cab, I remember Nicole looking at me and saying, “Thanks.” I assume this meant for the advice I gave her about her man issues. Or perhaps she said it sarcastically, because I stepped on her foot and possibly broke her toe. I can’t really say. I’m very hungover.
But the point is two-fold. First, I had a lovely birthday after all. Second, I am fully willing and able to once again become a gay best friend. Now that Nicole is back in NYC, I look forward to giving her all sorts of advice on men and relationships. Of course, I’m going to have to bone up by watching some reruns of “Sex and the City,” but I’m not ashamed to admit that I don’t mind that. Not one bit.
And maybe I’m turning a corner. Now that the birthday is over, perhaps my depression from the past few weeks is lifting. Maybe I’ll get back to my normal self and stop sulking. Maybe I’ll get out of the house more and stop masturbating so goddamn much. Maybe things will be different from here on out.
So we have a solution. As long as I go out every night for a delicious expensive meal (for free) and drinks lots of whiskey drinks (for free – thanks again Jeremy), I think I’ll be just fine. Let’s all welcome back the new Jason. Omnia vincit amor, baby. Omnia vincit amor.
[Oh, and I'll save you the email and tell you that I was joking about the current girlfriend. I've been really wanting to fuck with you guys since the whole engagement thing, but then I realized I'm just going to get 300 emails unless I clear that up. So I guess what I'm saying is that I'm not a very good fucking-arounder. Whatever.]
1) The Word Game
2) James Fucking Iha3) The Lonely Hotel
4) Begging1) The Word Game
I have this thing that I like to do when I’m very messed up, like I was on Friday night. Basically, you make up a non-sensical phrase for the night, use it in social situations, and see if anyone calls you out on it. No one ever does.
It worked. I talked to people all night long, and they asked me all sorts of things about being an EMT, which I thoughtfully answered. At one point, I was waiting with some others in the bathroom line for so long (even by party standards) that I said, "I hope everything’s alright in there, but if not it’s cool – I’m an EMT." Out of nowhere, a very drunk dude started banging on the bathroom door, screaming, "IS EVERYTHING OK IN THERE? IF NOT, WE HAVE AN EMT OUT HERE! PLEASE LET US KNOW IF YOU NEED HELP!" He was very serious. In short order, two meek girls walked out and apologized for taking so long. I said, "That’s ok, but I just wanted to make sure you were ok. I’m an EMT, after all." Awesome, awesome night.
Back to the word game: Friday’s phrase was "Jacobean challenge." This means absolutely nothing. "Jacobean" is the Latinized version of "James" and is used to refer to the rule either James I or James II in Stuart England (as opposed to Carolinian, the Latinized Charles, referring to reigns Charles I and II). We all know what "challenge" means. But when you put them together, Jacobean challenge is gibberish. Total fucking gibberish.Now to the game itself: I suppose it’s not really a game per se, since there are no points or winner or anything. I suppose if you’re playing it with friends, you could each make up a different gibberish phrase, and the winner could be either the first person who gets called out on the gibberish or the last person who does not. Mostly, it’s just to see a) how dumb people are; or b) how much you can weird out others.
I said "Jacobean challenge" five times to five different people on Friday night. Not one called me out on it. I don’t blame them; since I invented this game, I am excellent at it. The trick is to not be a dick about it and use the phrase seamlessly in conversation. I don’t recall the specifics of my usage, but it went something like:Me: "Can I get five drafts of Miller Lite?"
Bartender: "Are you going to be able to carry them all?"
Me: "Well, that will be the great Jacobean challenge."
Bartender: [silence]
Me: "Yes."
FoF: "Wow, that must be hard."
Me: "Not really. The Jacobean challenge in television is not creating the show, but getting it on the air."
FoF: "Really? Why is that so tough?"
Old roommate Brian: "Did you shit in there?" [in the bathroom at the bar]
Me: "Yeah, but it was nasty."
Brian: "I know, I saw it in there with the shit and piss on the seat and all."
Me: "Yeah, it was quite the Jacobean challenge, but I managed. When you gotta go, you gotta go."
Brian: [slightly confused laughter]
I highly recommend this game to spice up the night. I already have next week’s phrase picked out: primordial usurption (this one is especially good, since "usurption" isn’t even a word; it’s "usurpation"). I will let you know how it works out.
2) James Fucking IhaJames Fucking Iha, former guitarist for the Smashing Pumpkins, is always out and about in NYC. I’ve seen him, Drew Barrymore, and Christina Ricci many times. So many for Christina in fact that we’re practically dating.
[Quick story about Christina Ricci. An ex of mine actually grew up with Christina in the suburbs on NJ. They went through grade school together, but had some sort of major falling out in 8th grade and stopped speaking to each other. One night the girl and I walked into a bar, Sweet & Vicious, and lo and behold - there's Christina Ricci with some dude. My ex suddenly stops, grabs my arm, and says, disgustedly, "Oh my god, there's Christina Ricci. Let's not go over there." Having known of their acrimonious history, I said, "Honey, I think it's over now. She's a movie star and you're dating me. So it's a draw. Let's go over and say hi." My ex refused and instead hung out on the other side of the bar. That didn't stop me from going over to where Christina was, sitting next to her, and drinking my vodka tonic (my drink of choice when looking sophisticated with my ladies). The ex was pissed and we didn't do it that night. Oh well. I was probably too drunk to anyway.
Anyway, back to James Fucking Iha. I’ve seen him a bunch of times, out in bars of NYC. I’m sure he’s a nice guy and all, but I don’t know…he just has this look to him, with his pretty hair and his soft features and his fine hands, that any minute he’s capable of saying, "I’m James Fucking Iha! Who the fuck are you? I was in the Smashing Fucking Pumpkins! James Fucking Iha!" So my friends and I call him James Fucking Iha.On Friday night, the same night as the word game, I saw James Fucking Iha. This time, it was at a small hole in the wall bar on the border of Alphabet City. By this point, I was very drunk. The good thing about my diet is that I now have the tolerance of a uncoolest girl on the St. Anne’s field hockey team. When you’re anorexic, you’re not going to win any drinking contests. And on Friday, after starting out with 9% beers at a Belgium bar, and after barely eating and working out, I was bombed by midnight.
So, I decided, with my friend Brian’s encouragement, to start secretly yelling at James Fucking Iha. Then, with more of Brian’s encouragement, to not-so-secretly yell at James Fucking Iha. We’re not talking a very high tech operation here; I think I started by saying to my group of friends, "Yo, over there – it’s James Fucking Iha!" (remember, this was a small bar with only maybe a dozen people there). Then I basically repeated "James Fucking Iha" over and over again until he and his friends left the bar. It was fucking awesome. If you had asked me in 1993, as I rocked out listening to "Cherub Rock," if I would ever make the Smashing Pumpkins guitarist leave a bar because I was drunk and kept yelling his name, well, actually, I probably would have believed you. But at any rate, James Fucking Iha left. We stayed. It was the best birthday present I’ve ever given myself.Friday night was awesome.
Saturday was not.3) The Lonely Hotel
I am unhealthily obsessed with hotels. I don’t know what I love about them – maybe the anonymity, maybe the potential for sex, maybe the luxury, maybe the showers that I know that other people have used just days before me – but I love them.
I immediately made a decision: I was staying at a hotel on Saturday night. I craved coolness and cleanliness. I needed to get out. I’d treat myself. It was (sort of) my birthday, after all.
Using Priceline, I named my own price and got a four star hotel in midtown for astoundingly cheap (much less than I had spent on booze the previous night). By the time I grabbed breakfast and packed, it was time to check in.Some of my friends were going to the Siren Festival on Coney Island, but I declined their invitation to join them. Not only because I was too hungover, but the thought of throngs of hipsters on Coney Island listening to hipster bands – not really what I’m looking for. Plus, my friend Jeremy only had two VIP passes. I don’t roll unless I roll VIP, so fuck it. After all, I am Jason Fucking Mulgrew.
I took a nap at the hotel, walked around, grabbed some food and booze, hung out. I was basically waiting for those guys to get back around 11pm to go out. Which was fine with me. I blasted the AC, jumped on the comfy king size bed, cracked open a bottle of wine, and relaxed.Then it all fell apart. My text messages were not returned. I could not get a bead on where my friends were. I started texting other friends. Some were out of town, some were with significant others, some didn’t answer. I started panicking. Sure, I didn’t want to make a big deal out of my birthday, but it was Saturday night in New York City. I wanted to go out. I wanted to party. I wanted to (try to) make out.
But it was not meant to be. The specifics are boring – the texting, the phone calls, the pleading – but I couldn’t find anyone to go out with. I drank faster. I saw that "Pirates of the Caribbean" was on. I kept texting. "Silence of the Lambs" came on. I finished the second bottle of wine. I made some calls. I kept drinking. "Silence of the Lambs" was over. Somewhere in there, the night died.So on what should have been the night I celebrated my 27th birthday, I sat alone, in a hotel room, drinking in bed. This sound very depressing, I know. And at the time, I was drawing some tepid water for the tub (my last text message to Brian at almost 3am was "Jesus. Rock bottom birthday."). But, in retrospect, I guess it wasn’t that bad. I had a nice little night to myself, got drunk, watched some movies, and passed out in a big, comfortable, cold bed. Not bad. Or maybe I’m just telling myself that because spending your birthday night alone in a hotel room because you’re unable to find even one friend to drink with you is at best sad and at worst scary. Whatever.
4) Begging
Please send me some money. It’s my birthday and I love you and I’m not so happy. I won’t ask again until next year (and probably not then, as I hope to have been paid for my projects by then). It’s your donations that allow me to live the horrible life I lead. Thank you for your support and consideration (click on Make a Donation on the right).
Happy birthday to me (the "happy" part is more of a guideline).
Anyway, Ms. Secretary, if you’re reading this, you don’t need to be so afraid/disgusted. Just say hi to me. I’m actually shy in real life (lie), so I’ll probably just smile, shrug it off, and then whisper in a low, raspy voice, "Billlllyyyy…" before licking my lips.
Looking forward to meeting you!
*****************
Yesterday at work, I had a morning meeting. I actually prefer morning meetings, because I’m usually a zombie after noon. But this particular meeting is outside my area of specialization (translation: I don’t know anything about it, nor do I know why I was invited).
About five minutes into the meeting, which was with five other people, it became apparent that I was not going to contribute anything. So I made a vow to myself: I would not say anything at all during the entire meeting.
But really – that’s not a that big of deal, so I upped the ante a little bit: Not only would I not say anything during the whole meeting, but I would not even grunt, nod, or write anything down. That would be much more difficult.
But, forty minutes later, I had succeeded. I sat in that meeting like a goddamn deaf mute, giving no sign that I at all recognized what was happening around me. People were just talking away, engaging each other, even arguing a little bit, and I just sat there, staring. It was incredible. As soon as I got back to my office, I closed my door and giggled like a schoolgirl and then made like fifteen personal phone calls.
…
I just read this over and realized it’s not funny at all. Let’s just chalk this up to "You had to be there" and move on.
*****************
The diet is going reasonably well. So far, I’ve lost 10 pounds in 18 days (remember, the goal was 20 in 60 days). Though I moved down a notch on my belt, I still can’t tell the fucking difference when I look at myself naked in the mirror, in a crouching position, holding a wrench in my hand. However, I’m a numbers guy, so as long as the number on the scale keeps getting smaller, that will keep me motivated.
So far, it’s been a weird diet, because interspersed among the days in which I eat 900 calories and burn off 500-600 at the gym, there have been days when I’m in Philly/down the shore consuming 3000+ and burning off zero (in the past 18 days, I’ve spent 11 in NYC and 7 in Philly/the shore).
Last night was a major setback as well. When I woke up yesterday morning, I couldn’t recall a time when I felt more tired, and that feeling stayed with me all day. Then during the course of the day, I got some good news and some bad news. So after work, I decided to blow off the gym and eat an actual meal, because a) I was tired; b) to celebrate the good news; and c) to lament the bad news. The result: one chicken burrito from Cafe el Portal and a whole pint of Haagen Dazs Cookies ‘n’ Cream later, I actually gained a half-pound. Fuck.
But fear not: this is not the end and last night was only a minor transgression. I feel great today, since after eating that giant meal I took a Xanax and slept from 10:30pm until 8am – more sleep than I’ve had in weeks. I’m going to try to eat under 700 calories today (corn flakes with milk is 200, Slim Fast shake is 180, frozen dinner is 290 = 670) and burn off 700 at the gym. Therefore, I might die tonight. If this is my last post, remember me as a hero and a soldier of love. And I’m so sorry we never got to do it. So, so sorry.
(And yes, I’ve realized I’ve completely lost my mind about this. But I’m sorry, I have to start dating a hot girl. Also, isn’t it better to go crazy about something like this than, say, murder? Wouldn’t you rather I count calories than fingers I’ve collected? Actually, don’t answer that.)
*****************
Since my birthday is on Monday, this weekend will be the unofficial celebration of my birthday. Of course, for some reason, I am having a severe, almost allergic reaction to turning 27, so I hope to stay in both nights and drink alone. A good way to start the year.
This means that my streak of making out on my birthday will more than likely come to an end. Every year since 1998, I have either made out or, in better years, actually fornicated on my birthday or on the celebratory weekend/night of my birthday. Of course, the past few make-outs in recent years have been cheap, forgettable, and mostly out of pity. (Last year was not a high point: "C’mon! Let’s just make out! I’m one of People’s 50 Hottest Bachelors and it’s my birthday! I’ve bought you like five fucking drinks! C’MON!" Sad.)
But still, a streak is a streak, but I just don’t know if I have it in me this year. I suppose I’m willing to accept the end of my birthday make-out streak, but I only hope that an alternative streak doesn’t begin this year: NOT making out on my birthday. Remember: it’s not how many times you go down, but how many times you get up. So if I don’t make out this weekend or Monday, I’ll live. But I swear to God, I will pay for it on my 28th if I have to. Because I ain’t goin’ out like that.
*****************
Speaking of love, thank you to the five of you who have donated for my birthday. Of course, I will send a personal thank you, but I don’t remember the password to the email address to which my Paypal account is connected. Long story short, I cleared my cache or cookies or whatever and don’t remember the password that was saved for that gmail address. I had to do this because all of my passwords were the same, including the password that Site Guy Brendan and I use for this site. A little while back, we had a falling out, and I thought it best to change all of my passwords so that Brendan wasn’t firing off emails from my accounts to ex-girlfriends and old professors, telling them that I’ve hit some hard times and am on the lam somewhere "in the Dakotas." I picked random passwords and saved them onto my computer. However, I decided it was time to clear the cache because I’m pretty sure that two nights ago I stumbled onto a kiddie porn site (accidentally, of course). And I don’t know that email’s password, so no email.
Anyway, I’ll figure this out later today, send the email thanks, and will show up at your place sometime next week with a bottle of wine and some of my favorite Sting cds. We’ll make a night of it. (The good news is that three of the five donors are from Texas, so I can kill three birds with one stone! Go Lone Star state!).
The rest of you, it’s totally cool if you wait until Monday to donate. But after that, we’re not speaking to each other. We can still be in love, but just not the talking kind of love. Sound good?
*****************
Speaking of not getting mail, I have now not received any mail for over 4.5 months. During this time, my mailbox has been broken and my landlord has refused to fix it. I was just about ready to give up on this, but then I realize that because of my landlord’s failure to achieve even in the modest task before him I’m not going to get any birthday cards this year. FUCK. THAT.
The point is, I’m going to need your help soon. I’m planning on starting some kind of demonstration or smear campaign against the restaurant that my landlord owns if the mailbox is not fixed. So get your picket signs and bags of shit ready. We’re about to go to war against some overpriced, bad Italian food. I hope you’re up to the challenge. Look for more information soon, and start doing some push-ups.
*****************
A quick, but serious note: some pretty heavy shit is going on in the world right now. Israel is seriously pissed at just about everyone around it, Japan is threatening a preemptive strike on North Korea (whose leader is the worst kind of ladyboy: a nuclear lunatic ladyboy), and the Indians, well, if there’s one thing I’ve learned about Indians, it’s that they don’t fuck around. Sure, they may seem unthreatening and smiley behind the counter of your local gas station mart, but once they find out who’s responsible for those train bombings, it ain’t gonna be pretty. So pray if you got ‘em.
(Oh, and people are still dying by the busload in Iraq, Afghanistan, and about 94% of Africa. So there’s that too. Not a great time for Earth.)
(Oh, and as of this writing the two most popular stories on CNN.com are "Former ‘Idol’ contestant indicted on child porn charges" and "’House’ star gets huge raise." God bless America.)
*****************
Six Songs
"All That I Want" The Weepies
I am completely and utterly obsessed with this song, just like I was with their song "Gotta Have You" a few months ago. It’s even a little Christmasy, but not so Christmasy that you can’t listen to it all year around. Excellent, excellent, excellent.
The following two songs come from the "Dirty Hipster Stripper" mix:
"Why Can’t You Be Nicer To Me" White Stripes
In my 26 (almost 27) years, I have learned one thing: niceness is all I want from a woman (well, niceness and boobies). Just be nice to me and we’ll get along fine. I’m not talking about sending me emails about how no one has ever done you like I have (because I already know that’s true, but in a bad way), or hourly text messages telling me you miss me (I don’t want to pay for those), or phone calls that list all the nasty things you’re going to do to me the next time you see me (because, well no, that one is ok). But I need some niceness every once in a while. I’m an artist and possibly a manic depressive. I’m fragile and insecure. I thrive on positive feedback. Without it, I will go insane. So be nice to me. Even if you don’t mean it. I am great at pretending and being duped, but bad at waiting for niceness (let’s add "not necessarily impatient but only so patient" to "fragile" and "insecure").
Sexy song, though.
(Also, in addition to niceness, if you could wear something a little slutty but also still classy, that’d be awesome.)
"Party the Baby Off" Icarus Line
If you are not standing up, filled with adrenaline, trying to rip your genitals off when this song hits the 1:20 minute mark and the singer says, "Tonight, take off all your clothes," and the guitars start crunching away, well, you should see a doctor. Because something is wrong with you, friend. Probably cancer. But check with the doctor to be sure.
The following two songs come from the "Balls Out Workout (But Less So)" mix:
"Love You Madly" Cake
I fucking love Cake. I’ve written before about how I think people think liking Cake is not cool, but I don’t care. Just listen to the song.
"Cherry Cola" Eagles of Death Metal
What a fun fucking band. Yeah, I know that they’re kind of a joke, but anything band that sings, "I can razzamatazz you honey if you want me to/I can be your daddy, be your rock and roller/You can be my sugar, be my cherry cola" is more than ok in my book.
"Hello Old Friend" Eric Clapton
This is cheesy Eric Clapton song whose chorus goes: "Hello old friend/Really good to see you once again." I don’t like the song, but it’s noteworthy here because I sing this line to myself every time do something I haven’t done in a while, usually something related to vice. For example, if I don’t drink during the week, I’ll sing this line to my first weekend beer. But last night, I actually sang it to my penis after I hadn’t masturbated in, like, two whole days. The image of me sitting at my desk after eating a burrito and a pint of ice cream, wearing only boxers, and singing to my penis before I nearly took its life because of such a vicious beating, well, that should give you sweet dreams for the rest of the summer.
[Have a good weekend]
After a day of lying around the pool and walking around the town, on Friday night I couldn’t find anyone willing to go out. Make no mistake – I didn’t want to get bombed, since the last thing I wanted for the DUYS tour was a hangover. But I wanted to have a couple of beers in a social setting. But it was not meant to be. Everyone I called was taking it easy, so I did what any logical depressed, alcohol-loving, soon-to-be 27 year-old would do: I drank 11 beers in my underwear, watched three episodes of "Sex and the City," showered, and decided to go for a drive at 4am when I couldn’t sleep. You know, standard, awesome stuff.
The next day, the day of the DUYS tour, it was overcast. There were no threatening rain clouds, but just enough cloud cover to ensure that I would not be getting any sunburn that day, which was unfortunate. I’ve come to embrace my sunburn and celebrate as though it were a tan, as I realize that pinkish red the only color I’m ever going to get.
My buddy Kyle arrived from Philly in the afternoon for the tour. My buddy Joe from Boston was supposed to arrive also, but Joe has this thing about making plans. It follows these steps:
- Two weeks prior to an event or weekend, Joe will says he’s coming to NYC/the shore/wherever to hang out.
- Joe will spend a week excitedly talking about the weekend he will be in town
- On or around the Tuesday before Joe is to visit, he will stop communicating with me entirely. I will send Joe repeated emails and text messages and call him, but get no responses.
- On the weekend or day he is supposed to arrive, I will send Joe an impassioned plea via one of the above mentioned methods of communication, which will ask, "Dude, I really don’t care if you can’t make it, but PLEASE tell me whether or not you’re coming so I can make my own plans."
- Joe will call and offer a lame excuse explaining that he’s not coming after all (i.e. car is in the shop, girlfriend had made plans, stuck at work, race riot, etc). I say something like, "Sweet" and hang up the phone.
This happens about five times per year and is Joe’s "thing." My friends and I joke about "pulling a Joe" whenever we say we’re going to show up or go somewhere but then don’t.
(We actually use his last name, but I won’t print that here.)
Joe’s no-show was not so detrimental to me, as I would know almost everyone on the tour, having grown up with them, but more so detrimental to Kyle, since he wouldn’t know too many people on the tour. Perhaps I should explain. I draw my friends from four different groups:
- People I grew up with from the neighborhood
- People I went to high school with
- People I went to college with
- Assholes I’ve met in New York City
Because of my charm, intelligence, and ambition, I was able to beat poverty and attend a "prestigious" private high school in Philly (on scholarship). There, I made a second group of friends separate from the peeps I grew up with. After high school, because of my manipulation, humor, and ruthlessness, I left Philly to attend a "semi-prestigious" college in Boston (on scholarship). There, I made s’more friends, separate from the previous two groups. Finally, because of luck, alcohol-induced nonchalance that was mistaken for confidence, and a wonderful job market, I got a job in NYC (not on scholarship, though every time I worked past 6:30 I could get reimbursed up to $25 for dinner – $25 can get you a lot of Taco Bell). Sadly though, I haven’t made many friends here, but rather know some assholes that I drink with sometimes.
All the people on the DUYS tour would come from the "people I grew up with" group. Since I go back to Philly about once every six weeks, I hang out with these people all the time and love them. Kyle and Joe however, come from the second group of people (I also went to college with Joe, but since I met him in high school, he’s in Group 2). Though both Kyle and Joe know some of my Philly peeps, I hoped that the two of them would be there for each other while I systematically walked around the bars up to random women and say, "My name is on this shirt. Can you just hold my hand for like, fifteen seconds? I’ll sweeten the deal: you can count out loud if you like and I’ll give you $4."
The point: Kyle was flying mostly solo.
Kyle and I arrived at the first bar fashionably late at 7:30pm, thirty minutes after we told people to meet there. This really didn’t matter, since people were still showing up at 8:30pm.
Before I continue, the rules of the DUYS tour: Show up, buy a t-shirt, drink. That’s it. It’s a very unorganized tour without any drink specials or itinerary. Last year, not having an itinerary was not a problem, since maybe 35 people were on the tour. This year, we sold all 60 shirts and had a number of stragglers, bringing the number to around 80. That’s kind of a lot of people.
Since my colleague David (co-founder of the tour) was bombed approximately 28 minutes into the pub crawl, it fell on my shoulders to be the Tour Whip, making sure everyone knew when and where we were going next. At first, this was fine. But after a while…not so much.
Things began to fall apart at the second bar, the Number One Tavern (or is it Number 1? #1? whatever). This bar is famous for a Hurricane-like drink called the Tully Nut, which, at $8, is a concoction that boasts five liquors and various fruit juices. It’s pretty strong stuff. On a typical night down the shore, you might stop there for two Tully Nuts to pre-game. Two Tully Nuts will leave you feeling pretty good. I had three in under an hour. David had four.
This is where it starts to get blurry.
This is also where it started to get crappy for me. Telling 80 people who are rapidly getting progressively (almost alarmingly) drunk where and when to move is not an easy task, even if they’re your friends (probably especially if they’re your friends). So while I’d go up to groups and say, "Hey guys, at 10, we’re heading over to Keenan’s," people responded with any number of answers aside from "Ok," including but not limited to:
- "I thought we were ending at Keenan’s?"
- "No way, we should go to Annie’s next."
- "Why don’t we just stay here for another round?"
- "Last year we ended at Keenan’s. Now it’s the third bar?"
- "Did you really go on a date with Gary‘s dad or is that just a rumor?"
Fortunately, I was able to move people out of the Number One and onto the next bar, which after a small revolt, was determined to be Annie’s. More fortunately, I was pretty fucked up at this point. Less fortunately, this means when I tried again to get people moving and no one listened, I was getting angry. Real angry.
The rest of the night…it’s a little blurry. Highlights include:
- Seeing my mom, who waited at another bar to take a picture of my brother, sister and I (all on the tour), and calling her a "drunk" for being at the bar alone (mostly playfully though, since my mom doesn’t really drink);
- Getting into an argument with the bouncer at Keenan’s who would not let my underage sister into the bar, despite the fact that she had been there the night before and there were girls younger than her inside, nearly pulling the "Do you know who the fuck I am?" card;
- Seeing a girl I went to grade school with in Echo’s and telling her that I "loved her when I was a kid." She laughed. I’m not entirely positive, but I think I took her laughter to mean "You sorry son of a bitch" and I went into a spiel about how awesome I am now;
- Meeting a friend’s co-worker in Echo’s, a gentleman who reads the site, who proceeded to buy many MANY more shots that I needed in a VERY short time (shortly after this, our mutual friend left Echo’s, walked home, and "puked along the street for a good three blocks," even though he kept walking the whole time, the champion that he is).
After Echo’s I remember very little. Apparently, I was ignoring Kyle, who is secretly very high maintenance. Of course, I was not aware of this at the time, nor was I aware of his repeated requests for my keys, so that he could leave and go back to the apartment. No, all I remember was Kyle coming up to me at the bar, pushing me, and yelling, "Give me the fucking keys!" Always looking to disarm a potentially dangerous situation, I allegedly said, "But I already gave them to you." Kyle assured me that I did not, finally grabbing the keys off my person and storming off.
I spent the rest of the night acting like a goddamn unmedicated mental patient (supposedly) before the lights came on (probably) and I began the long walk home (eventually).
When I got home, per my usual "I’m super fucked up" routine, instead of properly storing my contact lenses, I took them out of my eyes and threw them the fuck out. I went to bed in the bedroom, leaving Kyle passed out on the couch.
I suppose that I still had some laden guilt about pissing Kyle off, as sometime during the night, I crawled into bed with him. Whether or not I did so after I went to the bathroom or just got straight out of bed and wanted to lay next to a warm body (very lonely), I do not know.
All I know is the next day I woke up on the sofa bed (thankfully, alone). My first instinct when I wake up in a strange place after a night of heavy drinker is to check and make sure my boxers are on. Not because I’m concerned that I was seduced by some succubus in the night, but because if my boxers are off, that usually means I’ve pissed myself; I’ll sometimes piss myself in bed and throw them off during the night when I finally recognize the wetness or, more likely, I’ll get up, walk to a corner or wall in the room, drop my boxers to my ankles and piss, leaving the boxers to soak up the warm urine bouncing off the wall and collecting at my feet.
My boxers were on, so I was safe. That meant that more than likely I didn’t piss myself and I later confirmed that I did not. After talking to Kyle, all I did was simply crawl onto one side of the sofa bed. This woke him up and he protested, saying, "Dude, go back to bed." I told him, "I’m sleeping - shut up" and started snoring. He immediately got off of bed and slept in the bedroom (note by "immediately" I mean "after a little light ass play").
****
Thus concluded the 8th Annual Drink Until You Shit tour. No, no one shit themselves. The closest was my buddy Chuckie, who "exploded" outside one of the bars, spewing galloons of vomit everywhere. I don’t know if this means he’ll be captain next year, but the Rules Committee is looking into it (to help his claim, Chuckie said he probably shit himself a little bit while throwing up; Forensics is on this).
I guess I had a good time, but I don’t think so. At least I learned something for next year: we need an itinerary, or a whistle, or someone who’s willing to be the Whip. Because there’s no way I’m doing that again.
And hey – at least I have another t-shirt that I can hear around the streets of NYC and get funny looks. Nothing makes me quite as happy as making other people uncomfortable.
(See? I listen to you.)
(Also, you have to know that I’m totally going to continue whining. I just want you to know that I’m aware that I’m doing the whining and that I don’t like it. Isn’t that the first step to recovery?)
On a related note, I’ve thought about why I’ve been so severe in my self-editing lately. Sure, I’ve had a rough stretch as of late, but I think I’m over that. And sure, I dread that I’m turning 27 and while I’m not over that, at least I can accept it for what it is: shit. Instead, I think it all has to do with this lil’ post.
See, I don’t know if you could tell by my misspellings and broken syntax, but I never really edit posts. I don’t really have time to, nor do I have the energy to, nor do I have the brain power to. Sure, I’ll give them a read over just to make sure they’re complete and that I didn’t say anything that might get me assassinated, but I usually don’t make many changes and just put ‘em up.
And then the engagement thing happened.
And now – guess what? – I’m reading more closely. Doing some editing. Making changes. And it’s completely robbing me of my mojo.
The hardest thing about writing the book is just that – it’s hard (indulge me for a moment). Writing a book, especially when there is no overlap between it (the book) and my current subject matter (the blog), is a very difficult and ginormous task. Sadly, I learned early on that I couldn’t just string together a couple of "I’m fat" jokes and be done with it. Which totally fucking sucks.
So after spitting out posts, there was an adjustment period for the book, which required reading, editing, rewriting, re-reading, and weeping. However, I still stayed strong on the blog (in some respects) and didn’t overanalyze the posts. I wrote them and put them up. Done and done.
But now I feel like I’ve regressed and have been more conscious of what I write. And this is destroying me.
I realize that this may be too much; that me, talking about the craft of writing, is like the pope giving advice on how to R the girl of your dreams and get away with it or like my brother Dennis talking about how not to be bisexual.
But I thought I would share this revelation with you all and let you know that I’ve stopped thinking about it. Much like in a relationship when you stop caring about the other person and he/she only cares for you more, I’m not going to overly concern myself with the posts, just like the old days. Nothing works better in life than insouciance. This mantra has gotten me this far. It’s time to go back to it.
Second point: remember: it’s never to early to send me a birthday gift in the form of cold, hard cash. Nothing will improve my mental state like an email from Paypal saying that I’ve been given money (well, certain sexual acts will, but I’ve been sleeping around too much lately and really need to cool it). So click on the "Make a Donation" button on the right and help make my 27th birthday my best birthday ever! Remember, this is the only time during the year that I ask for money! Don’t make me put ads up! Please!
(If you need extra begging before you send me the damn $10, please see here.)
(I’d also like to take this time, as I’m under $200 away from maxing out my second credit card, to thank the good people behind both of my projects. It’s most excellent that both projects were agreed to eleven months ago and since then I’ve received only a small portion of my promised monies – and that went directly to the debt I accumulated from taking off work for 4.5 months to work on said projects. So again, thank you. This has been working out for me really well so far. The good news is that one of the busboys at the Italian restaurant that my landlord owns just died, so I’m picking up two shifts a week to help offset the cost of rent. So that makes me happy.)
Third point: I would be remiss if I didn’t at least mention what the scene looked like my Little Italy neighborhood after Italy won the World Cup.
Prior to leaving the shore, I saw the World Cup final on television. I walked into my aunt and uncle’s place just as regular time had run out. I saw the headbutt. I saw the penalty kicks. I saw the celebration.
My reaction: "Eh."
The reaction, which I would learn later, of my Little Italy neighborhood: "GABAGOOL! MARONE! BAHDAHDEEZH! ETC!"
I got to my apartment about 10pm Sunday night and to find madness. The streets were packed with people, all sorts of swarthy drunks wearing Italian flags, screaming EE-TAL-YA over and over again. The crowd was mixed: there were genuine off the boat Italians, who were not surprisingly the most passionate (and drunkest); there were "normal" Italian-Americans of all ages, wearing the blue jerseys, some with their faces painted; and there were the guidos, with their gelled hair and trimmed eyebrows and wifebeaters, looking more interested in starting fights and crushing p-ssy than the Italians’ victory.
Unsuspecting tourists either delighted or cringed from their sidewalk tables as these "hooligans" took over the streets. Police were out en force to keep order, and later I learned that several arrests were made. For what, I don’t know, but I imagine it has something to do with prozhoot or mutzharel.
Horns, honks, whistles, shrieks, chants, songs. Songs, chants, shrieks, whistles, honks, horns. This is what I heard all night long, until I finally feel asleep sometime around 3am.
What’s weird about this is that Little Italy is dead after, say, 1am. The nearest bar to my apartment is about five blocks away. This doesn’t sound very far, but several areas of Manhattan (Bleecker Street, 2nd Ave in the East Village, much of the frat part of the Upper East Side) have four or five bars per block. So to not have one within a five block radius, well, that’s not really a party area.
So as I laid there in bed listening to my whop friends, I wondered what, exactly, they were doing out there. There are no bars and all the restaurants were closed. It sounded to me like different groups of Italy fans were basically showing up in the neighborhood and simply walking down the street, yelling and singing, despite the fact that the neighborhood was otherwise dark and desolate. It’s as though a bunch of mid-twenties corporate Italian-Americans were drinking at a bar in the Upper West Side, getting progressively drunk, until one of them said, "You know what? We should totally go down to Little Italy to carry on and scare the fuck out of the Chinese people that actually live there. We’re Italian! And we just won! Let’s get some of the worst beer in the world and head down there - even though everything is closed! Who’s with me?"
(I can’t express this enough; this is my sixth year in NYC and I’ve lived in four different neighborhoods and spent many a late night in many more. None are as scary as my current neighborhood at night. This is because the tourists all have to get up early in the morning to get a head start on the Statue of Liberty line and the Chinese people have to wake up early to scurry around all day, sell shit that I’ve never even seen before, and/or smoke cigarettes. ChiLiTa at night is a strange place. If it weren’t for the constant rumbling of trash trucks on the streets, you could hear a pin drop. Very, very weird for Manhattan.)
(And really, Italy has some of the worst beer in the world. If I had to make a list of my top five least favorite beers, it would go:
1) Beck’s
2) Peroni
3) Moretti
4) Heineken
5) None. I only dislike four beers.)
Anyway, then it stopped and now everybody’s back to not caring about soccer. Thank god.
(By the way, the best part about the whole headbutt drama is the Italian’s reponse that he prompted the headbutt by calling the Frenchie a terrorist. When confronted about this, his response was: "It is absolutely not true, I did not call him a terrorist. I’m ignorant. I don’t even know what the word means."
What? How do you not know what the word "terrorist" means? I know Italians are not necessarily known for their brain power (not in the past 300 years, anyway, long before Italy became Italy), but that is really no excuse. That’s like saying, "I didn’t murder my wife. I don’t know what murder is. I just wanted her to stop cheating on me, then she died." Come on. Ridiculous. Just ridiculous.)
Fourth point: you’ll get your damn "Drink Until You Shit" recap soon. But I’ll save you the drama: I did not shit myself. I’m sorry to disappoint, and I’m willing to do a lot of stupid things while drunk, but pooping myself is not one of them. Also, I dropped a monster deuce right before the tour started and didn’t have to go. Crap.
(Well, not literally.)
I’ll try to get more to you later, but hey – I’m trying. I didn’t want you to think that I’ve abandoned you, that I’m not trying, that I’m actually working at work. No, I assure you that I’m working to get you your daily fix of curse words and failures, but I have apparently completely lost my touch. If it’s any consolation, this bothers me much more than it bothers you. I promise.
So let me get back to being completely fucking miserable and I’ll see if I can come up with anything "good." Wish me luck.
Thank you for the emails and messages sending condolences. They are much appreciated. In order to turn the mood a little happier, I wrote a post yesterday talking about funerals, describing about how I want my funeral to be, even writing a eulogy for myself that could be given by any number of my friends ("It’s always especially sad when someone attractive dies. Fortunately, we don’t have to worry about this in Jason’s case.").
Then I read it over and saw that it was secretly the most morbid thing I’ve ever written and scrapped it. So that sucked. However, we now have a new addition for "Shit That Sucked the First Time Around and Still Sucks: The Lost Posts of Jason Mulgrew" (to be published posthumously, of course).
I think this means that I can’t really talk about death or any such serious things on here, so let’s just move on and try to never mention this again.
But once again, thank you for the emails/messages. You are all very nice.
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As I mentioned earlier this week, I’m on a diet. I actually started it last week, but then it fell apart with my grandmother’s passing. There was no way I could be in Philly, on drugs, drinking heavily, and mourning, and pass up food.
(God I love creamed chipped beef so much.)
The goal for the diet is to lose 20 pounds in two months. I think this is attainable, but it will require some commitment.
I’ve never seriously dieted. Typically, when I say I’m on a diet, it means I’ll have a salad for lunch instead of a sandwich for two days, then when the weekend comes around I’ll eat a bag of Oreo’s at 4:30 in the morning. I’m not a nutritionist, but I think this is why my past "diets" have failed.
However, I think this time might be different. It’s only been four days, but I’m feeling pretty committed. And I know the reason this time around: immediate results.
A reason why I’ve never seriously dieted is that I have a very short attention span. For example, in the past, I would get pissed off when I saw that I lost maybe one pound in three days. So I’d go right back to a three-course lunch and the late-night Oreos. And the creme pies.
(God I love creme pies so much.)
This time around I took a different approach and have severely limited my caloric intake so as to produce immediate, and thus encouraging, results. I’m eating between 800 and 900 calories a day. To put that into perspective, a person is supposed to eat between 2000 and 2500 per day. I am used to consuming 3500 per day (and on the weekends, it’s probably over 5000). My meals per day have been: small bowl of Frosted Mini Wheats, Slim Fast shake (gay, I know, but pretty tasty), and a Lean Cuisine/Healthy Choice/Weight Watchers frozen dinner. That, and all the water I want, but no sodas, juices, or anything like that. If I get hungry, I can have a handful of peanuts during the day (only 50 calories and high in protein). I’m also taking a shitload of vitamins to make sure my heart doesn’t stop from the sudden change in diet.
In addition to the food limitations, I am back at the gym. It was very hard to get back to the gym, but I owe my return solely to my taste in music. My two previous gym mixes, "Hype" (for cardio work) and "Punch Your Goddamn Balls" (for weightlifting) had gone very, very stale. This is not surprising, since I hadn’t been to the gym in like a year and a half. In a flash of inspiration, I sat down at my computer and quickly created two new gyms mixes with fresh songs: "Balls Out Workout" (weightlifting) and "Balls Out Workout (But a Little Less So)" (cardio). I’m now at the gym just under an hour a day, burning between 500 and 600 calories, thanks to the Balls Out Workout mixes.
Since I started the diet last Monday, I’ve lost 9 pounds, including 6.5 in the last three days.
(Is this worse than saying I’m engaged? Are you handling this ok? First, I poison your mind with the fact that – gasp! – I might actually be having sex on a regular basis, and now it sounds as though I’m turning this into a diet blog. If you’re still reading, I ask you to hold on for a little longer. Please. You owe me that much.)
BUT…there is one problem with my diet plan: I like to drink. Lots.
I’ve been sober this week, which has not been too hard, but there is no way that I can stay sober through this weekend or any weekend. This is non-negotiable. This weekend on the Drink Until You Shit tour, I’m going to have probably at least 15 Bud Lights. That’s 1500 calories right there.
So thus begins my adventure on a see-saw diet. 900 calories a day Sunday to Thursday, 4000 a day on Friday and Saturday. But hey, that’s better than 4000 a day every day, right? Right?
(What’s the over/under on when I quit this? I think Wednesday, July 12 sounds about right.)
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Reason Number Six (of Six) Why I Miss Living with My Old Roommate Brian:
In the early afternoon hours of July 4th, Brian sent me this text message out of nowhere:
"Is there anything I can do or something I can take to stop me from masturbating? This is ridiculous."
I’m sorry friend, but there’s nothing. Just let it wash over you and enjoy it.
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Horrible news for me: Italy is good at soccer. I guess they won a big game recently (I don’t watch soccer because it’s for gays and rich kids who grew up with such luxuries as "fields" and "two parents"), but judging from the noise, Italian flags, and unprecedented level of Eyetal-ness in my Little Italy neighborhood, something’s a-brewin’.
As I walked through the streets, I saw all the people screaming "Italia! Italia!", their faces painted, wearing Italian flags, and I thought, "Great, this is just what this neighborhood needs - more people and more fucking noise." The only people who weren’t riled up by Italy’s (apparently good) performance in the World Cup were the waiters at the Italian restaurants, since they’re not really Italian but instead Albanian and pissed off that their home country can’t even field a team (but still happy to be living in a country that has pasteurized milk and a scarcity of smallpox and polio).
I’ll keep you up to date on this, but I can tell you this much: it’s going to get worse before it gets better. No doubt about that. But if there is a God, Italy will lose soon. I can’t bear the thought of all those Italians celebrating. Seeing them happy is like poison to me, pure poison.
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If you did not get the monthly email, you should check your spam filters and add any correspondence from jasonmulgrew.com to your safe list. I have no idea what any of this means and I’m not even sure I said it right, but Site Guy Brendan told me to say this (or something like it).
Speaking of, for the one millionth time, any technical issues should be directed to Brendan at brendan@jasonmulgrew.com. When you complain that you didn’t get the email even though you signed up, I have no idea how to fix that. So please email him with any technical issues.
(And yes, I know on the sidebar on the right it says "One of People’s Hottest Bachelor’s for 2005" when it should say "One of People’s Hottest Bachelors for 2005." Brendan is a computer guy and not a grammarian and has trouble with possessives vs. plurals. I sent him an email, cutely titled "Apostrophe Catastrophe," but he neither got back to me nor made the change. So just deal with it for now.)
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Six Songs
(Special Ten Songs edition, since I haven’t done this in a while)
"Here I Am (Come and Take Me)" Al Green
Smooth. That’s all you need to know. I’ve said this before, but I can’t understand how anyone with full capacity of their hearing could not like Al Green. His music is incredible. And this is my favorite song of his. When the horns break over the chorus as he sings, "Here I am, baby/Come and take me," it makes me dance more than a little. I kinda want to wear a zoot suit (with a hat) and dance with a girl in a dress to this song. Does that make me weird? Don’t answer that.
"Come and Get Your Love" Leon Redbone
In keeping with the soul music that involves coming and loving and makes me want to dance, listen to this lil’ number. I don’t know…maybe it’s because I’m perennially chasing women that there’s something appealing about a woman coming to me. You know, for my love. And etc.
While we’re dancing, one more:
"Can’t Fight the Moonlight" LeAnn Rimes
I’m sorry, but I really like this song. I think it’s sexy, catchy, and makes me a little randy.
(Do you know that I just googled "leanne rimes" to learn how to properly spell/case her name? That, my friends, is commitment.)
"Do You Know What I Mean" Lee Michaels
This song recently came up the shuffle on my iPod and it confirmed something I have suspected for a long time: I am capable of homicide.
It’s a silly song about a guy who breaks up with his girlfriend and she starts dating his best friend.
Well.
There are only a few real, justifiable reasons for murder. For example, if someone r’s a loved one, you can totally murder that person (I use "r" because I’m not comfortable with the word "r@pe" ). If someone kills someone close to you, depending upon the circumstance, you might be able to murder that person, too.
But one thing that is certain: if your best friend starts dating and f’ing your ex, you can murder the best friend. I will pretty much betray my friends at every opportunity, but I don’t go after ex’s. I admit, I’m a little sensitive here – a buddy of mine hung out with one of my ex’s a few weekends ago in a completely non-sexual situation and when he told me about it I threw a stapler at him – but I don’t think I’m unreasonable.
There are crimes of passion, there is revenge, there is retribution – but some shit just needs to be taken care of, you know what I mean? And I believe this is what Lee is asking us. Yes, Lee, we know what you mean. And God bless you, you magnificent son of a bitch.
"I Just Want to See His Face" Rolling Stones
This songs holds two distinctions. First, it’s probably my favorite title of all-time, reeking of sadness, desperation, and pity (you know, kinda like me). Second, it doesn’t really have any lyrics and it’s sort of a loose jam session, so it’s my favorite song that doesn’t actually say anything intelligible (aside from the title and some other words here and there). It sounds like it was recorded at about 5am in a dark, smoke-filled studio while everyone had more drugs and/or alcohol in their bodies than blood.
If I write a movie, I’m getting this song in there somewhere. Supremely cool.
"New Amsterdam" Elvis Costello
Elvis Costello is hands-down (HD) by far my favorite artist, yet I hardly pimp his music on here. I suspect this is because I’m an EC snob; my first reaction would be to recommend something like a bonus track of the Rhino re-release of "Punch the Clock" ("Town Where Time Stood Still" – great song). But instead, let’s keep the training wheels on and start with this one. Quick story that may finally end all speculation about my sexuality: in college, I’d put this song on, turn the volume all the way up, run into our common room and start spinning around with my arms spread out, screaming "This is what love feels like! This is what love feels like!"
I really wish I were kidding.
"Echo Park" Joseph Arthur
Previously, I had resisted all attempts at Joseph Arthur. My buddy Jeremy is a big fan and has been for some time, but when other people rave about how great something is, it turns me off. Seeing as I’m a dick, my logic is, "Well, if it’s so great, I’d probably already know about, dick."
But like the Lee Michaels song, this song popped up on my iPod shuffle about two weeks ago when I was cleaning and I had to stop cleaning and sit down. The song is so wrenching, so sad, and so beautiful, that I immediately wept upon hearing it (as though it was written in D minor). I don’t want to say much more, because it’s truly a beautiful song, and anything I write will only, by association, make it uglier. So I’ll stop now.
"Look What Love Has Done" Chris Whitley
You probably haven’t heard of Chris Whitley and that’s a shame, since he’s responsible for some of the coolest music of the past few years. I don’t mean "cool" as is "awesome" or "great", but in the truest sense of the word cool: a little mysterious, a little indifferent, deep, exclusive, empowering.
(Well, I guess the truest sense of the word cool is "slightly warmer than cold," but you get it).
I’m not going to try to describe his sound, so just download the song and figure it out for yourself. Also, he’s dead now, so that makes it even more profound.
"You or Your Memory" The Mountain Goats
Geez, this song sounds eerily familiar; whenever I go to LA, I stay just off La Cienga, I also drink, and I also get sad. Only instead of "St. Joseph’s baby aspirin/Bartles & James/And you/Or your memory," my version would say, "$13 vodka/A bag of Doritos/And you/Or the cell phone pictures I took of you naked." So, so familiar.
"Tell Me Baby" Red Hot Chili Peppers
The new Chili Pepper’s album is a double disc and it’s taking me forever to get through it, but I noticed this song right off the bat. Sick bassline here, which I am making my mission to learn how to play. Unlike my previous mission, learning how to play Fleetwood Mac’s "Never Going Back Again," I will not fail with this one. The only problem is that I don’t know how to properly slap-and-pop while playing bass; instead of getting my fingers under the strings to pop, I use my knuckles to approximate the popping sound. So this might be a little difficult. But I’ll figure it out. Or probably not.
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The Drink Until You Shit Tour is going down this Saturday night in North Wildwood, NJ. If you are in the area and interested in attending, we are meeting at Casey’s on 3rd & New York around 7pm. We’ll be there about an hour or so and then carry on to the other North Wildwood bars.
I don’t expect many people to show up (meaning, many people to show up from this site that I don’t know), since North Wildwood is not exactly a bustling metropolis. But if I don’t know you personally and you plan on coming on DUYS, just a few pointers:
- Please don’t be weird or freak me out. I am painfully shy in person.
- If you want to start a debate about Philly sports, be prepared to be beaten.
- You don’t need anything and there are no drink specials. You only need to buy a t-shirt, which will not cost more than $20.
- You can not stay at my place.
- I am not getting in a fight for you.
- Again, don’t be weird. Please.
If you are coming or thinking of coming, please email me, as we’re trying to get a head count. And if you get there and feel weird, you don’t have to talk to me or any of my friends; you can just follow us around and watch me fail.
For the rest of you, many of you expressed interest in buying an official "Drink Until You Shit" t-shirts. We will put up any remaining t-shirts we have on sale here on the web, but I don’t think we’ll have any left (although the t-shirts are not my department; I just bring the star power).
Wish me luck. I hope it’s fun, since I’ve been looking forward to it for some time. Also, since I’m not really eating, I should get really drunk really quickly, so that will be nice.
[Have a good weekend.]
It’s raining like a bitch here in NYC. As much as I love living in Chilita (Chinatown/Little Italy), surrounded by 100,000 Chinese people and the stink of garbage from the restaurants, it’s absolutely breathtaking in the pouring rain. Loads of Chinese people frantically running for cover, the garbage getting wet and leaking into the streets – it’s a beautiful site, really. But you know how the old saying goes: "The only thing better than 100,000 Chinese people in a five-block radius is 100,000 wet Chinese people in a five-block radius."
I’m at work and completely soaked. There’s really no better way to start the day than arriving 30 minutes late to work, literally dripping from the rain (even though I had an umbrella). I just tried to cross my legs and my pants made a noise like a sponge being squeezed out. Yes, today is going to be a great day.
But there may be a silver lining: for those in the NYC area, I am pretty sure there is an article about me in today’s edition of a paper called The Irish Examiner. I can’t confirm this, because I haven’t seen it yet, nor do I know if the article is flattering or uses such words as "bigot," "hypocrite," and "crony" to describe me, but I was told it’d be in there today (and unfortunately, because of the rain, it doesn’t look like I’ll be leaving my office anytime soon, so I won’t be able to confirm or disconfirm this for some time). If you want, check it out.
I’ll hopefully get more later…I’m feeling more "disinterested" and "apathetic" than "productive" and "efficient" today, so if I can take some time away from staring at the backs of my hands, I’ll add a post later today.
(Of course, since I just wrote that, I’m going to get slammed with work today.)
(God, I love the rain.)
Death stinks.
My grandmom died last week. Suddenly. Which was pretty fucking terrible.
Long, miserable story short: early Monday morning, she fell. Not unusual, but not cool. She was taken to the hospital, but was acting strangely: speaking gibberish, being all spacey. By Monday night, they thought it was her gall bladder, which would need to be removed.
On Tuesday, her condition rapidly worsened. She had a heart attack during the night, starting bleeding internally – all sort of bad things. By the time the doctors figured out it was a blood infection, not her gall bladder or anything else, it was too late. She died on Tuesday night. I was on a train, stopped at Newark Penn Station, trying to rush home to Philly to say goodbye to her (even though she was in a coma at that point), when my sister called and told me.
Last week, I wrote a 3900 word post about the experience. But I couldn’t post it; it was just too personal and painful. There are many things that I’m willing to share with you all, down to the last nasty detail, but some things…no dice.
Basically, this sucked a lot. I was very close with my grandmom; my mom, brother, sister and I lived with her for almost three years when my parents were getting divorced when I was a kid.
I feel like I should say something eloquent and wonderful here, but another part of me screams, “Leave it alone.” I don’t feel right eulogizing anyone here among fat/poop/boob jokes, let alone someone so close to me.
But that doesn’t mean that I miss her any less, that I am any less sad, that I’m burying this experience. I am embracing her death, just like I did her life, but this is a personal experience. The good news is that I’m on it. The bad news is that I’m not gonna tell you about it.
Yet I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the astounding capacity to soldier on that my family displayed during the whole ordeal. Of course, much of the experience is blurry to me, since I was heavily medicated (justly so, for the first time ever), but I do remember how everyone pulled together for each other. I’ve mentioned before that the traditional Irish Catholic view of death is to celebrate the life lived and not the life lost, and we certainly acted upon that.
I only hope that when I die, there is more laughter than tears. I think that says a lot about the person who has passed, and I know my grandmother would have been happy with that.
She will be missed.
I am unqualified to write a eulogy.
My family, most of whom do not read this website, assume that I am a writer because I am writing a book.
Big mistake.
(For example, I have no idea if I used “most of whom” correctly there. I think I did, but I can’t say for sure.)
So when it can time to write the eulogy, my mom came to me and asked me to do it. I protested, asking if she was aware of “what I do” (namely, talking about getting drunk and waking up with pizza crushed into my pillows). She, and some other family members, responded, “Well, you’re a writer.” To which I responded, “Um, no I’m not.” Them: “Yes, you are.” Me: “No, you are wrong.” This went on for quite some time. It was all very adult.
A compromise was eventually reached: I would write the eulogy, but couldn’t give it. I knew that I had little chance of being able to stand in front of everyone and speak, since I’m very emotional (I’m a Cancer, after all). So my cousin Michael, the oldest of the grandkids, would give it. I’d take a crack at it, send it along to Mike, he’d edit it as he saw fit, and then give it.
The enormity of recapitulating a lifetime of someone dear was not lost on me. And by “was not lost on me,” I mean, “was completely and utterly suffocating and HOLY FUCKING SHIT.”
Thus began a roller coaster of emotions. I sat in my living room, alone on my couch, looking at a picture of my grandmom, my mood shifting between completely inconsolable, frustrated, laughing at my frustration, hunger, inconsolable again, begging for a lil’ help from my grandmom, hunger again, laughing at my hunger, more begging, inconsolable once more, and finally – finally – it came to me.
I didn’t have my computer (I’d left it in Philly, to where I’d return the next day), and I hate my handwriting so much that I find it stifling and impossible to “create” with, so I spoke the eulogy into my little digital tape recorder. Without having an idea of what to say, I turned it on, spoke straight through, and in five minutes, it was done.
(Big assist from grandmom on that one.)
The next morning, I sent it to my cousin Michael, who edited it, removing some of my stuff and adding much of his own. This was good, because I think it might have been a little too light for the occasion. For example, the part:
“I could go on and on about what a great person my Grandmom was, but I won’t. This isn’t because I’m drunk right now and can’t, but because everyone here knows what an incredible person she was. And I’m only a little drunk, Grandmom. No big deal.”
probably wouldn’t have gone over so well.
Michael then delivered it at the funeral with aplomb. All my life I’ve looked up to him as my older cousin, the one who actually talked to girls and was good at sports, but I can’t recall a time that I was more proud of him.
(And yes, I’m only saying that because I borrowed $600 from him last year and there’s no way I have that kind of cash to pay him back. Maybe this will hold him over for a while.)
I’ve aged ten years in the past ten days.
There’s a lot of weird stuff going on, and I think I might finally be having that quarter-life crisis I’ve been waiting for for so long. Sweet!
There are something like 15 grandkids in my family. I am the second oldest. However, it terms of maturity, I rank somewhere around 12th.
After the funeral, we had a luncheon. And as I looked around the room (when I wasn’t stuffing my face with the corner pieces of the cake, as they have the most frosting), I saw my cousins: some married, some with kids, all growing up, all maturing.
And then I thought about myself and what the fuck I’m doing and had one of those typical “What’s wrong with me?” moments: no wife, no kids, not even a girl that I’m sleeping with on a regular basis that I didn’t meet through MySpace, Craigslist, Friendster, this site, or my Fantasy Baseball league; while cousins around my age are fussing over babies, I’m at the bar, sticking (free) bottles of Amstel Light in my suit; I have a good job but nothing to show for it except for a few grand in credit card debt and a nice guitar because I spend all my money buying women Amstel Lights so that they’ll let me kiss their mouths and other secret places.
And it kinda freaked me out.
In addition, some other points:
– I’m growing my beard out and my hair is pretty long and messy and I look like a goddamn crazy person. I’m hoping to take care of this soon, but I can’t guarantee this.
– I’m on this weird, strict diet for no reason. Well, I want to lose maybe 20 pounds, so last Monday I started a diet. It took a setback when my grandmother passed and I was in Philly surrounded by all sorts of lovely foods, but since then I’ve stuck to it. I’m basically eating around 800 calories a day and burning off 500 at the gym. I’ve lost four pounds in the last two days. I actually already feel thinner, but I also feel like a goddamn crazy person: irritable, forgetful, extremely sexually aggressive (I guess the beard doesn’t help with any of this either).
– I can’t sleep. This isn’t uncommon, but after eating nothing and working out, I’m pretty exhausted. So it’s no good when I lie down in bed and wake up thirteen times during the course of the night.
– I’m becoming a recluse. I spent my 4th of July walking around Manhattan, listening to my iPod. No barbeques, no parties, no nothing – I don’t even think I spoke to another human being, aside from store employees that I bought bottles of water from on my walk. Again, goddamn crazy person.
– My birthday is coming up and it’s freaking me out. I’m not one to get worried about birthdays or anything like that, but this one legitimately concerns me. I’ll say this for a full post later on, but 27, well, that’s late-twenties. Late-fucking-twenties. Wow.
I assume, like a bout of diarrhea, this will pass – most likely when I’m down the shore this weekend, wearing a t-shirt that says, “Drink Until You Shit!” on it, trying to convince a woman I’ve just met to give me a beejer because “my name is on the shirt.” But as for right now, it stinks.
…
I’ve just read the post over and a) have no idea where it’s going; and b) no idea where to end it. See? I told you I wasn’t a writer.
Let’s just break here and let Uncle Jason get his shit together. But please, do not worry. Long-time readers know that I have been feuding off and on with God for many years now. Though He won a major battle this week, I have not yet begun to fight. As a matter of fact, I plan on unleashing such a torrent of sin over the next few weeks that I should have Him on the ropes by late August. Come hell or high-water, we are going to finish this.
Now I have to get sinning. As I write this, I’m coveting my neighbor’s wife. I’m also screaming the Lord’s name in vain (I don’t want to scream and write it – that’s kinda redundant). So that’s two sins at once. And it’s only just begun…
I apologize for being MIA for most of the week. Difficult family circumstances have kept me indisposed.
There will be no posting until, let’s say, Wednesday, July 5. Enjoy the long holiday weekend.
And send me some good vibes. I need ‘em.
If you are looking for a home in South Philly, particularly the
If you are interested, please email me and I can get you the full info and whatever you need to know about buying a house and stuff.
And like I said, I get a 3% finder’s fee (even though I haven’t told my buddy about this yet), so if you’re looking for a time to buy, now’s the time to do it. Please help make my summer better (and by “better” I mean filled with lavish gifts for myself).
(And I promise it will be more regular in the future – the hardest part was getting the list started. So if you haven’t signed up, do so now to get next month’s about the five biggest mistakes women make when giving blowjobs. As I said, these will never be posted on here. So sign up already.)
Aside from a month-long flirtation with vegetarianism, I love me some meat. I make no apologies for this. As I debated with my vegetarian friends, God put animals on earth so that we human beings could conquer, eat, and wear them. Don’t argue with me – it’s fucking nature, man.
[Though I say this, please don’t confuse me as some Ted Nugent-whacko – even thinking of hunting makes me cry. I like it when other people do the killing and I see the animal in a presentable and pretty form, like covered in mozzarella cheese and tomato sauce or with a side of potatoes au gratin and creamed spinach.]
In order to further celebrate my love for meat, I went to a barbeque in Brooklyn on Saturday. I don’t usually go to Brooklyn, but the promise of all that meat and flames and beer was just too much to resist. So I gathered myself, got on the subway (on a weekend!), and headed to the outer boroughs.
En route, I stopped at my former roommate Brian’s new place ("ex-roommate" is just too painful). When he moved out, he found a place in Brooklyn in Williamsburg. For those of you unfamiliar with Williamsburg, it is a place in New York City that you live in if a) you like bands that no one else has heard of; b) you love irony; c) you have tattoos and/or play an instrument; and most importantly d) you were picked on in high school.
But Brian’s little corner of Williamsburg does not belong to the hipsters, but rather to the people who stab the hipsters. His neighborhood is dotted with bodegas that intimidating looking Hispanic men, with their tattoos of Jesus and various names, stand outside of. Needless to say, ever since I was stabbed in the Puerto Rico Day Parade in 1996, I have an irrational fear of Latinos, so we basically saw Brian’s place (which is lovely) and high-tailed it over to the other part of Williamsburg.
The hosts of the barbeque, Greg and Amit, do not belong in Williamsburg. They wear polo shirts and button downs, some of them strange colors like yellow and pink. Their taste in music is, um, well I don’t know about their taste in music, but I’m guessing they’re not into Be Your Own Pet or Beirut or Tapes ‘n Tapes. They work respectable businessy type jobs and do not play instruments, direct, or graphically design. I would say that they are more suited for the Financial District, Murray Hill, or the Upper East Side. But they found a nice place in Williamsburg and that’s where they live.
Brian and I arrived at the barbeque, which was temporarily being held in Greg and Amit’s apartment because of the rain, after a solid twenty minute walk. We immediately headed into one of the bedrooms where Brian and I stayed, with five or so friends, until the food was served. This was pretty typical of us; refusing to meet new people, drinking beers in the coolest (read: most air conditioned) room in the house, waiting to eat. We are truly party animals.
With Greg manning the grill outside in the rain, hot dogs were soon shuttled up to the apartment. I’m always cautious about eating in front of people, probably because I’m fat and have a beard. For this reason, I try to eat secretly. Whenever I’m in a part setting, I constantly fear that a group of people is watching me eat and talking about me:
Guy in Group 1: "Hey, look at Fat Chops over there wolfing down the hot dogs."
Girl in Group 1: "Jesus, if he doesn’t slow down he’s going to cho-"
[Jason starts choking]
Guy in Group 2: "And he’s choking…"
Girl in Group 1: "Wow, he is really turning blue."
Guy in Group 1: "Yeah, but he’s still putting away those hot dogs."
Girl in Group 2: "Look, he’s fallen but he won’t take his hand away from the nachos!"
So when the first group of hot dogs came out, though I was hungry, I did not partake. I watched. And waited.
More hot dogs were followed by burgers. The rain stopped and the group went outside. Greg continued to grill. It was about time to strike.
I surveyed the room and determined that most of the people had eaten. Not only that, people were getting progressively drunken and playing drinking games and conversing – they were no longer standing around awkwardly, looking for people to make fun of (well, my friends and I were, but not the other people at the party). Satisfied with the current conditions, I grabbed a hot dog and a burger.
I huddled among my five or so friends who, as we are not interested in talking to others, were standing off to the side talking about a recent fantasy baseball trade I made (I gave up Kenny Rogers, Brett Myers, the closer for Pittsburgh, and Bill Hall for Manny Ramirez – score!). By the time the players involved in the trade were listed, I was done the burger. By the time my buddy Bob could say, "That trade stinks!", the hot dog was gone. And I was walking back for more.
I think that because I was never athletic or handsome or even very clean growing up, I get competitive and very serious about certain things. Of course, I can’t think of a good example right now (I’m in the midst of a Xanax hangover), but my stealth eating is one. I felt, in many ways, like a ninja closing in on his target or a tiger about to attack his prey. Simply put, I ate, quietly and quickly, three hot dogs and three burgers in under ten minutes – without even my circle of friends knowing. I’m not sure what satisfied me more – the juicy cheese-covered beef of those burgers and the pigeon, leather, and couch in those hot dogs or the fact that I was so secret, so smooth, and so gloriously fat.
The price I paid, of course, was severe indigestion and gastrointestinal discomfort. There were maybe 30 or 40 people at the barbeque, many of them women, and Greg and Amit’s apartment had only one bathroom. I have no problem pulling a stealth poo and have done so in the past in similar circumstances, but the fact that the bathroom was right in the kitchen area, where numerous people were congregating, was enough for me to take a deep breath, move some stuff around in the ol’ tummy, and plan for the future.
We stayed at Greg and Amit’s place for many hours (four? five? six?) until the beer ran out. By the time we left, I was feeling pretty good: drunk, full, and no longer suffering from shit pains. The bar would be a new and glorious chapter in the day/night, and I was looking forward to trying to kiss someone with my hot dog breath.
Then on the way to the bar, a discovery that changed everything: a White Castle was next to the bar.
White Castle is disgusting. The burgers are tiny and 60% of their composition is grease, which means the buns are like wet sponges. Walking in there makes one feel fatter by association. The whole thing is just gross. There is no defense for this, except that when drunk, there is nothing better than a sack of White Castles burgers.
(I realize that drunken love-making is probably better than a sack of burgers, but you have to write what you know, ok?)
The bar, which promised to be a fun time, immediately changed from a night of revelry and drinking to "When can I sneak out of here to go get some more burgers?" when the White Castle was discovered. You see, there is no White Castle in Manhattan. The only time I am privy to the drunken orgy that is White Castle is when I am either in Jersey or now, apparently, Brooklyn. This was a once-every-six-months opportunity. I was not about to pass it up.
So I hung at the bar, having some drinks, all the while biding my time. After a couple of pints, I pulled what my old roommate Brian calls an "Irish Exit": I told those I was standing with that I was going outside to make a call and went straight to the White Castle to grab some burgers then head home.
The great debate in the White Castle was between a six pack of burgers and a ten pack. Though I easily could have handled the ten pack, in a rare moment of self-restraint, I went with the six pack and a large Sprite (no caffeine so late at night).
I stumbled out of the White Castle, not so much because I was drunk but because I was happy, and luckily hailed a yellow cab heading back into Manhattan. By the time I was on the Williamsburg Bridge, I had eaten three of the six and had to convince myself to slow down – I wanted to enjoy the last three back at my apartment.
And enjoy I did. So delicately did I pull the greasy squishy squares out of their stained cardboard holders that it was like I was making love. Each bite, in my drunken/sensual state, was an experience. I was happy. Very happy.
After finishing the last one, I polished off the Sprite and laid down on my couch to enjoy some Heart videos of VH1 Classic. Then I woke up four hours later, a physical mess.
And truly, though I spent my Sunday consuming a concotion of Pepto, Nexium, and Gatorade, I have no complaints. There are no circumstances under which I will choose a night hanging out with friends over the promise of delicious meat. If this makes me a bad friend, which I’m pretty sure it does, I’m sorry. Don’t blame me – it’s just nature.
I was not able to access or receive any email while the site was down, which is probably a good thing since (I assume) it saved me from 600 "Dude, your site is down" emails. However, if you sent an email that was not related to the site being down, you must re-send it if you want me to read it.
Rest assured that the site will not be shut off for at least another year. And if you want to get an early start on birthday donations (my birthday is July 17 and like last year I will be begging you to show me love in the form of cash donations), click on the "make a donation" button on the right. My rent is due Saturday and there is nothing left in the couch cushions and I’d rather not spend this week selling my blood and semen.
(Not that I have a problem with selling my blood and semen, but I have a lot going on this week and don’t have the time. And they don’t let you do it at home and bring it in. Which sucks.)
I fought a major bout with insomnia last night. And I lost. Big time.
I’m used to such sleeping struggles, but I usually have a little warning. I realize that when I’m stressed about something during the day, this stress will only be amplified when the lights go out. Sometimes I still manage to fall asleep. Sometimes I do not.
Last night, I had no warning. I had a leisurely night, a couple of beers, and went to bed at a reasonable time. But then I kept tossing and turning. And tossing and turning some more. Only then did the worrying start.
It starts reasonably enough. I’ll think to myself, "Hmmm…let’s see. Rent is due on the first, and that’s $xxxx. But in my checking account, I only have $yy. So I looks like I have to come up with $zzz in the next eight days. I can live on one kidney, right? If not, even though my semen is all broken and dead, I can probably still sell it for half price. I think."
But before I know it, my worries spiral out of control. It’ll go from money to work to women to loneliness to things like, "Oh my god - IRAN! Those guys are crazy! What are we going to do about IRAN! Wait a minute! It’s supposed to rain tomorrow! And I don’t have an umbrella! Fuck! What am I going to do about Iran and my umbrella situation! Shit!"
And so it went for me until the sun came up. I beat off to relieve the tension, but that didn’t work. I took not one but two "calming" showers to try to ease myself into sleep, but they didn’t work either. Finally, at 5:45 this morning I started getting ready for work (I usually wake up at 8am). I did everything but get dressed, then fucked around, watched TV, hung out. Then I decided to go back to bed at around 7:45. Naturally, I slept the sleep of the dead and woke up to my alarm at 8:30. Getting out of bed at that time was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done; I can’t imagine childbirth is much harder.
When I have a night like this, I’ll usually call in sick and spend the day sleeping. However, I called in sick only a few weeks ago (for a legit reason) and had a bunch of work to do today, so I’m in the office. I’ve been a zombie all day long, staring at the clock in the lower right corner of my computer screen. I imagine my co-workers think I’m on painkillers. Maybe the more street-savvy ones think H is my drug of choice. One drug I have not had today is caffeine, because I’m going to go home, eat dinner, take two Xanax and drink a glass of wine, and sleep for 14 hours – and I don’t want caffeine to mess that up for me. I had plans tonight, but I’m canceling them. I’m beat. Uncle Jason needs a night to himself.
And so I write you this post not out of my desire to entertain you, the impulse from which all other posts are borne, but rather to help me pass the time. I clarify this because I just read this post over and it sucks. I’m sorry about this. But not too sorry, since I’ve totally just killed about eight minutes writing this.
Now I have to get back to wallowing in the depression and irritation and insecurity that goes hand in hand with insomnia. But it’s almost four o’clock. Sweet Xanax, you will be mine shortly.
I don’t want to hype it up too much. My whole philosophy in life is that you should manipulate those around you to expect nothing or the worst, so that when they get even a lil’ somethin’ somethin’, they are more than pleasantly surprised. Rarely are high expectations met or exceeded. So when I constantly refer to my penis as a light switch, wine cork, hershey kiss, or acorn and one of my vict-, I mean, ladies sees my bird, she’s happy that it’s not as small as she was expecting (close, but not quite). Though I guess it doesn’t really matter, since by the time by bird comes out she’s usually so drunk she can’t see it pressed up against her bedroom window anyway.
Regardless, this is a dynamite show. I tivo’ed the first episode and watched it just before the second aired last week (it’s on Wednesdays at 10:30pm) and was blown away. Pretty much every guy I know lists "Anchorman" as one of his top ten favorites movies. Likewise, every man, woman, and child I know lists "Ali G" as one of their top five favorite TV shows.
While it’s not as good as either of those (c’mon – how can it be?), it has elements of both (remember, don’t want high expectations). For those unfamiliar with the premise, at the beginning of the show it states that a documentary crew followed around a news team to see how news is made. Now while the news team (the reporter, director, producer, and PA) are actors, the subjects of their news reports are real people. For example, in the second episode the news team sits for a seminar on racial sensitivity, given to them by an unsuspecting expert on the subject. They proceed to toy with him, asking ridiculous questions, leading to embarrassing moments. My favorite question during the seminar came from the producer, Tilly (who is smoking hot in an "angry bitch" type of way), who asked if she was racist because she had a dream in which she was having sex with a black man and he had a stereotypical large penis, but then during the dream she learned that he was the Dean of Harvard Law School, hopefully evening out her racism. Just absolutely gloriously retarded.
I can’t really do it justice on here because the beauty of the show is in its improvisation and dangerous jokes and I don’t want to give any more away, but please, watch this show. There are a lot of TV shows that suck that stay on television because assholes keep watching them. Rare is the TV comedy that is legitimately, laugh out loud funny. This is one of them. You will like it.
I look forward to getting your "Thank you" emails tomorrow. And I need some, after the beating I took over the "engagement."
People, I don’t know if you read Monday’s post or just skimmed it. Or maybe you read the whole thing, but not very critically (and by ”not very critically,” I mean ”not while sober”). If you had read the whole post (sober) and processed it (again, sober), you’d realize that I am not, in fact, engaged.
I thought that this was pretty obvious when I wrote the thing. But maybe I’ve been doing this too long and didn’t realize the confusion and wrath (more on these later) that this would set off.
First, let me give you a summary of the end of the post, which I feel many people overlooked:
My fiancée is a Mexico-type woman who works (or worked) at Ranch 1. We met at the restaurant where she served me bad chicken that gave me dysentery. After that, she visited me in the hospital and gave me a handjob. We didn’t speak for years but met up after I answered an ad that she had placed on a sex site looking for gangbang participants. We began dating, and I proposed to her in the parking lot of a 99. Also she has a retarded son.
Now, again, maybe it’s me, but I thought it was rather clear that I was playing around. I wrote it, posted it, and didn’t think twice about it. The first email response I got came shortly after the post went up. The subject of the email was ”I get your post!” from a dude saying he picked up on the sarcasm and thought it was one of my best posts in some time. It made me happy.
But then things started getting weird in the email inbox. I got an email from my friend’s cousin, who I met for the first time just last weekend, congratulating me on the engagement. This struck me as strange, because at the time I met this guy I was walking around the bar with two Miller Lites telling women that I go to dental school. Weird, but whatever.
The next time I checked my inbox, it was filled with emails that ran the gamut from “Are you fucking serious?” to “Congratulations!” to “You lying scumbag sack of shit!” Again, very surprising to me. Here’s a sampling of emails I’ve received since my ”engagement” post went up (names have been withheld so that people don’t hurt me):
Congrats on your engagement announcement. Seriously. We’ve all known you’ve been lying to us one way or another since you started this blog. We let it slide, though, because it made us all feel a little better after reading about some pathetic fat drunk in NYC. So why the truth now? We all know wrestling is fake, but we don’t see them ruining it for us after each match telling us that it was all scripted. How would you feel!?!? Imagine that then multiply that by infinity and that is how I feel. Thanks pal.*************************************
Jason,
Long time reader, third-time emailer. Blah Blah Etc. (fyi: my first email was about Country Crock Mac & Cheese and the second was about your reference to Fascism)
Um, I’m sure you were expecting a high number of emails from the latest post (“an end, a beginning†June 16, 2006) so I’m hoping you’ll address this in a future post. I’m writing to share my thoughts on the fact you’re getting married. Reading that post today, I immediately thought you were joking. And as it became more and more clear that you weren’t joking, my disposition went from mildly confused to absolute rage.Why the rage? Well, to understand how I would be mad about you getting married you have to understand why I (and likely dozens of other people) read your site. It’s funny and true. It’s actually only funny *because* it is mostly true. I find it hilarious that you’re hairy, fat and rarely have your penis touched by a woman. So to find out that you actually have had your penis touched by a women really kinda sucks. (I understand this logic is fucked).
Sure, I’m happy you’re getting married. Just like I’m happy you’re not dead. I mean, it would suck to never have your dick touched by a female and die lonely and single. And likewise it would suck for me to not have something funny to read on Mondays. But here’s the rub: I only read your site because it’s true. There is plenty of fiction and bullshit web sites I could peruse to entertain myself. So stick to the facts. You’re funny enough to make getting married funny. There’s really no need to keep up a false premise and mislead your readers.
To find out you’ve been dating and engaged to a women and subsequently having your penis handled by someone that wasn’t actually homeless (“Stacey†isn’t homeless is she?) is like finding out Maddox is a girl. Or Tucker Max has made up all his stories (which he probably has). I guess my point is this: I am offended by being misled. (of couse, I’m offended in a “I could really care less since this is all really pointless in the great big scheme of things†sort of way.) So I hope this new development will mark a new stage of this site. Wherein you’ll start writing about how horrible married life is. Or how great it is to cheat on your fiance with…well, that’s unlikely. Anyway, I guess I don’t really have a serious point. Just fucking shocked. Happy for you. And looking forward to whatever bullshit you’ll be writing about now.
Congrats on the marriage. Don’t fuck it up.
*************************************
Engaged? Seriously? Congratulations… but you do realize you’re saying goodbye to any and all credibility. All those stories about being alone and miserable were lies? Shame on you. Shame, shame on you, sir. How dare you hide behind your sad fat guy facade while, in actuality, you were out hooking up with real, live women?
What comes next? Posts about your wedding, your married bliss, and then what? I’m telling you right now, at the first story about your son’s potty training experiences, I’m out the fucking door. For examples, see any of the past 400 posts on nealpollack.com.
Fucker.
*************************************
Traitor,So this marks the end of a great blog, and my only happy refuge from my daily misery. Your blog made me feel loved, that I am not alone, and much less sad. Can you keep up the quality now that you’ve assumedly achieved some semblance of happiness and in the process have lost your edge / hunger? I doubt it.
Just remember one thing: women are the ultimate dream killers.
Good luck.
*************************************
I don’t think I’ve ever been so irritated at a blog before that I’ve been compelled to write in.
Seriously? You’re engaged?
You should have waited until your book came out. It’s going to kill your sales. People don’t want to read about a happy person pretending to be miserable.
It’s not fun and it’s really not cool.
*************************************
My wife is a fan of your site. She read about your upcoming marriage and went to the Crate and Barrel website to get you a gift. Your not registered. I told her you were full of shit. She said you wouldnt lie about something like this. Again I said bullshit. So now we have a bet. She is claiming that you just havent registered yet. Im claiming your full of shit. One week from today if you still have nothing registered at Crate and Barrel she owes me 5 blowjobs. If she is right and you are registered then I owe her a very expensive necklace.*************************************
Again, this is just a small sampling that covers the range of opinions. The majority of emails said “WHAT THE FUCK???” and “You suck.” So that was nice.But I would like to officially go on record right now to say that I am not engaged. Like I said yesterday, c’mon people. Really? Did you really think that I was engaged, after all we’ve been through? You’d think I’d just blindside you with something like that? Sheesh. Give me a little more credit than that. I thought we were friends?
I confess though, I thought I’d get a little bit of a rise out of you when I wrote that, but I didn’t think that so many of you would actually believe it. I realize that the issue was that you thought I was serious about being engaged but not serious about the circumstances that ”Stacey” and I met, and you have a point. But still…I honestly never thought it would cause such a big to-do. Three of my college friends who I saw at my reunion less than three weeks ago emailed congratulations and wondered why I didn’t mention my future fiancee to them. A co-worker called me in my office because his friend in Chicago who reads the site wanted to know the truth. A friend of an ex-girlfriend called her and left a message asking if she was OK about me being engaged (the ex told me this; I don’t know the friend).I mean, am I that good of a liar? In sooth, I apologize if I have caused you any anger or whatnot over this. I was just playing. Because I’m a player. A player who is not engaged.
I guess I can’t fully prove to you that I’m not actually engaged. I hope that now that I’ve explained myself and you’ve thought about it, you’ll believe me. But if not, I have a back-up plan. I’m going to pull a Costanza and invite those non-believers to test me (“You wanna go? Let’s go! Right now!”). I am in NYC all weekend. Friday, I’m to start boozing right after work. Saturday, I have a BBQ and should be pretty blitzed by about
7pm. If you’d like to test my engaged status with a make out session that will leave you feeling less like a woman than you ever have before, please send two pictures, a phone number, and your location for Friday and Saturday night. I’ll show you how unengaged I am.(Hey, that last emailer is getting five blowjobs out of this – I should at least get my knob rubbed.)
As previously mentioned, the 8th Annual “Drink Until You Shit” tour will be held in North Wildwood, NJ on July 8. Location and start time will be provided later, but if you are interested in going, please email me and put “drink until you shit” in the subject line (or something similar to it). We are ordering the t-shirts and need to get a head count, so to prevent an email volley, please include the number of people/shirts and sizes. I don’t expect any of you to come, since it’s in a random Jersey shore town, but that’s ok. As long as I have booze, I can deal with loss.
Also, I’m not engaged. C’mon, people – let’s use some sense here. More on this later.
Well, it’s official. My run as one of the 50 Hottest Bachelors in
Start collecting old clothes and blankets. I’ve begun my descent on the slippery slope of desperation that will lead me to homelessness. The good news is that I’m going to be an awesome homeless guy (bearded, perverted, no control of bladder, etc). The bad news is that I’m not going to have a home. Which sucks.
I don’t know if I mentioned this to you guys, but last year I was named one of People magazine’s “50 Hottest Bachelors.” If you don’t believe, you can go here. Although don’t ask me to show you the magazine in person. For some reason, I bought a total of two copies of the issue. You know, not because it was a big deal or anything.
Today, the 2006 “Hottest Bachelors” issue was released and features such sexy men as Matthew McConaughey, Owen Wilson, Wentworth Miller, and Ryan Seacrest (apparently heterosexuality is not a requirement). These men are undoubtedly hot. And also bachelors. I guess that’s all it fucking takes to get in the issue nowadays.
Yet as I flipped through the pages, I realized that there was something more required. There’s a little something extra that separates these guys from the estimated 60 million single men in
These guys have not just looks, but also talent, money, and power. This make them hot. But what makes the most hot is that you can’t get them. They are entirely out of your league. Everywhere where they go, they are fawned over by woman and aggressive homosexual men. They can literally have their pick of any woman they want. And they don’t want you.
But I do. And this is why, without a doubt, I am the shittiest hottest bachelor ever. If you email me a picture and you are halfway decent, I will come to you in a shirt of hair, with a bottle of cheap wine and some Taco Bell, and, after we chew some Juicy Fruit, we will have awkward (but unforgettable) sex on your living room couch. You don’t even have to be halfway decent - just catch me on MySpace at the right time of night, live within cab distance of my apartment, and I am yours for the evening. We can make memories together (and possibly slow and chubby babies).
One year later, there is still no reasonable explanation why I was even in the magazine in the first place. It was complete and blind luck. Not only was I in the magazine, but I was actually the 8th ranked bachelor. I know that the issue didn’t give rankings to the bachelors, but only eight of us got full page spreads (Colin Ferrell, Jake Gyllenhaal, Usher, Hayden Christensen, Jesse Metcalfe, John Stamos, Bradley Cooper, and, um, me).
You’re probably thinking to yourself, or perhaps even saying it out loud if no one else is around or you’re in the bathroom, “Well Jason, if you were, as you claim, the 8th ranked hottest bachelor in America last year, why aren’t you in the issue again this year? Was there a particular incident or enormous weight gain that dropped you from 8 to 50+ [my last ranking was actually 74]?”
Well, actually, I was contacted by People again to be in this year’s issue. Apparently, they were flooded with mail that said all sorts of positive things, like “Thanks for putting in Jason Mulgrew – he’s great” and “You guys know he once beat up a cop, right? Or was it a priest?” and “What’s a blog?”
But I had to turn it down. You see, now I am unattainable, but it’s because I’m not a bachelor. Because [everybody shut up because here comes a big announcement] I am engaged.
Seriously.
I’ve been keeping this from you for long enough, but it’s just getting silly. I am engaged and am to be married next September.
My fiancée’s name is Stacey. And she is great. That’s all I’ll say about her, because if there is one rule here at jasonmulgrew.com, it’s that the only person that can be dragged through the mud on this site is me. Well, and Site Guy Brendan. And a bunch of my ex-girlfriends. And the blacks. Sheesh, how could I have forgotten the blacks?
(And the poors. Definitely the poors, too.)
Also, I don’t know why she agreed to marry me, but I would say that this agreement is tenuous at best. I don’t want to give her any ammunition or reason to break up with me, since this is pretty much the only chance I have at sober procreation.
(See? I think that might have even been too much.)
You’re probably surprised by this announcement and I don’t blame you. I know I portray myself as constantly striking out with women, but c’mon – this blog has been going on for over two years. Do you really think that I haven’t gotten laid in 28 months? Really? I mean, I know I’m bad, but I’m not that bad. Hell, I was one of People’s 50 Hottest Bachelors last year! So therefore it’s not my fault if you’re shocked by this, even though I’ve repeatedly fudged the truth, but your fault for being so naive (I even tried to lessen the blow for you with my last post about getting married).
I guess that I should tell you how Stacey and I met. We’ve actually been friends for years, but only started dating about a year ago. I met her when I moved to NYC; she had just moved as well. I was working as a legal assistant at the law firm I currently work at (albeit in a different capacity), and she had started a job at a local restaurant. This first time we met, at the restaurant, she was my server. Shorlty after I saw her in her Ranch 1 uniform, I felt something like I never had before: a fire that started in the pit of my stomach and spread up to my mouth and through my whole body like a fever. Turns out I had contracted dysentery from eating bad chicken, so it actually was a fever (and also severe pain and diarrhea).
Feeling bad that she served me bad chicken, Stacey, which is not her real name but the name I call her by since I can’t pronounce her Mexico-type real name, came to vist me in the hospital. She jerked me off. I didn’t see her again for four years.
Last year, I was on adultfriendfinder.com and answered an ad seeking guys for a gang bang. Long story short, it was Stacey. Since the gang bang - which was lovely - Stacey and I have been inseparable. I took her and her son Sneakers (he is a little slow and only says “Sneakers” over and over again) out to dinner for Mother’s Day and proposed to her, right there in the parking lot of the 99. She cried. I cried. Sneakers said something about sneakers. It was magic. We are going to be very, very happy together.
So there you have it. I am tired of living a lie and feel much better now that you all know and can share in my joy. And you also know why I’m not in this year’s issue of the “50 Hottest Bachelors.” I can no longer hide my love for Stacey.
Of course, you will all be invited to the wedding. Please save the date: