deadline = deadbeat
Jason posted on January 31, 2006

No blog posts this week, though I might be able to churn one out for you on Friday.  I am sorry about this, but I have a major, major deadline that I’m working toward tomorrow, which may extend into Thursday (though I hope not).  Then I’m off to Seattle on Thursday night, returning to NYC on the following Tuesday.  So it’s possible that you may not hear from me until Wednesday, February 8.

But hear me out!  We have some big things in the works here, so I ask for your patience.  The blog will be back in full swing on February 13, when I return to work.  This is not because I write the blog at work (Hi, Mr. Employer!), but because I will once again have some sort of regularity and routine to my life (and my big deadline will have passed).  This laying around all day, masturbating to the same fucking porn clips, and not seeing any other people for days at a time stuff is stifling my creativity (at least blog-wise). 

So give me some freedom on the last few days of unemployment.  If it’s any consolation, I promise that I’m gathering a store of, um, stories to share when I do start blogging regularly, and in no time you’ll be reading again about how much I suck.  And, let me tell you something, if I’m learning anything from this whole “deadline” thing, it’s that I truly do suck.

Actually, and maybe this is the masochist in me, but I’ve forgotten how exhilarating working under a deadline can be.  Sure, I have deadlines at work and stuff, but c’mon – who takes their job seriously?  I learned in college that I can work under pressure, but even then I didn’t care so much about the Popish Plot or how the health(s) of Woodrow Wilson and FDR affected their policy decisions in WWI and WWII, respectively.  No, my focus was more on, “Nicole’s friend is coming up to visit this weekend and I am totally going to get her shirt off.”   

And in college, papers had a page requirement that I was obsessed with: under any circumstances, even if I had to write the same sentence two or three times in a row, I was getting that fucking paper to seven pages.  You can take that to the bank, Professor Bitch!  Now give me my B, B-, or B+ already so I can go to take some Stackers and get fucked up at MaryAnn’s! 

But this writing a) I actually care about; and b) I can not force.  Sure, I have certain requirements as to length, but that’s not an issue (I’m never at a loss for words when it comes to writing about jerking off in the shower).  The major issue is making it as “good” as I can.  And you can’t force that; you’re either feeling it or you ain’t.  And this bothers me.  I guess this is what “responsibility” is.  I figured I would have to learn about this someday, but I was hoping I’d do so after death.  Oh well.  Still, there’s something to be said for sitting in front of a computer from 10pm until 5am, debating with yourself, “So, should I use ‘poo’ or ‘poop’ here?  I like the brevity of ‘poo’, but I like the extra umph that ‘poop’ gives you.  God, my parents must be proud.” 

Anyway, I’m rambling here.  Again, I apologize for my lack of posting.  But I won’t apologize too much, because pretty soon I’m going to rock your fucking world.  So for now, send me your disdain, and I will accept it.  But also send me some good vibrations, because I need those also.  (And know that I’m thinking of you quite often – this hasn’t been easy for me either.)  Until then, godspeed, and we will speak soon. 

[Wish me luck on my flight to Seattle.  Six and a half hours!  This better be worth it.  But I feel like my old roommate Ben and I are just going to spend 96 straight hours drinking cheap beer and ordering diner food for delivery in his apartment.]

[Actually, that sounds kinda good and would be worth it.  God, I am so easy to please.  Except for all the weird sexual stuff I'm into, what with the blood and biting and feces and all.  Moving on…]

[And if I die in a plane crash, know that I will be satisfied that one of the last sentences I wrote on here ended with "blood and biting and feces."  If it's my time, I'm ready.]

a falsity, a stupid award, an awkward wedding moment, a trip, a shout-out, the Aussies, a vote, music
Jason posted on January 26, 2006

It has come to my attention that based on Tuesday’s post, many of you believe that I had sex with a man on Friday night.  I assure you this is not true.

I relayed a story that I shouldn’t have and immediately after posting it, took it down.  In place of this story, I wrote “[Confidential Material Redacted].”  One of the major fucking problems with this blog is that too many people read it.  Because of this, there is a lot of shit that happens that I can’t really write about, as it would be too detrimental to my friends, family, and relationships.  In this case, I wrote something detrimental and had to quickly take it down, much to my chagrin.  However, I left the quote up because I thought it was funny – not because I said it and did it – without realizing the implications it might have (my first clue came from an email from a gay friend entitled, “So you ARE gay!”).  I promise that now more than ever I am a semi-normal heterosexual male.  Tomorrow, later tonight, when I check out this ookie cookie clip I’m downloading when it finishes – who knows? – but right now I am 100% heterosexual. 

Thank you for your understanding.  I promise that eventually I will alienate every person close to me (probably sooner rather than later) and at that point I will release a book titled, “Jason Mulgrew: Shit I Couldn’t Write About Because I Was Trying To Be A Good Friend Or Just Trying To Get Laid – But Seriously, Do You Want To Fool Around Or What?”  I’ll keep you posted.        

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As I predicted, I didn’t get a nomination for any Bloggie.  I am ok with this.  All the blogs nominated for “Most Humorous” are very funny and also have development deals with major networks to create a television show based on their blogs and lives.  Oh wait – NO other blogger has that, just me.  Sorry.  I forgot about that. 

But seriously folks, vote for Michelle Collins’ blog, which is actually funny.  Not that it really matters.  It’s just a stupid award.

(Did I mention that the director of “E.T.” signs my checks?  Yeah.  Just thought I’d throw that out there.) 

(And yeah, I should have warned you to back away from the computer screen before reading this, lest you get hit with any venom.  Sorry about that.)

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Great email from Alan in Milwaukee about an, um, uncomfortable wedding moment.

Your post about inappropriate wedding songs reminded me of some that I had to play when I was a wedding DJ in the 90s.

The first couple, I’m guessing Top Gun fans, requested, as their bridal dance “You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feeling” by the Righteous Brothers.

When I suggested the incongruity of the lyrics to them, they shot me a look like I had offered to date their 6 year old page boy, so I let it slide.

The second couple asked for “Just The Way You Are” by Barry White. So far, so good you might think. Unfortunately, the bride had been in a car crash that had left her a little brain damaged. Was I being oversensitive in thinking this was the musical equivalent of a huge neon sign that said “look at my spaz wife”?

I’m assuming that Alan had a brainfart, because Billy Joel sings “Just The Way You Are.”  Aside from that, I don’t really know what to say about this.  But I’m letting you all know that I’m totally stealing this scene and putting into whatever the hell I’m writing.  And for this I’m definitely going to hell. 

(Among other things, of course.) 

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No trip to DC this weekend, but it appears that I will be in Seattle from February 1 (or February 2) through February 7.  I am doing this because I would like to be in a city that wins a championship at least once in my life.  When I moved to NYC in 2001, the Yankees were a dynasty.  They haven’t won since I’ve been here.  When I left Boston that same year, their teams were perennial losers.  How does three Pats Super Bowls and an improbable Red Sox championship sound?  Mulgrew-less.  And of course, any Philly team hasn’t won in forever (1983). 

(Translation: bet big on the Steelers.)

So since I have friends in Seattle, I’m heading there for the Super Bowl.  And since I will be reunited with my old roommate Ben, I have alerted all the bars and all-night diners in the greater Seattle area.  Because it is going to get downright ugly. 

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By request and out of admiration for some real men, a big shout-out to Wade and the Cherry Hill N.J. Firefighters.  I know you sick fucks are reading and I’d like to thank you for doing something every day that I could never, ever do.  I had to help my dad change his car battery last night and he almost had a fucking heart attack when I couldn’t even open the hood of his truck, and you guys are slaying fire on a daily basis.  Props, props, and more props.    

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The Aussies really got up in arms over my inclusion of Pearl Jam’s “Throw Your Arms Around Me” in last week’s “Six Songs.”  Stilt in Sydney puts it best:

Pearl Jam’s version is a cover - if you want to hear the original (and better) version, it’s by a band called Hunters and Collectors. This song is burned into the collective memory of all Australians of a certain age (say, 25 - 40) as something of a mating call / top-notch rooting* song. It can be heard sung globally wherever the sweet combination of Australians + beer + lust can be found.

Whatever you do, don’t download the Paul McDermott cover version - it’s four kinds of ghey.

* I’m not talking about cheering for a sports team.

And I have to agree with him – the Hunters and Collectors version is indeed better.  And I’m totally going to using the word “rooting” for “fucking” (i.e. “Wanna go back to my place and do some serious rooting on the stairwell?” or “So I was rooting this chick and she fucking died – right there in the passenger seat of the garbage truck!”). 

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Vote for Hey Tiger.  Don’t ask questions, just do it.  Thank you.

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Six Songs

“I Got You”  Stone Temple Pilots

Probably the best song about drug addiction by Stone Temple Pilots.  I know that’s a strong statement, but I’m sticking to it.    

“I’m Waiting For The Day”  The Beach Boys

Look, if you don’t own Pet Sounds, send me an email and I will buy it for you.  Douchebags who like music will go on and on about ten or twenty or thirty albums that any music fan absolutely must own, but to me there are only six such albums: Pet Sounds, The White Album, Led Zeppelin II, Thriller, Appetite for Destruction, Nevermind.  If you have these six, you have a pretty good idea of what all other popular music sounds like from the past forty years (any my apologies for my white rock bias; I am white and I doth rock). 

It’s hard to explain my affinity for this track.  I like it because I think it sounds more quintessentially “Beach Boys” than any other song they’ve done, but it’s not a hit.  And it’s not about surfing or cars or other shit (though nothing on Pet Sounds is, save for maybe “Sloop John B”) – it’s about loving a girl who’s still in love with her ex.  Just a solid A+ song.       

(Now to make up for my white rock bias…)

“Dip-Set Forever”  Cam’ron

Oh, Cam’ron – feuding with Jay-Z?  Really?  You realize that Jay-Z is a great rapper and you stink, right?  What’s so particularly frustrating about Cam’ron is that Kanye and Co. give him some incredible beats that he squanders with the dumbest rhymes in rap (possibly even the worst rhymes in rap history – I’m in no way qualified to make this statement, but I can’t imagine much worse).  It’s to the point that I’ll listen to his songs and just shake my head, thinking, “What the fuck is he talking about?  I mean, I’m white and all, but I think I usually have some idea of what rappers are talking about.  Is he retarded or just really, really dumb?”    

This song is no exception and possibly the most egregious example of the awesome beats + shitty rhymes.  I am a 200+ pound white Irish Catholic guy with a beard who has never held a gun, has no sense of style, and even less of an idea how to please a woman, but if you gave me this beat I am about 95% sure I could come up with some better rhymes than Cam’ron has.  Let’s listen in, shall we?

Top a top on top of the top
But yo - nothing definite
I chop up the rocks
And I stop up the drop
Blocka Blocka the block
Hello mate, yellow tape, helicopter your spot
What you wanted is not what you got
And I pop up them cops
Cause dogg, it ain’t about Cam (It ain’t about me)
I got a son homeboy, it’s about Cam (For that?)
It’s about being ‘bout It
If you’re not, you’re ass backwards

Um, come again?  Again, I realize that one shouldn’t look to rap lyrics for divine inspiration, but “Top a top on top of the top?”  Can anyone explain this to me?

Anyway, it’s a good beat, so I’ll keep listening to it and just freestyling my own lyrics.  I’m actually quite a good rapper.  Add that to my resume, bitch.   

“Stay With Me”  Rod Stewart and the Small Faces

My roommate Brian and I recently had a discussion: what musician do you think had the most sex in the 70’s and the 80’s?  My original answer was Ted Nugent.  The logic was that though he wasn’t an A-list rock star, any rock star can pretty much get all the sex they want (the quality may differ, but the quantity will be there).  So then it comes down to who wants the sex the most.  For example, I have very little interest in the physical act of love.  This is probably because I’m addicted to porn and also (not-so) secretly deeply misogynistic, but it works out since I don’t get laid much.  But Ted Nugent, on the other hand, was addicted to sex.  So I went with Ted Nugent.

But then I remembered Sir Rod Stewart.  NOBODY gets more p-ssy (I don’t use that word outside of the bedroom) than Sir Rod, and this song is the perfect example why.  From the man who said of marriage, “Instead of getting married again, I’m just going to go up to a woman I hate and give her a house,” we have “Stay With Me” and this lyrical gem:   

So in the morning

Please don’t say you love me

‘Cause you know I’ll only kick you out the door

Yeah, I’ll pay your cab fare home

You can even use my best cologne

Just don’t be here in the morning when I wake up

Fuck yeah, Rod.  Fuck yeah.  That doesn’t even really rhyme and it’s still totally fucking awesome. 

[Remember, the song is called "Stay With Me", which basically means Rod's pleading with a chick to come home/stay with him, but then after he gets his nut off, to get the fuck out.  Geez – even I want to fuck him now.  Not that that's saying much, but still.]

If you can put this song on and not strut around your living room like you’re the cock of the walk, you are a better man than I.  Kudos to you, Sir Rod, you magnificent son of a bitch.           

“There Is An End”  The Greenhornes (with Holly Golightly)

Some reader whose name nor email I can find introduced me to the Greenhornes, like the Black Keys, an Ohio band.  They are spectacular and I am very grateful to this person.  This sound like they are from 1967 (listen also to ten seconds of “Don’t Come Running To Me” and you’ll see why).  That’s the only way I can explain their sound really, and if you listen to their stuff, you’ll agree.  “There Is An End” has a dark, spacey sound to it – the ideal song to have a drug flashback to.  After hearing it, I immediately moved it to my “The Soundtrack” playlist, which is a list of songs I listen to while changing TV/movie/literary history forever and creating some of the finest humor the world has ever (or rather, will ever) see(n).  Then I usually get high and listen to this and feel warm.  Check it out for yourself.    

“Elizabeth, You Were Born To Play That Part”  Ryan Adams

Jesus fucking Christ.  This guy’s music should come with a warning label:

“If you are heartbroken, have recently been dumped, divorced or separated; if are lonely because you are overweight and/or ugly; if you are confused because you are in love with someone’s else lover; or if you are sad because you are gaining more and more weight and are worried that you might actually expire the next time you have sex (if you have sex ever again); do NOT listen to this album.  Seriously.  It will fuck you up.”

This song is not for the faint of heart.  After listening to it, I have only one thought: who is this woman doing this to you, Ryan?  What kind of harpie must she be to cause you such pain?  Please tell me her name and I will find her and hurt her physically for the pain she has caused you emotionally.  I haven’t hit a woman in over six weeks now, but I’m willing to put aside that streak to make you feel better.  Drop me a line at jason@jasonmulgrew.com.

(Translation: an incredible piece of music.  This guy is a stone cold genius.  I want to be his friend.)

three weekend vignettes (not really)
Jason posted on January 24, 2006

It is obvious that I am trying to do as much damage as possible to myself and my body before I go back to work. 

As many of y’all know, I have been off from my regular job working on my projects (namely this and something else).  I go back to work full-time on February 13.  This will be a sad, sad day for me.   

As February 13 approaches, I have been really stepping it up in the “bender” department.  I have become nocturnal, regularly going to sleep each night around 5am, and only with the help of at least a half dozen PBRs and at least one Xanax.  But my opportunities for mischief are limited during the week because my friends actually work and so can’t go out on a Tuesday night until 3am (suckers).

So it is the weekend when I really fly off the handle.  And each weekend seems to get worse and worse.  Let’s break this past one down:

• Thursday night I was in Philly.  The night ended with me smoking a joint in my buddy’s car at 5am in the parking lot of a Toys R Us, after consuming (conservatively) two dozen broccoli cheese puffs at an all-night diner.  We went to a local bar that night with the original intention of “taking it easy.”  Oops.

• Friday night back in NYC I almost got into a fight with some drunk-ass hipster who was harassing a woman that I had told the entire bar was my ex-wife (and so I was obligated to stand up for her).  I won when he got up from the table, almost fell, and so was kicked out of the bar.  Good for him and me both – I would have murdered him and you would be reading the tales of “Jason Mulgrew: Prison Beat Rag” if he hadn’t gotten kicked out.

• Saturday night my roommate Brian and I had a push-up contest outside a bar on the Lower East Side (Final Score: Me 1.5, Brian 30+).  It was just as embarrassing as it sounds.    

And it doesn’t look like it’ll end anytime soon, with a tentative trip to DC this weekend and a trip to either Seattle or London for Super Bowl weekend (thank you, Mastercard – I will see you in hell where I will continue to F you in the heinie). 

But there are three things worth noting from this weekend.

Love Fumbles

Whenever one of our friends starts talking to a girl at a bar – and she actually talks back to him – instead of being happy for him, the others are jealous.  Not only are we single, but we are terrible friends. 

My buddy Matt was talking to a cute girl on Friday night.  Matt probably does the best of all of us when it comes to women (although that isn’t saying much among my friends; if you’re using a condom for its intended purpose rather than to masturbate into it in the shower because the warmth and the latex really gets you randy, then you’re doing best among us).  

Matt left his girl momentarily to go to the bathroom and the best way that I can describe the ensuing scene was that it was akin to a running back fumbling the ball and a scrum breaking out.  Immediately after he left, I could almost hear Joe Buck in the corner announcing, “Handoff to Matt up the middle and HE LOSES THE BALL!  Matt has fumbled!  The Drunks are diving all over it as the refs try to see who’s got possession!”  Immediately after he left, the rest of us descended upon her like a loose ball, figuring “Hey, Matt left, so she’s totally up for grabs!”, about six of us talking to her at once, trying to wrest her away from the others with witty lines and charm as opposed to strength and eye-gouging.

I was pretty messed up at that point, but I managed to get my golden exchange in there:

Jason: “What do you do?”

Girl:    [Says something, but I'm not listening because I can't wait to see how she creams her pants when I tell her I'm a writer.]

Jason: “That’s cool.  Do you like it?”

Girl:    [More talk, but it goes right through me.  Getting slightly aroused as time for the "I'm a writer" line approaches.]

Jason: “That’s cool.”

Girl:    “What do you do?”
Jason: “Oh, me?  Well, I’m a writer.”

Girl:    [Sees through my attempt; doesn't take bait because hey – I'm still not good looking and I've spent the last four minutes looking directly at her cleavage a she spoke] “Oh, nice. [turning away] So Mike, how do you know Lisa?”

[Jason is picked off pile by referees.]

Eventually, Matt was able to get the ball back and talk to her after he returned from the bathroom.  I suppose it wasn’t a fumble at all; that his knee was actually down before the ball came out.  I’d like to say the night ended with something exciting, perhaps shower sex, but he only get her number (thanks not at all to us, of course).

The Sunday 50

On Sunday, I was feeling pretty horrible.  The hangover + the push-up from the night before left me feeling sore, tired, and emotionally troubled.  Or something.

But inspiration came to me, as it often does, whilst I was taking a whiz.  I had a plan for the day, a goal that, should I accomplish it, would take me out of any psychological funk I was in: I would consume any combination of 50 beers and buffalo wings that day.  To clarify, that’s any combination, i.e. 30 beers and 20 wings, 45 wings and 5 beers, etc.  All I had to do was get to 50 total. 

The best break-down, I thought, was 17 beers and 33 wings.  I felt confident that I could do both in the allotted time.  There was no time limit, aside from accomplishing this during the eight hours of football games on Sunday.  So, um, I guess there was a time limit.  But it’s a long time.

I asked my roommate Brian to take part in this but he refused, citing that whole “work” thing as the reason he couldn’t drink 15 beers.  So I was flying solo.

And let me tell you something – I didn’t even come close.  I had grossly overestimated myself.  After a dozen wings and four beers, I started feeling dizzy.  Around wing 20 and beer 9, I started going into anaphylactic shock.  I had to quit shortly thereafter, because I stopped responding loud noises or bright lights, lying on the couch with my eyes wide open, drool and wing sauce dripping down my chin.

But despite such a resounding defeat, I bet I can do this.  And I will do this, even if I have to train all off-season and do it next football season.  It will be done.      

“You think that’s bad – I was so drunk on Friday I fucked a guy!” 

[CONFIDENTIAL MATERIAL REDACTED]

[You guys may not get much this week.  I have a big deadline coming up and I blew off every plan I had in NYC this week to return to Philly, where I get a lot of work done.  So don't expect much.  And if you hate me, remember that I return to normality on 2/13, so then regular posts will come flying at you.  Thank you for your support.]

[And I'm still having a lot of problems with emails, getting some, but getting blank emails from others.  No idea why.  Also, it turns out that a few days of emails from last week were randomly deleted.  So I'm sorry if I don't respond.  I wouldn't send emails until this is worked out.  Or send at your own peril.  Thanks again.]

technical problems
Jason posted on January 23, 2006

If you sent me an email today, I did not get it.  Well, I got it, but I couldn’t read it.  The email system is all sorts of messed up right now, though I do not know why nor will I explain how, since it’s too long and boring.  I’m also not really going to do anything to fix it, aside from hoping it gets better.  Bottom line: send your emails later if you are so inclined and would like me to read them.

Thank you for your understanding. 

email exchange, cars, playoffs, dhs, kid from brooklyn, music
Jason posted on January 19, 2006

My buddy Chris, who I went to high school with and who lives in Philly, sent me this email.  I have decided to post the whole thing rather than edit it, lest it lose its flair.  And my response is my email reply to him, also unedited.  This isn’t because I’m lazy, but because – ok, well it’s because I’m lazy.    

Mulgrew,

You’re a nice guy… to a fault. “Cliff and the Lemmings” has got to be the worst name for a band i’ve ever heard and you know this. C’mon now, Mulgrew, you’re better than that. You invented the f’n stage cape for crying out loud and now you’re going to humor the idea of a band called “Cliff and the Lemmings”? If so, then strike my name from the Prep Student Council records because I just don’t know you anymore. it’s a poop name and you know it.

[Editor's Note: Chris and I were on student council together.  I was vice president, he was secretary.  Or maybe treasurer.  Also I wore a big fur cape in high school.  And I was still one of the coolest guys in the school.  And I am sadly 100% serious.]

Moving on… my brother and i were discussing the most awkward song to open up with as a new band. Scenario is: you just started a band. you’re playing for the first time live and your family, friends, and a few people that just happen to be there all know that this is your first concert and what’s about to be your first song. What song would you play to make people the most uncomfortable and awkward…? You have to rule out rap and all and slow songs (ie “lady in red” or some such shit) and you have to sing it DEAD seriously.

We came up with “Bangladesh” by George Harrison from the Concert for Bangladesh. I think you’ve heard it before and people would just be really, really uncomfortable and would just awkwardly sip their beers.

If your not feeling that scenario, what’s the most inappropriate wedding song for the bride and groom to dance to that just has everyone giving the “What the f$%k?” look to each other. Once again, i have to go with “Bangladesh” even more so on this one. Either that or “Be Not Afraid” from the Catholic Church Hymns. Anyway if you’re looking for something to write about on a day when you got nothing, use it.

I love you. when are you coming to Philly?

PS: Houlihan was always funnier than you… always.

And now my response:

Dude, first of all, it’s not that bad of a band name.  If I thought it sucked, I would have said so.  Let’s just agree to disagree.

Second, I take umbrage with your exclusion of all rap or slow songs.  I understand by mandating this you are trying to prevent gimmes – easy songs like “Lady in Red” or “Making Love (Out Of Nothing At All).”  But I’ve seen bands open up with slow rock songs.  If a band opens up with U2’s “One”, that’s not a bad song.  So for me to properly answer your first question, we have to remove this restriction.

My first thought was the song “Layla.”  I don’t know why, but maybe because this is a very complicated song across the board – to play, sing, time, etc – and so if you butcher that song, you can really, really butcher it.  Imagine a bunch of third-rate musicians trying to get through “Layla”, only one of the greatest rock songs ever?  THAT would be awkward. 

But then I realized something: that isn’t that funny.  And that’s what we’re trying to do here.  So I will see your “Bangladesh” (which is good, but too unknown to the average music fan), and I will raise you Ben Fold Five’s “Brick.”  Nothing – and I mean nothing – will bring a room to a halt or otherwise fill it with awkwardness than a song about abortion.  I ask you to again imagine, but this time to see a room full of friends and familiar faces with you as the lead singer, saying, “Let’s rock!” and breaking into that piano riff and starting off, “6am…Day after Christmas…”  Awkward, mutha.  Awkward.

As for the wedding song, again I’m inclined to go with “Brick” (it’s pretty much good for anything), but I’ll go to my back up: Liz Phair’s “Hot White Cum.”  Another standby that can be used in any circumstance, if I were to see any bride and groom dancing to “My skin’s getting clear/My hair’s so bright/All you do is fuck me/Every day and night”, I would immediately stand up on a table, whip out my bird (or, in my case, cajole it out of the inside of my stomach where it has retreated like a frightened turtle) and start loving myself. 

This also stems from a fantasy of mine.  When I first started playing guitar, at any family function family members would try to get me to play something.  I’d reluctantly give in and always played “Plush”, the easiest and most recognizable song I knew.  Years later, when I heard “HWC”, I dreamed about breaking into it next Christmas when my Uncle Joe says, “Come on Jase!  Play something for us!”  The sound of my father’s heart exploding when he heard me singing “Give me your hot white cum” would probably cause a magnitude 4.2 earthquake in the greater Philadelphia area. 

So thems my thoughts.  If you are serious about the band opening with a non-slow song, reverse them: the band opens with “HWC” and the wedding couple dances to “Brick.”  But that’s all I got. 

I’m coming to Philly tomorrow [Thursday] but will only be there for Thursday night.  Kyle is actually coming up to New York with me this weekend.  I should be back in the area over the next few weeks – I don’t go back to work until Feb 13.  But you should seriously get up to NYC.  We have fun here.  And by “we” I mean “other people”; I sit in my living room and wish I was somewhere or someone else. 

And Kyle is not funnier than me.  You said this only to hurt me, and mission accomplished you sonuvabitch.

Love always,

Jason Mulgrew

SJP ‘97

Student Council Vice President

Member of: Spanish Club, SADD

Once saw Joe Dugan (bless his soul) naked when changing at the pool

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I have learned something about myself recently: I like driving fast.  I first learned this when I went down the shore for a week in December and spent some time speeding around the deserted streets, blaring the surprisingly good radio stations in South Jersey in the car.  It made me feel both powerful and attractive.

Yesterday, I drove from Philly to NYC.  I did this in my mom’s car.  I needed to bring a car to NYC because I’ve realized something: I don’t use about 30% of my stuff, yet have moved it to four different NYC apartments in five years.  So I’ve loaded the car up with this junk and today I’m driving back down to Philly, where I will put this stuff in my mom’s basement where it will stay until I die and she sells it on eBay.

But the point: usually it’s about a 2 hour 15 minute trip from Philly to NYC.  This takes into account average traffic; if it’s worse, it could be much longer.  But yesterday, I made it from my house in Philly through the Holland Tunnel in ONE HOUR and TWENTY-FIVE MINUTES.

I just realized that you all probably don’t give a fuck about the excellent time I made on my drive, but I shit you not when I say that this was easily – easily – the highlight of my week.  It’s nice to know that I’m a man in some ways.  For example, I’m not a real man in that I am terrified of bugs, the dark, and lightening and I am so mechanically deficient that I can barely work a microwave.  On the other hand, I can eat up to 30 buffalo wings in a sitting and making good time on a trip is my life’s mission. 

What sucked about the drive was what happened when I finally got back to NYC.  I can park on the street outside my apartment from 6pm to 8am.  I arrived at my place at 5:30pm.  I parked on the street, figuring I wasn’t going to get a ticket only 30 minutes before the parking restriction was enforced.  Wrong.  $65 worth of wrong.  Which is great, really great.  I’m not sure if my rent check (paid on the 15^th) will clear, so I might have to do my landlord – again.  And this time, not for fun.  So thank you, New York City Parking People, I have plenty of money to throw around.  Cocksuckers. 

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My quest for perfection in the playoffs this season took a major hit last week with the defeat of the Chokes – I mean, the Colts (zing!).   My thoughts this week:

SEATTLE over Carolina

DENVER over Pittsburgh

I could be totally wrong here, but winning three times on the road in the playoffs is a tall order.  And since I just said that, completely reverse my predictions.

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Though I have not figured out how to harness my “fame” into strange and exotic sexual encounters, I have learned to use it to my advantage in other ways.  Last week, I asked you guys for suggestions to add to my “Dirty Hipster Stripper” playlist.  And you mother fuckers brought it.

I don’t know for sure how many emails I got, but it’s definitely in the hundreds.  This is both great and not-so-great.  Great because by the time I’m finished, I’m going to have the greatest “Dirty Hipster Stripper” mix ever known to man.  Not-so-great because it’s going to literally take me months to download, listen to, and properly process all the suggestions.  Good thing I have a lot of time on my hands.

Some early thoughts:

• The first time I heard “Mood Swing” by Luscious Jackson, I creamed in my pants.  Very dirty.  Hipster enough.  Stripper-licious. 
• “Dirty Hot Sex” by Pepper was recommended by – I don’t know – 50 people.  This is not a hipster song, it is not dirty, and it is not a stripper song.  Not only that, this kind of music is the worst kind of music in America right now (or in the past few years).  While I value the opinions of those who recommended it to me, and we still cool, I don’t know if we could ever hang out if you seriously like this song. 
• PJ Harvey is one of the few people in the world who could write an entire album called “Dirty Hipster Stripper”.  “The Letter” is fantastic. 
• The Donnas are not capable of creating this album.  If you are stripping to The Donnas, you are not old enough to be stripping.   
• I don’t know if the person who suggested Rammstein’s “Stripped” was joking or not, but if he wasn’t, I think I should get his email address to the Sex Crimes Unit asap. 

That’s all for now, but I will let you know of the full playlist when it is created.  But please – no more suggestions. I have more than enough now.  Why don’t you do some work instead?    

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Do yourself a favor and check this out.  Go to “Videos” and click on “Bat Day.”  Not safe for work, but nothing like a giant, middle-aged Brooklynite yelling at the top of his lungs for your enjoyment.  To think, the internet is such a magical place that it has made stars out of both this guy and I.  What hath God wrought, indeed. 

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Six Songs

“Episode of Blonde”  Elvis Costello

Elvis Costello is my favorite artist of all time.  This is in large part because he does both things very well: lyrics and music.  Though he’s not the best at either, I think no one puts them together as well as he does.  It’s kinda like when an NFL defense is 3^rd against the run and 5^th against the pass, but combined is 1^st in the league in total defense.  That’s what Elvis Costello is to me.

This song is not one of my favorites of his, but I have been struck by it lately.  He almost, dare I say, raps through the verses, but the chorus, both music and lyrically, is damn near perfect (especially the last time around about 3:25 into the song when he really belts it out):

Did her green eyes seduce you

Or make you get so weak?

Was that fire engine red

That she left upon your cheek?

It’s such a shame you had to break the heart

You could have counted on

But the last thing you need

Is another episode of blonde

I mean, isn’t that just so darn pretty?  Is this gay, that I’m saying this right now?  Is it sad that I’m a 26 year old man and still use the word “gay” like I did when I was ten?  I’m going to stop now. 

“Throw Your Arms Around Me”  Pearl Jam

If I sang this, I would be arrested (probably rightly so). 

I will come to you at nighttime

I will climb into your bed

I will kiss you in a hundred fifty-five places

As I go swimming around in your hair

I will squeeze the life right out of you

I will make you laugh and make you cry

And we may never forget it

As I make you call my name

As you shout it to the blue summer sky

And we may never met again

So shed your skin, let’s get started

And you will throw your arms around me

And you will throw your arms around me

But somehow, it’s much safer when Eddie Vedder sings it.  Another pretty song, one that makes me want to make out.

(OK, I’ll ease up on the softness.  My apologies.) 

“Walt Whitman Bridge“  Marah

Marah – my god.  Not only are they an awesome band, but they’re from Philly!  And then they went and wrote a song about the Walt Whitman Bridge on their new album (which is spectacular).  This song is pretty special to me, seeing as I practically grew up under the Walt Whitman Bridge.  As a kid, my friends and I would take adventures to the bases of the bridge, where there’d be nothing but weeds.  We’d drink Little Hugs juices, (try to) roast hot dogs and marshmallows, and generally just walk around in the weeds (this is how city kids feel outdoorsy).  And in typical Marah style, the song is just downright haunting (”Your memory blows away” is some pretty powerful stuff).

I’m not really accurately getting into how I feel about this song and am doing it an injustice, but we’re over 2500 words for the post and I have to get the fuck out of NYC before traffic picks up.  And yes, I know I’m selfish.