I have to say, February 2006 was easily one of the most eventful and traumatic months of my life.  Good lord.  Some of the stuff that happened to me I couldn’t even write here, lest I betray some confidences, particularly the confidence of my friend John Francis Edwards, who came out of the closet and after years of speculation announced that he is a partially homosexual.  So now I have two bisexual people in my life, John and my brother.  Maybe I should set them up.  Though my brother is way too good-looking for John.  Although John does have a good job… 

Anyway, here is a list of 20 random things that happened to me this past month.  One of them is a lie.  See if you can guess which one it is (answer at bottom).  In February 2005, I:

- went to Seattle for the first time, bringing my losing jinx there
- drove 1150 miles down the West Coast and consumed more Diet Cokes in three days than I did in all of 2005 
- went to LA to feel fucking spectacular and walk around in 85 degree weather
- had the worst travel experience of my life, flying from LA to Atlanta, then Atlanta to Philly, then training it from Philly to NYC – all in under 24 hours  
- was defrauded out of $1000 by a "reputable" company
- threatened or was threatened with legal action three times (once with Enterprise, twice with [CONFIDENTIAL MATERIAL REDACTED])
- returned full-time to work after 4.5 months off, which nearly sent me into shock 
- opened a new much-improved and fucking spectacular website
- had three near-nervous breakdowns
- cried once
- made love to six women
- spent a whopping $68 on a single cab ride
- learned once again that I am capable of hatred like a mother fucker
- (Site Guy Brendan learned this too, after spending approximately 15 hours on the phone with me in three days) 
- wrote a best man’s speech (most of it, at least)
- began preparations for the Greatest Bachelor Party Man Has Ever Seen
- learned WAY too much about my family and family history
- was told that, in retrospect, my moustache was "sexy" and was asked to bring it back (no dice)
- started apartment hunting and narrowed my search down to a one-bedroom in the LES, East Village or Alphabet City
- I’m sorry, but I can’t think of a 20th thing

All I can say is, thank God it’s over.  Here’s hoping that March is a little better and less busy, but I don’t foresee how anything good is going to come out of March, typically a terrible, terrible month. 

[The lie: "made love to six women."  It was actually zero women and a kid.  I don't recall the gender of the kid.]

I thought I was bad for writing about a Mother Teresa in a sexual way, but this guy makes me feel like Walt Disney (who was actually a pedophile himself).  My favorite part:

Police said Patton told them it makes him sick, but that it’s almost spiritual to him. He allegedly added, "I like it because it makes me closer to them — like I’m drinking their youth."

Mmmm…youth.  Como se dice, “hot”?

Well, now I know what I’m having for lunch: Buffalo wings.  And no, that doesn’t really have anything to do with urine.  I just want some buffalo wings. 

This has got to be a joke.  I mean, it just has to be.

If Paris Hilton is playing Mother Teresa, I want in on this film.  I have already contacted my agent and will do everything I can to get a piece of this action, preferring to write or co-write this film.   

Here’s my pitch:

The story will follow the life of Mother Teresa (Paris Hilton), from her lowly beginnings as a girl in Macedonia to her founding of the Missionaries of Charity to winning the Nobel Prize.  But these developments will only serve to move the story forward.  Instead of focusing on all this stuff which we already all know about anyway, the story will focus on the real Mother Teresa, the one that few outside her inner circle really knew.  Much like Martin Scorsese’s "The Last Temptation of Christ" showed us the sexy side of Jesus, "The Loves of Mother Teresa" will show us the woman behind the saint. 

After a brief history of Mother Teresa’s early years, our story begins with a 23 year-old Mother Teresa making the acquaintance of Darpak Nehru (Jason Mulgrew), suave Calcutta socialite and rapscallion.  Teresa meets Darpak when she is newly arrived in Calcutta and searching for donors for her school, St. Mary’s.  Darpak is immediately taken with her Balkan charm, and the two begin a complex relationship that will last for decades.  When they first meet, Teresa is still not officially a nun, but is committed to Jesus and her faith.  Darpak is married to the beautiful Mallika Datla (Elisha Cuthbert), the most beautiful girl in Calcutta and daughter to the Minister of the Interior.  Though the film will feature several explicit and almost downright nasty sex scenes with Darpak and Mallika, they are not truly in love with each other and so spend their times at debaucherous parties, drinking, carousing, and being unfulfilled.  In Teresa, Darpak finds the woman that Mallika is not: loving, loyal, and true (though still very hot).  

Darpak will court Teresa for four years, trying to pry her away from her vows of chastity by proclaiming his love for her.  He finds comfort in his good friend Hardik Advani (Gary Busey and Nick Nolte, kinda like how Mary Kate and Ashley Olson both played Michelle on "Full House"), a school chum of Darpak’s.  Through the years, Hardik advises Darpak to stay away from Teresa and be content with his wife Mallika.  But his advice is not out of friendship, but out of self-interest – he too is in love with Teresa.  But bound to his friend, both out of loyalty and because Darpak has provided the slow-witted Hardik with a secure job and life, Hardik must suffer in silence.

Teresa meanwhile, confides in her friend Jeevika Visvayu (Kate Beckinsale), a fellow nun in the Sisters of Loreto.  Jeevika is a lusty nun and encourages the pious Teresa to go after Darpak, who is handsome, rich, and supposedly a terrific lover.  This only causes Teresa more mental turmoil, as she fears that there will come a day when she will finally have to decide between her faith and her desire.

That day comes as Teresa is preparing to make her final vows.  As the ultimate sign of his devotion, Darpak will go against his friend Hardik’s advice and divorce Mallika (though not after a final sex scene).  By doing so, Darpak loses everything that he previously held dear: his status, wealth, and power.  This will enrage Hardik, whose fortunes depended upon Darpak’s high status.  However, it will strike a chord with Teresa.  So moved by his devotion, Teresa will finally succumb and will spend one steamy Calcutta night in the arms of Darpak, the two of them moving mountains with their love-making, their shrieks of pleasure echoing throughout the markets of the town. 

[By the way, this the first time I've ever felt creepy or weird about writing something on this blog.  I've been ok with everything else, but a Mother Teresa sex scene just makes me feel a little "eww", even if it does involve Paris Hilton.  Just wanted to let you know that.]

However, after their night of pleasure, Teresa will have a crisis of conscience and in a typical woman moment, will freak out about their love-making.  She will tell Darpak that she can never see him again and two weeks later, she will make her final profession of vows and will henceforth be known as "Mother" Teresa.  Shamed, Darpak moves from Calcutta to some tiny Indian village or some shit, but not after a forty minute sex scene with Jeevika, who is just a F-R-E-A-K in the sack.  Hardik, angry that has lost both his status and the presence of Teresa in his life, vows revenge.  Teresa goes with God and begins her life anew.

Over the next six hours, we will follow Teresa as she dedicates her life to God and moves on after Darpak.  Throughout her journey, she is haunted by the memory of Darpak, his gorgeous eyes, his strong shoulders, his terrific beard, his lustrous chest hair, and his knowledge of how to treat a woman.  Meanwhile, Darpak, in his shitty Indian village, converts to Catholicism and begins studying the Bible, realizing that the only true way to Teresa’s heart is through the Lord.  All the while, from a basement room in Delhi, Hardik is planning his revenge, preparing to exact it as soon as he finds out where Darpak is hiding. 

Just as Teresa’s profile increases, Darpak’s stock rises in his archdiocese, and he is soon a bishop.  Teresa, now internationally renowned, returns to St. Mary’s, her former school, to speak with the students there and convey the message of Christ.  Darpak informs his superiors that he is leaving the shitty Indian village to seek out Teresa.  When Hardik hears of Teresa’s upcoming appearance, he knows Darpak will be there, and so goes to seek vengeance.   

This story winds up in an exciting climax which I share not reveal here, lest I spoil the movie for you.  Also, I haven’t thought of it yet, but that’s a minor detail.  People make shit up on the spot all the time in Hollywood. 

But I tell you this: I am ready, willing, and able to work on this film.  I even have the rest of the cast worked out: 

Pope John Paul II – Tom Sizemore
John Cardinal O’Connor, Archbishop of NYC – Robert Downey, Jr.
Tungar Manmeet, Church superior to Darpak — Donald Sutherland
Padma Charan, assistant to Mother Teresa — Drew Barrymore
Nuns of Missionaries of Charity – The Pussycat Dolls
Vince Vaughn — Himself
Washer Girl that Darpak Has Sex with #1: Josie Maran
Washer Girl that Darpak Has Sex with #2: Scarlett Johnansson
Washer Girl that Darpak Has Sex with #3: Annette Bening
Soundtrack by Michael McDonald

So keep your ears to the ground.  I’ll let you know of any developments, but look for a late 2007 release. 

Welcome to the new website.  This version was supposed to be released last Monday to celebrate the two-year anniversary of the site, but Mother Nature was a real mother fucker and kept me in LA (without a computer) for longer than I expected.  So apologies for the delay, but seriously – fuck off. 

Content-wise, the site is similar to the old one, though this one is much more navigable.  There will be some kinks to work out over the next few days/weeks, but we will continue to improve it and make it prettier for you.  Some things that need explanation:

1) I ask that you sign up on the right for the new monthly newsletter.  Basically, once a month I will be sending out a post via email.  You will not be able to find this post anywhere on the site – ever.  And it will be a good one.  March’s email post will be the much-talked about “10 Dudes I’d Do” post.  So enter your email in the box and expect a post in the middle of the month.  Please be advised that there will be curses and swear words of the highest order in these monthly emails, so be sure to use a non-work account if you have filters.  And of course I will not share your email address with anyone.  I might, however, email you at 4:13am on a Tuesday asking you to meet up for hoagies and oral, but that’s not a bad thing, right?  (For more information, click here.)     

2) Ladies and gentlemen, we are now searchable.  So if you’re looking for a specific post or whatnot, you can find it very easily by entering text in the search box.  Now you can go ahead and download every “Six Songs” I’ve ever done.  Sweet.

3) Many thanks to Dan, who designed the banner or header or whatever it’s called.  I felt a little bad because Dan went out of his way to offer several different designs of the header and I went ahead and picked the simplest one.  But as we all know, I’m a simple man, so it works out.  Thanks again to Dan.

[We're going to have some fun with this too, changing it often, and even allowing readers to submit designs.  Of course, I won't pay you guys, but I'll link you or something.  But we'll work on that later - baby steps for now.]

4) Many, many thanks to Site Guy Brendan, who really went above and beyond the call of duty here.  Brendan pretty much did everything for this site, putting up with my phone calls that ran the gamut from “Dude, this looks retarded!” to “Why isn’t this working?” to “I have a crush on [Site Guy Brendan's roommate] John – what do you think my chances are?”  Brendan is a gentleman among scoundrels and I am unduly indebted to him for all his help.  I am going to give him a serious massage next time I’m in Boston.      

That’s all I can think of for now as far as items, but I’ll be sure to give a shout if I remember anything else. 

So take a minute, look around, and get comfortable.  If you experience any technical issues or problems, please let Brendan know at brendan@jasonmulgrew.com (we’re working on the intro and the “more blogs” page, so don’t email him about those).  Conversely, you can also email him to tell him what an excellent job he did.  Unlike me, Brendan doesn’t get half-naked pictures of you guys.  So please show him some appreciation by sending him a nice email.  And keep the naked pictures coming to me, please.

But as I said, we’re going to be working out some bugs over the next few days and weeks, so we ask for your patience.  Brendan and I will get everything sorted out soon enough.  Unless one of us goes to jail.  Which is entirely possible.  But I don’t want to talk about that right now.

Enjoy.     

I rented a car (actually, a minivan) when I drove from Seattle to LA earlier this month.  I used Enterprise, because I had used them before and found them to be sufficient.  Had I known that the company was full of backstabbing cocksuckers and extortionists, I probably would have gone with Hertz.

As I mentioned, I woke up hungover and late for my flight back to NYC and decided to do something crazy, namely extend my vacation and drive from Seattle to LA.  To repeat, I was hungover.  I was neither drunk, blacked out, nor unconscious.   I had a massive headache and some general body aches, but I could still function mentally.  And at any rate I am a professional at being hungover, so even though it might hurt, I can still get by with my usual grace and aplomb. 

I called and spoke to the guy at the local Enterprise and explained the situation.  I needed to rent a car to drive down to LA.  It was Tuesday morning, and I told him I’d need the car until Saturday morning.  So I’d have it for four full days.  He said it wasn’t a problem.  He arranged for me to be picked up and off to the local Enterprise I went.

I spent the next half hour in the Enterprise office, talking with three different employees.  I spoke to them at length about my plan, which was to drive down to LA in three days, arriving sometime on Thursday.  One of the girls there was kinda cute, so to make myself seem cool, I said, "Yeah, I have some friends in Eugene (lie), so I’m gonna spend a night there.  I also have some friends in San Fran (lie), so I’ll do a night there as well.  Then after that, it’s on to LA."  In reality, I was having fantasies about long sensual showers in middle-of-nowhere hotels and was wondering if they had craigslist (specifically "casual encounters") in southern Oregon and central California, but she didn’t need to know that. 

Feeling full of myself, flush with hungover pride, I jumped when one of the Enterprise employees asked what I’d be doing in LA.  I tried to act bashful and said, "Well, I kinda work there" and proceeded to go into my spiel.  They lapped up the fact that I am mildly famous like the pigs that they are, asking all sorts of questions, which I patiently and (mostly) honestly answered.  However, I did not relay that a website was the root of my fame, for fear that they’d log on right away to see my post about being miserably hungover.  Not that they couldn’t probably tell that anyway, what with me being pale and stinking like Coors Light, but I didn’t want to help them at all.  So instead I focused on the specifics of my trip.  Three days down to LA - a nice, leisurely drive.  A good time for me to see the West Coast and sort some shit out.  They all agreed.   

Soon the car was finished being washed and the cute girl walked me over to it.  We walked around the minivan, checking for any nicks or dents as I looked mostly at her heinie.  She gave me the contract to initial here, here, and here and sign there.  Standard rental car contract: unlimited mileage, a couple bucks extra a day for insurance, and I had to pinky swear that I would only drive the car in Washington, Oregon, and California.  I did all that was asked and handed the contract back to her.  She gave me the keys, wished me luck and I was off. 

And as I wrote in my horribly tedious posts of the past few days, it wasn’t that bad of a drive.  It was long at times, but it was nice to be alone.  I did learn one thing that I forgot to mention: the first car company that puts XM or Sirius satellite radio in their cars will dominate the market.  I did ok with the local stations, but if the car had satellite radio the trip would have been approximately eleven times better.  And I expect a consulting fee of $25,000 from the first rental car company that does this. 

[I also forgot to mention the thing from the trip that I am most proud of: I may be the only human being on earth to have pooped both at the top and the bottom of the Space Needle - in the same visit.  Ben and I went to breakfast where I had a breakfast quesadilla that ran right through me, so when we got to the top, I let loose, all the while thinking how cool it is that I'm pooping at the top of the Space Needle.  We walked around for a bit checking out the views then headed back down when I was struck with another bout of the runs.  So there in the gift shop, I had Poo #2.  Two poos, one at the top, one at the bottom of the Space Needle.  And my mom always complains that I never do touristy stuff when I travel.  Back to the story...] 

When I got to LA, the minivan basically sat in the valet until Saturday, when an Enterprise employee came to pick it up.  Of course, there was a small matter of cleaning the Pringles that had been crushed into the seat, but I was able to take care of that pretty easily (nothing’s sexier than an overweight hairy guy bending into his minivan to clean out the crumbs of potato chips – I can’t believe I didn’t get laid in LA).  I woke up early to meet the LA Enterprise employee, chit-chatted her up while the valet was getting the van (she told me how Bobby Brown once rented an Escalade from them but they had to go pick up because his credit card was denied), gave her the keys, and that was that.  I went back to bed, content that that part of the trip was behind me.

BUT THEN a few hours later I got a call from the head cocksucker in the Seattle office.  Our conversation went:

Enterprise Cocksucker: "Hi Jason – I got a disturbing call from one of our LA affiliates."

Me: [thinking they found a severed hand in the muffler] "Um, ok."

EC: "They told me that you returned the car down there."

Me: "Yeah, this morning. They came and picked it up."

EC: [almost moaning] "Oh, Jason…"

Me: [growing annoyed] "What?"

EC: "You were supposed to bring that car back here."

It took a minute to register, but apparently what this dickhead was trying to tell me was that I had agreed to bring the car back to Seattle.  Of course, I never agreed to this, and I told him so.  He then informed me that he was very clear with me that, yes, this car needed to be returned to Seattle.  I told him in no uncertain terms that he never, ever said this to me.  Never ever ever.  Never.

Then, as they say, it was on.  The Enterprise dickhead told me that Enterprise does not do one way rentals.  In fact, he could only think of one car company that did one way rentals.  This confused me – isn’t this a big part of the car rental business?  You’re telling me that only one car rental company allows cars to be driven one way?  What the hell else do you rent a car for – to joyride around the city?  I made these points to him but realized they were moot (actually, he said arguing about this was a "mute" point, which made me want to strangle him with a sock covered in his own semen). 

The point was that this car had to come back to the Seattle area.  The car could not stay in California, since it had Washington tags.  He told me that he was going to have to get one of his underlings to fly down to Los Angeles and drive the car back up.  Then he told me that I was going to be responsible for that person’s airfare, hotel, and gas on the return trip.  Then, as they say, it was really on.

I’ve never been much for athletic competition, since I suck at sports.  And I’ve never been much for going after ladies, since they usually go away when I try.  But I do have one advantage that brings out my competitive fire: in all probability, I am smarter than you.  I’m not talking about grades, since I spent my time in college getting drunk and fingerblasting and most of high school being awesome, sexually confused, and moping.  I’m not talking about SATs, since I took them once, was content with my score, and said, "Eh, fuck it."  And I don’t care about your advanced degrees - we all know you went to grad school because you didn’t want to work and/or your parents could pay your rent for a few more years.  I’m most likely smarter than you.  And if you cross me, I will shove this fact down your fucking throat.  

It wasn’t that I said anything particularly intellectually groundbreaking to this Enterprise dickhead.  Indeed, even as I was berating him, I knew that I ultimately would lose.  While the cocksucker was laying on me all this new shit which had come to light, I checked the rental contract and sure enough, there it was in the fine print – I had to return the car from the affiliate from which I picked it up.  If I returned it to another Enterprise office, I would have to pay $100 or $.50 per mile "plus related costs as deemed appropriate by Owner", whichever was greater (I think that "plus related costs as deemed appropriate by Owner" is legal jargon for "I’m putting a pool in my backyard because you fucked up").  Seattle to LA is over 1100 miles, so that’s at least $550 I was on the hook for.  And even if I wanted to fight it in small claims court, claiming somehow that I had signed under false pretenses or some other weak argument, I’d have to fly to Seattle to state my case.  So any way you cut it, I was going to pay.

But that did not stop me from letting loose a torrent of hellfire on this son of a bitch.  First, I went with the threats and window dressing, telling him that I would definitely be talking to my lawyers (notice the plural), asking him if he had heard of the law firm at which I work (one of the top three in world).  Then I tried some legal mumbo-jumbo, which I admittedly know little about (but certainly more than Mr. Mute Point), saying that he had coerced me into signing under false pretenses, that I was a victim of extortion, and that I would complain to his manager, the manager of the Pacific Northwest, the national office, the Better Business Bureau, and that I would never, ever go away. 

Then, I got to the heart of the issue: NO ONE EVER FUCKING TOLD ME I HAD TO BRING THE CAR BACK TO SEATTLE.  Again, I was hungover over, but c’mon – this is me we’re talking about!  I’m probably better mentally under the influence or hungover than I am in any other state!  Some of the finest papers I wrote in college were written between bong hits!  When interviewed for my current job, I was worried that the Human Resources person was going to ask, "Does something smell like bourbon and feces?" and I still got the job!  I’ve pitched to rooms full of Ivy League JD’s and television execs while still legally being drunk!  Hell, I once went on a week long coke binge and still helped my then-fiancée deliver our second child, Cody! 

So there’s no way that this jerkoff, with his "mute" points, was going to tell me that he was clear and up-front with me about returning the car.  How was it possible, I asked him, that I sat in the Enterprise office for almost 30 minutes with three employees talking at length about my slow drive down to LA and no one said anything about how I was going to get the car back to Seattle by the time it was due?  I was to have the car Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, returning it at 10am on Saturday.  I said over and over again that I was planning on getting to LA in the afternoon/evening of Thursday.  That means I’d basically have to set foot in LA city limits, turn around immediately, and have one full day (Friday) to drive almost 1200 miles, an impossible task even for the most experienced trucker.  None of the Enterprise employees, the same ones who were chatting me up and asking me all sorts of questions, asked me how I was going to get the car back to Seattle in just over a day.  And I’m not saying it was their responsibility to do so, but when the Enterprise cocksucker tried to tell me that he and his staff were "very clear and up-front" with me about returning the car to Seattle, he was blatantly lying.   

After I had said my piece (peace?), the conversation had no where else to go.  I told him that I (and my lawyers – again, plural) would be in touch and he apologized for the inconvenience.  He lamely offered a truce, asking if I could bring the car to Portland, OR.  He said that if I did that he would personally meet me and we’d forget the whole thing.  Seattle is about 19 hours from Los Angeles.  Portland is about 16 hours from Los Angeles.  So, no, I didn’t think that would work.  I slammed down the phone, went to the mini-fridge, cracked open a can of Bud Light, and flopped onto the bed.

About an hour and three beers later, the phone rang again.  It was the dickhead from Enterprise again.  He told me that he had crunched some numbers and had an estimate for me as to how much it would cost.  The total?  $983.  Nine-hundred and fucking eighty-three dollars.  

I no longer had the desire to argue.  I was working on a buzz and my last spaz-out had drained me.  After Enterprise Dickhead meekly informed me of the cost and what that would cover, I let out a sigh, said "Thank you" and again hung up.  If the mood after the previous call was fiery indignation, the mood this time around was more like crushing resignation.

The bottom line: I owe Enterprise $983.  They extorted me out of this money.  They never told me that I’d have to return that car to Seattle.  Had I known this, I obviously wouldn’t have rented from them.  I was not made aware of that fact and signed the contract.  Sure, I technically should have read the contract, but have any of you actually read a rental car agreement?  I made sure to take care of the big stuff; I knew there was unlimited mileage, I paid for the extra insurance, got the numbers for roadside assistance should anything happen.  But I never thought to turn the page over and read the reverse page and its fine print.  Fucking cocksuckers.

[I originally figured I'd spin this post into "I was hungover and did something stupid."  But the more I went over it in my head, I didn't do anything stupid.  Well, in the end I kinda did, but at least it wasn't because I was hungover.  I just wasn't told of one of the main conditions of the rental.  Fucking assholes.]

While it may be obvious, this is a crippling blow to my finances.  As I mentioned, I haven’t been paid yet for any of my projects and haven’t had a steady paycheck since September.  I’m back at work now, but won’t get paid until mid-March.  The payment for my projects is due any day now, but these things are paid out in percentages and chunks go to the good people who helped me get these deals.  And once I do get paid, I have the simple matter of paying off the ginormous debts I’ve accumulated over the past 4.5 months, specifically those debts accrued at bars when buying drinks for women and telling them I’m famous and rich. 

Prior to taking the trip, I crunched the numbers and figured my West Coast drive would cost around $1500.  This included rental car, gas, hotel, food, booze – everything.  This was going to be tough to pull off, but I figured, "Fuck it – when will I ever do this again?"  Now, between the Enterprise fuck up and the fact that I had to spend two extra nights in LA hotels eating and drinking (airports don’t pay for hotels when weather causes delays), I have to add another $1500 to the trip.  So my financially irresponsible $1500 road trip turned into a financially back-breaking $3000 nightmare.      

There is no hope for me.  My only hope is to write a letter to Enterprise headquarters and lodge all the complaints I can in the hopes that I can either get the $983 ($1000 for dramatic effect) knocked down or somehow get some free service or a free rental car or something.  This is the extent of my counteraction. 

But I compel you, the reader, to NEVER RENT FROM ENTERPRISE.  Learn from me, so that my sacrifice might not be in vain.  While it pains me to think that I can not spend that $1000 on the things that make me happy (i.e. titties), I will be able to sleep easier at night knowing that in some small way I have taken business away from this terrible, terrible company.  They are extortionists and they are assholes and so not worthy of your hard-earned dollar.  With so many rental car companies to choose from, I urge you to look elsewhere for your rental car needs.  Please.  Do it for Uncle Jason.  Because he is a bitter, broken man, but he see potential in you.  And I promise this is the last time I’ll refer to myself in the third person.

******

Thus concludes my trip diary.  We’ve all learned a lot, but three most important things are:

1) Always read the fine print of a contract, because you will get fucked if you don’t.            

2) Never do business with Enterprise, because you will get fucked if you do.

3) Never write any four-part post, because it will get really fucking long and boring.

Now – finally – back to regularly scheduled programming.  And I am so sorry.  So, so sorry. 

I love Los Angeles. The first time I visited LA was in the summer of 2001, when I went to an ex’s sister’s wedding. I liked it well enough, but was only there a short time and had to do wedding-type stuff (though I managed to get in a few trips to the In-And-Out Burger).

The second time I visited I spent a week in Marina Del Ray with a friend who had recently moved out there and the city blew me away. The vibe, the people, the scene, the weather – I ate it up. That, and a lot of cocaine. But that was a long time ago. And I didn’t actually eat the cocaine, but you get it.

(I’m clean now, Mom and Dad. Swear.)

(And readers, say no to drugs. Seriously. We here at jasonmulgrew.com are anti-drugs. I’m just going to stop talking about this now because I’m pretty sure that at least one person I work with is reading, so enough.)

But recently, my relationship with LA has changed. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before on the site or not, but I’m kinda famous. This past August I went out to LA to pitch my show (which, because of the confidential nature of the project, I can’t get into). And my view of Los Angeles changed dramatically.

The whole experience of pitching gave me a 24 hour, 7 day a week boner. I’m not typically a star struck person and don’t really care about the entertainment industry, but that was before I was in the entertainment industry. While out in LA for that week in August, I had something like 23 meetings in five days, meeting with people who were responsible for creating some of the best television shows ever. I spent the week driving around town with my buddy Joe in my rental car, talking on the phone to my agent having conversations like:

Agent: "So your next meeting is with [person] over in [location] at 1:30."

Me: "Ok, what can you tell me about this person?"

Agent: [trying to make me feel like a dick] "Oh, I don’t know…he only created [my favorite show of all time]."

Me: "Oh, um, yeah. I’ve heard of that. Thanks."

[hangs up cellphone, looks over at friend Joe driving car]

Me: "I think I just pooed in my pants a little bit."

Joe: "I thought something smelled like those nachos we ate last night."

I’m not saying this to brag, but rather to express how there was a major shift in my perception of LA. It wasn’t actually a shift per se, but an amplification. While I may have been infatuated with the city before, all this Hollywood-type shit made me fall head over heels in love with it. Not to get "Aw shucks!" on you, but there I was – a fat dude with a beard and a blog – having all these serious conversations with some serious (and awesome) people, and I was happy. Very, very happy.

And so with stars in my eyes I arrived in LA on the afternoon on Thursday, February 9. My plan was to fly back to NYC on Saturday, February 11, with just enough time to go out and get blasted once more before returning to work. All was right with the world. For the next two days at least.

***

I met up with my agent Joel and some friends for dinner and drinks on Thursday night. Since contacting me in December of 2004, Joel has become my boy. Not just because I would kill for him because he’s presented me with many incredible opportunities, most of which may someday lead to a real-live actual threesome. And not because he buys me lots of drinks and spiced meats. But because we have the same sense of humor and genuinely love each other.

Joel and I met up with some friends, Laura and Johnny, and ate something called "Korean barbeque." I didn’t know that Koreans barbeque, but apparently they do, and they do it very well. I enjoyed the meal, but it’s definitely one of those things where you need to go with someone who knows what they’re doing. While Joel was deftly ordering for the group, I was busy drinking something called Hite and sticking my hand on the open grill in the middle of the table while making jokes like, "You know, I hear the terrier is delicious here" and "Seriously, the lhasa apso is the juiciest I’ve ever had." I can’t wait to go back.

The shenanigans continued the next night when I met some of the assistants from the agency for drinks. I have to give it to them – the sons (and daughters) of bitches can drink, although some of them (Allan, I’m looking in your direction) are terrible at Beirut/beer pong. But I don’t want to air any dirty laundry here, especially when that dirty laundry involves people who have the power to hold up any payment to me. So let’s just move on.

I was able to enjoy myself on Friday because I didn’t have to worry about flying. By that time, news of a major pending snowstorm in the Northeast was widespread. My flight was scheduled to leave LA at noon on Saturday, arriving in NYC at 8pm. But because this storm had some serious potential and was supposed to hit NYC at precisely the same time I was to land, my flight was preemptively canceled. So instead of spending all of Friday night worrying about flying through a blizzard, I was able to go out and order a drink and two shots as soon as I got to the bar. Wonderful.

Worrying about the blizzard was reserved for Saturday morning, afternoon, and night. I woke up with a terrible hangover and after having brunch spent all day in bed, worrying about the flight. I watched the news as the snow approached the Northeast and continually checked my flight status, hoping it would be canceled. No dice. It appeared that by hell or high water, blizzard or no blizzard, I was flying to NYC on Sunday. And it freaked me the fuck out.

I know that I’m going to die young. I’m not saying this for pity or to be weird or anything – I just know this. This thought has so pervaded my consciousness that I don’t think about things in the future. For example, I don’t think about getting married or having kids or buying a house or anything like that. This is not because I’m lazy (which I am) or because I live in the moment (which I do), but because I know that I’m not going to make it to these things.

But don’t be sad – I’m ok with this. If anything, it’s almost good. It allows me to live the life I do, which, as you know, is totally fucking awesome. My entire worldview is rooted in this awareness of my own mortality and so I follow a strict regiment of the "If you’re going to regret something, regret it because you did it, not because you didn’t do it" mentality. So far, so good.

But I didn’t want to hear that on Saturday. I knew that this was it. I knew that I was going to fly in that blizzard and I was going to die. Over. Done. I even went so far as to rationalize it by saying to myself, "Well, the good news is that at my funeral, they’ll say that I had a lot of potential. I have all this stuff going on, but none of it has actually happened yet. So it’s better that I check out now, while in the process of trying my hand at fame or whatever, rather than in a year or so, after I’ve tried, failed, and am living in my dad’s basement, making out with local 16 year olds. Yeah. That sounds good."

So I coped in the only way I knew how: abusing substances. I really don’t like to talk about drug use too much (really?), but I can not express how wonderful the drug Xanax is. I actually don’t even abuse it, since I don’t take it recreationally (I can’t drink on it – makes me sleepy) but only when I really need it (when feeling anxious). Saturday qualified as feeling anxious. I went to a nearby store, picked up some ice cream, took two of those magic little pills, and spent about ten hours in bed. The highlight was probably watched back-to-back episodes of "Law and Order: Special Victims Unit" and being so moved that I wept. It just really helped me get through the night.

Sunday morning I woke up, checked out of the hotel, and headed to the airport as the snowstorm raged in the Northeast. I had popped another Xanax when I woke up – just to ease the tension – and was basically a zombie as I moved through security. It was when I got to my boarding gate that I got the announcement: Newark, JFK, and Laguardia airports were all closed. I wasn’t going anywhere. Thank god.

***

I passed the next few days in a haze, riding a roller coaster of emotions. I waited in line for a few hours to figure out that on Monday, I’d be traveling from LA to Atlanta, then from Atlanta to Philly, and then from Philly via Amtrak to NYC. Sweet. I checked into the airport Holiday Inn and holed myself up like a true degenerate. I went out and got a twelve-pack, bought the 24 hour porn pass on the hotel pay-per-view for $35, and ordered a chicken alfredo pizza (which was probably the best pizza I’ve ever had: chicken, alfredo sauce, ricotta cheese, a little onions, and a little garlic). The thing about the 24 hour porn pass was that it gave me a day’s worth of access to all twelve pornographic features that the hotel was offering. And I have to say, some of that shit was nasty. There was the obligatory gay porn thrown in, which I thought was tasteful but a little too long, but there were also two types of bondage movies and one movie bordering on violence. As you can imagine, I was in heaven. That is, when I wasn’t feeling terribly lonely and alienated.

The next day I flew just about everywhere. Again, many props to Xanax, since I was pretty much in a haze from the moment I woke up until I woke on Tuesday in Philly. I noticed that my tolerance for traveling had been built up by my west coast drive. I didn’t bat an eyelash about the four hour flight from LA to Atlanta, and the two hour flight from Atlanta to Philly seemed like nothing more than a quick trip to the supermarket. So that was nice.

When I finally got back to NYC on Tuesday afternoon, I didn’t have time to enjoy myself. Site Guy Brendan set about working on our little surprise (which should be up any day now) and on the following day, I returned to work. Which has been – how do you say? – entirely fucking horrible. Just horrible. But that is a topic for another day.

Tomorrow (hopefully and thank god), the conclusion: diary of the world’s worst vacation, volume four: how fucking enterprise extorted me out of $1000 (and why it’s a terrible idea to write a four-part series of anything).

[My original intention was to post this last night and get you part III today, but Uncle Jason has a bit of a drinking problem and had to tie on a major load last night. While we're at it, I'd like to send a big "Fuck you" to the bartender at 2A last night, who, in addition to being a dick all night (I know you like to talk to your friends buddy, but there are ten people in the entire bar, so I'd appreciate it if you didn't look over at me, go back to talking to your friends for three or four minutes, look over at me again, talk some more, then casually walk over to take my drink order), didn't buy me one single drink all night, despite the fact that I spent around $120 on booze there. If I see you on the street my friend, I will punch you in the fucking face. I'd also like to send a "Well, hello" to the bartender at the Library, who wears eye makeup better than any woman I've ever seen and made me such strong vodka tonics that I was mere minutes away from peeing the bed last night. And no, I don't feel great today. On with the fucking story...]

When I woke up on Tuesday, February 7, the morning I was supposed to fly back to New York, I felt like crap. I had been drinking pretty heavily each of the four nights I had spent in Seattle, but that I could handle. It was the lack of sleep that was getting to me. While staying at Ben’s, I slept on an air mattress in the middle of his living room. Between all the women I had in and out of that makeshift bed each night and Ben’s brother/roommate getting up at 6am each day to go to work (and seemingly making as much noise as possible when doing so), I was getting worn down from lack of solid sleep. And that does not make me a happy camper.

So when my alarm went off at 6am for my 8am flight, I snoozed it. I quickly fell back asleep only to wake up one hour later, one hour removed from my flight. Faced with the prospect of rushing out hungover to the airport to fly cross-country, I made a decision: I was not returning to NYC that day. I was going to drive to LA.

The seeds of the idea of driving to LA were planted the day before. I was fretting about going back to NYC, where I was certain I would lounge around doing nothing, wasting my days until I returned to work that following Monday. While touring around Seattle, my old roommate Ben told me about how after September 11 he drove from NYC to Seattle and considering the circumstances it was not a bad trip. I was intrigued.

I bandied about the idea of driving back to NYC but ultimately rejected it. My concerns were two-fold: one, I had to make it back to the city by Monday for work. Six days to drive 3000+ miles is a tall order (doable, but a tall order). Two, I would be driving through Idaho, Montana, Minnesota, and other northern states. It was early February. I had no desire to be trapped on a desolate road somewhere in North Dakota waiting for a blizzard to end. So that idea was nixed.

I still had my heart set on driving somewhere though, and I remembered my affinity for Los Angeles. I had a great time out there in August when I went out to pitch my show and hadn’t been back since. I knew because of the nature of my project that over the next few months I’d be heading out there again, perhaps several times, but I had a fever. And the only prescription was driving nineteen hours down there. Alone. And horny.

But I couldn’t pull the trigger. The night before I left I rejected the idea altogether, having crunched some numbers and decided it was too expensive. As of this writing, I still have not been paid for either of my projects. I last received a full paycheck on September 30, 2005. Since then, I’ve run through my savings, quickly used up my modest year-end bonus, and racked up several thousand dollars in credit card debt, maxing out two cards (one of them a platinum card). If I were to make this trip to LA, I’d have to call Mastercard to get my credit line extended. Aside from a rarely used AmEx corporate card that I was now abusing, I had only a few hundred dollars in my bank account and my $1200 rent was due in a week on the 15th. It just wasn’t financially responsible for me to take this trip.

But things like "being financial responsible" matter not when one is hungover. At 7am, I shut off my buzzing alarm, sat up in my air mattress with my half-boner, looked around the room, and said, "Fuck it – I’m going to LA."

And so the phone calls and preparation began. First, I needed to change my flight so that instead of flying out of Seattle that morning, I’d fly out of LA on Saturday. This was easily taken care of. Next, I needed to extend my credit limit with Mastercard. I held back the urge to blurt out "I’m a writer and I swear I’m going to get two big advances very soon" as the customer service rep waited with me while the computer decided my fate. The verdict: $1000 added to my credit limit. When he asked if I wanted more, I had to restrain myself from saying, "Yes please – maybe $5000?"

The last piece of the puzzle was the rental car. Having used Enterprise before and having been pleased with them, I rang up the dealer closest to Ben’s apartment. I explained my situation to the gentleman on the phone – how I needed a car to drive to LA – and he said that yes, he could help me with that. The one catch was that they were actually out of cars, so would I be willing to take…a minivan? I thought about it for a moment and imagined myself speeding down the highway in a Chrysler Town & Country as I threw my piss bottles out the window, blasting "Born to Run" from the stereo, singing it at the top of my lungs with tears pouring down my wind burned face. Fuck yeah I’d take a minivan. I headed over to the office and spent thirty minutes with the employees there, talking about how my plan was to get down to LA in three days, leaving Seattle on Tuesday and arriving in LA sometime on Thursday. I would return the car on Saturday morning. They all agreed it sounded like a good idea. Paperwork has signed, credit cards were charged, hands were shook, and I got the keys.

I printed out some directions and after getting a solemn promise from Ben that should anything happen to me on the road he, my roommate Brian, and our friends Jeremy and Nevin would serenade me at my funeral with a heartfelt rendition of "It’s So Hard To Say Goodbye (To Yesterday)", it was on. Road Trip 2006 had begun.

There are several great myths about me. While most of these revolve around my genitals (or lack thereof), one of the main myths is that I’m not exactly a "strong" driver. This myth started because yes, maybe I did fail my driving test twice. But the truth is that this myth is more self-created than anything. When I finally got my license, my friends were reluctant to let me drive anywhere, thinking I was a bad driver when really I failed my driving test because of parallel parking (not entirely true, but just go with it). But I saw that this worked to my advantage. In high school, I never had to drive to parties or worry about picking people up. Instead, I got chauffeured everywhere. This continued into college. I never had to take someone’s car to make a beer run because, hey, I suck at driving. And now even in NYC, where none of my friends have cars, I never have to drive the U-Haul when moving, for fear that I might lose control of it and crash it right through the front window of a Tasty D-Lite. Sweet.

Another thing about me that is actually true is that I am not a spontaneous person. I like to have everything in my life ordered and under control. All my life, I’ve eschewed things presented to me "at the last minute" for the safer route. Not this time, sucka.

So to prove to the world and to myself that I’m a competent driver and in order to do something that I never would normally do, I hopped on Interstate 5, where I’d spend the next three days driving down the West Coast.

***

I should take time now to thank all the readers who wrote in offering to meet up with me on my travels. I should have been clearer when I wrote on here about my plans. I never had any intention of doing a slow road trip, where I’d stop at interesting places along the way to take pictures and whatnot. My goal was to get to LA as quickly as possible. So when I asked if any of you all lived along I-5, I was hoping that some of you lived in the towns near where I’d spend my nights. For example, many Portlanders emailed me and offered to buy me a beer, but Portland is only 3.5 hours from Seattle. I didn’t think it would be wise to stop 3.5 hours into a 19 hour road trip for a ton of beers. At that rate, I’d be in LA in about a week. But because I had no idea where I’d be stopping for the night, I couldn’t plan it out properly and so didn’t meet with anyone whilst traveling. So I both apologize to those who wrote in and thank them for their kindness, even Nate in Longview, WA who said if I wanted, I could watch him and his girlfriend have sex. I’m going to have to take a rain check on that Nate, but thanks.

I think I was about 50 miles into the trip when I started asking myself, "What the fuck am I doing?" as my minivan sped down the interstate. [Editor's Note: I was going to name the minivan, but decided not to because that would be lame. Also, I couldn't come up with a cool name. The best I could come up with was "MOSS", which stands for "Minivan Of Sex and Sexuality", but that didn't stick. And I was completely alone, so I don't know who I'd be telling that the minivan was named MOSS, but I digress.]

As I mentioned, I was very hungover that first day. If at 50 miles I started doubting myself, at 150 I was losing it. About 200 miles into the trip I had to pull into a gas station to regain my composure. This is where having a minivan came in handy, as I was able to lay down in the back of the minivan for over an hour, resting, getting over my hangover, and dreaming about a hitchhiker breaking into the van, only to find me in the back. Alarmed, I would tell him that it was safe, that I meant no harm, and I’d ask him to join me. Then I would say, "Would you like a massage?" English not being his first language, he wouldn’t understand, so I’d show him my hands and start caressing his soft Vietnamese shoulders. Abruptly, we would begin making love to each other, like two mental patients on hallucinogenics. Afterward, we’d lay there together in the back of that minivan, panting heavily, and he’d stab me in the ribs, grab my cell phone, and run out of the van, never to be seen again. You can imagine that with fantasies such as these floating around my head it was hard to focus on driving.

Being alone with my thoughts, whether they involved a Vietnamese hitchhiker or not, was the main theme of the trip. Three days of driving in a van is a lot of time to spend without interacting with others. Sure, I called a lot of people to help pass the time, but it was largely me, the van, and the open road. To make matters worse, my iPod was not compatible with the radio (the newest iPod, which I have, is not compatible with iTrip). Therefore I had to listen only to local radio stations the entire time. I heard "Bohemian Rhapsody" three times in the first 78 miles. I heard the Train song "Drops of Jupiter" about 20 times altogether. But the new kings of radio are undoubtedly Maroon 5. Good lord. I probably heard "This Love", "She Will Be Loved", or "Sunday Mornings" about 100 times total. Ugh.

[The coolest song I heard while driving goes to Robert Palmer's "Sneaking Sally Through The Alley". And I'm not talking about the four minute popular version, but the "Put on Your Sailing Shoes - Hey Hey Julia - Sneaking Sally" medley. I don't know what station that was, but I was very happy to hear it. Anytime a song starts with "There's a lady in a turban/In a cocaine tree", well, that's going to pep the drive right up.]

But though it may sound trite, I really got some shit sorted out while driving. After the rough start, it was smooth sailing. It’s not like I learned anything new about myself, but I made some important decisions. For example, I decided that I am going to give up any homosexual inclinations that I have. I need to stop with that shit so that I can focus solely on heterosexuality. Perhaps, I reason, this will help me get laid (by women) more. But only time will tell.

I also learned that friends and family are overrated. I was alone on the road for three days all by myself and I did just fine. Sure, maybe it was a little lonely, but each night I did rent some pornography from my hotel, so that fixed me up right quick. I’m convinced that I could live the life of a hermit, so long as I had somewhere to put all my semen.

I learned many other things as well, about life, love, and fire. But I don’t want to reveal them all here. I’m going to save them for my second book, "Jerking Off At The Wheel: 115 Thoughts I Had While Driving and Fuck You Too." Look for it September 2008.

I could go into specifics: how I did 450 miles the first day, spending the night in Medford, OR, and 550 the next, staying in Kettlemen City, CA; how driving through the mountains of Southern Oregon in the dark was probably the most frightened I’ve ever been in my life; how breathtakingly beautiful the lake in Mount Shasta is; how the speed limit on I-5 in California is 70mph, and in one hour I traveled a record 81 miles; how I survived solely on Lunchables and diet coke; how I spent enough on gas to buy a small home in Kansas; and how my colon was surprisingly incredibly cooperative during the drive; but that’s not the point. The point is that I emerged from the trip a new man. A better man. I was able to take a break from the craziness of my life – all the women and the blowjobs and the alcohol and the beating off in the public bathrooms – and step back and reevaluate everything. I gained a clarity that months of therapy could not deliver and a peace that no amount of narcotics could give (well, maybe the part about the narcotics is not true, but you understand what I’m getting at). And for that I am most grateful.

On the third day, Thursday, February 9, when I pulled into Los Angeles in the early afternoon, the sun was shining, the palm trees were swaying, and it was 82º. When I gave my keys to the valet of my hotel, I looked over at MOSS, tipped my cap to him/her/it, and thought that if given the choice, I’d gladly do it all over again.

Boy was I fucking naive.

A few weeks ago, I randomly decided to head to Seattle for the Super Bowl. Faced with the prospect of returning to work, I decided to do something fun and spontaneous (read: exorbitantly more expensive than I ever imagined and intensely laborious). I booked a flight and was planned on being in Seattle from Thursday February 2 until Tuesday February 7.

I have three main friends out in Seattle: my old roommate Ben, my buddy Griff, and my friend Annie.

Long-time readers know about Ben, as he was a featured player on this site from its inception until June of 2005 when he moved back to Seattle, his hometown. I miss him, because he can drink like few other people I have ever known. Also he’s always happy, which is a nice contrast to my crippling bouts of depression.

Griff and I met freshman year of college at BC. When we first met, I told him I was on a baseball scholarship, a line he bought hook, line, and sinker. Since then we’ve been friends, mostly because he’s one of the few people who can truly tolerate my egomania. And he is Greek and I like having Greek friends. Also he knows a lot about music, though he once famously claimed that Hanson would be the best band in the world in five years. I understood his logic (if they could write catchy songs as 14 year-olds, they’d get better with age), but I will never let him live this down because it is a most retarded thing to say.

Annie and I also met freshman year of college and she’s been one of my best female friends since. And to answer your question, yes, we did make out, but it was out of pity. I went to BC with four friends from high school and she made out with three of them at various points of college (only making out – all PG stuff). I lorded this over her for about four years until one day a few years ago on my birthday when I was going on and on about “what’s wrong with me?” and “why am I not good enough for you?” and “it’s because I touched your roommate’s boob when she was passed out in that guy’s van, isn’t it?”, she suddenly kissed me. Then I shut up. I am a very simple man.

The point: I had some friends in Seattle I wanted to see and that made the trip worthwhile. Instead of going on and on about “We did this on Thursday…” and “Then on Friday we…”, I’ll just give the highlights.

Natural beauty

I’ve never seen a city as naturally beautiful as Seattle. It’s incredible. Keep in mind though that I am a city boy and my appreciation of natural beauty isn’t very sophisticated: the first time I saw a horse I thought it was a really big dog, I’m extremely excited when I get in a cab and there’s no feces and/or semen on the seat, and the closest I come to nature on a daily basis is the dying plant I have in my office (apparently plants need sunlight – who knew?). But Seattle has all sorts of water and mountains on either side and shit, it’s really pretty.

Of course, the weather is terrible, but I got a little lucky. It rained for the first two days, but the last two were gorgeous. Besides, I like the rain. One of my favorite things to do is to wake up hungover, look at the cold rain, and lay around in bed, doubting some of the choices I’ve made in my life. And you can do that pretty much every day in Seattle.

One thing that I wasn’t prepared for and was not sufficiently warned about was the presence of hills throughout the city. I stayed at Ben’s place and he lives on top of a very steep hill. We’re talking really steep here – the kind you have to stop halfway up because you’re out of breath and feel dizzy. And while I realize I’m not exactly a physical specimen, who the fuck builds a city on a bunch of hills? I mean, really? That just doesn’t seem like sound urban planning to me. And maybe I’m just bitter because while walking up the hill to Ben’s apartment I fell and two high school kids walking behind me made no attempt to hide their laughter. Asshole kids. Stupid hills.

Pretty ladies

The women of Seattle are attractive. Some of them are almost unconscionably attractive. They have a certain quality to them that women in LA and New York don’t have. They are genuine. They aren’t affected actresses or hipsters or power-broker career types, they just come as they are (and sometimes not at all – thank you, thank you very much). And I find this genuineness at once completely endearing and utterly disarming.

Real women scare me. I don’t know how to talk to them. Usually, when talking to women, I can work an angle based on what I perceive to be their pretension and I can manipulate this to my advantage (or, as Arrius would say, “hadvantage”). For example, I can talk to the actress/waitress types in LA because I can riff about my development deal with a major network. I can approach hipsters in NYC because I know a lot about bands that no one has ever heard of too. And I’m comfortable with the girls who work on Wall Street because, hey, I work three blocks away from Wall Street.

(Please note that I said I “can” talk to these girls. This does not mean I do talk to them. Usually I don’t talk to women at bars because I have too many things going on. You know, like buying shots and going to the bathroom and staring off into space wishing I looked like Nick Lachey.)

(And if you got that “hadvantage” reference without googling it, we truly are soulmates.)

But it is their very genuineness that makes these Seattle women unapproachable. I mean, what the hell am I supposed to talk to them about, real stuff? Like what I like to do and what I want from life? Who the hell does that when they’re trying to get laid? I’m not looking for a friend here – I’m looking for someone to wake up next to in the morning and to say to me, “I have never seen so much semen come from such small testes. When was the last time you were with a woman?” My approach, like many guys, is all about shock and awe: shock them with a couple of shots of Jager and awe them with your strength – whether it be the size of your biceps or how cool your band is or in my case how I have the colon of an eighty year-old man. Gotta play to your strengths in “da game.” I could not do this in Seattle, because the women there wouldn’t buy it. So instead I left it up to Ben.

Ben is one of my staunchest supporters when it comes to talking about my “fame” in front of new women. In NYC, he was constantly telling women about my blog, something that never failed to repel them. This particular weekend was no exception, as he told every girl within earshot, whether he knew her or not, that I was in People as one of the 50 hottest bachelors. I feel like I’ve beaten this over the head, but for one last time: I am not good-looking in real life. You might think I’m being coy or fishing for compliments, but I’m not. Seriously, if you want to meet up right now, let’s do so. I don’t care. I’m nuts.

Anyway, Ben’s persistence on letting everyone know about the People thing led to this exchange with one girl (who neither he nor I knew):

Ben: “My buddy Jason was in People magazine this summer as one of the 50 hottest bachelors – he’s kind of famous.” Girl: [to me] “Really?” Me: [trying to be bashful but imaging what she'd look like in my attic, covered in hot sauce and wearing a toolbelt] “Yeah, it was this past summer.” Girl: [a beat] “Geez…what happened since then?”

Let’s all say it together: “OH SNAP!” Surprisingly, I didn’t go home with that girl. I think she was like gay or something anyway.

So though beautiful, I was intimidated by the women of Seattle. All I can say is: good for them. If I’m intimidated by you, that probably means that I’m not going to be able to harm you in any way. So congratulations – you figured me out.

The Homeless

I wrote about this before, but I never got an explanation: are the poor-looking people that fill the streets of Seattle homeless, meth (or other drug) addicts, or just hippies? Because I really couldn’t tell if they were going to ask me for change or ask me to buy their new cd. Help me out here, people.

Super Bowl

By now, the Super Bowl is old news, so I don’t want to get too into it. It was a boring, poorly-played game. I still think Pittsburgh would have won, but they won in the worst way: horrible officiating and even worse clock management. Two things that should never interfere with professional football.

I was wrong about my prediction, but prior to the game, I did write:

…one of these quarterbacks is going to have a very bad day. We’re talking a Jim Kelly/John Elway vintage 80’s/early 90’s game: 13/28, 140 yards, 1 TD, 3 INT day.

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I submit as Exhibit A Ben Roethlisberger’s stats for Super Bowl XL: 9/21, 123 yards, 0 TD, 2 INT (1 rushing TD). Sure, my football picks have been crap all year long, and both my fantasy football teams finished out of the playoffs for the first time ever, but I can take solace in at least predicting that one QB would have a bad day. Can you give me at least that comfort?

The Super Bowl party was an enjoyable experience. Ben has a sixteen-seat movie theater in his apartment building (I know – must be nice) and he had about two dozen friends over to watch the game, which was catered like no other Super Bowl party I’ve seen before: multiple kinds of dip, pulled pork sandwiches, and some delicious stuff that I can’t even tell you what it’s called because I’ve never seen it before.

Sadly, my enjoyment of the game was limited. I was so hungover from Saturday night that I watched the third quarter from Ben’s apartment, away from the crowd. When I deemed myself fit to return, I ate, ate, and ate.

I obviously extended my championship jinx to Seattle and I apologize for this. The only thing that I can say is, well, get over it. Losing sucks. Welcome to the club.

EMP

Seattle has a museum called the Experience Music Project. It’s basically a hideous building with all sorts of music crap in it, from memorabilia to historical exhibits to interactive booths with instruments where you can jam with other people.

Back in my day, I was a nasty guitar player. I’ve written before how I was in 1.5 bands in college and how it was a great time, in no small part because after one show I got a blowjob in the woods. Which was great. But I’ve given up guitar because I don’t really have the time for it anymore, what with all the things I have going on. But I still love music, as you all know from my recommendations on here. So the EMP was a chance to reconnect with that part of myself, the same one that has died after years of neglect and sexual abuse.

This “reconnection” involved me playing guitar as loudly and as awesomely as I possibly could, especially when females entered my vicinity. I am ashamed of how blatant this was. For example, I’d be playing by myself, just jamming away, with a volume level of seven. When I saw that some girls would soon walk by, I’d push that volume up to eleven (this one went to eleven) and do my best Hendrix impression (“Villanova Junction” is my go-to song and has historically always gotten into the ladies’ pants). You won’t believe it, but this didn’t work. No matter how loudly or awesomely I played, I was not fellated. Which was why, I think, I gave up playing guitar in the first place.

And after I felt terrible about the whole thing. Showboating and carrying on whilst playing guitar in order to attract women – is this what I have come to? I really have nothing left, or so little left, that I have to rely on some mediocre guitar playing to impress a gaggle of sixteen year-old girls on a class trip? Sadly, the answer is yes. A major fucking yes. And I am ashamed. Majorly fucking ashamed.

(But in my defense, they were pretty hot sixteen year-olds. They just didn’t make them like that back in my day.)

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

Seattle was the best part of my trip. I enjoyed the city, I enjoyed the company, and I enjoyed looking at the women. I woke up at 7am on Tuesday morning for my 8am flight, hungover and exhausted, and I made an impetuous decision. And it was all downhill from there.

(Tomorrow, tune in for “diary of the world’s worst vacation, volume two: seattle to la”.)

First, many thanks to Site Guy Brendan for stepping in yesterday and keeping the information flowing. While I don’t think I cursed quite that much in the voicemail I left him, it is entirely possible that I did drop that many f bombs. So thank you Brendan for helping out when I was incapacitated and actually doing something I asked you to do, which is different from our regular routine of meemailing you, you not responding for about ten days, me asking your roommate if you’re pissed at me, and then you finally getting back to me like nothing ever happened. But I don’t think it’s appropriate to air our dirty laundry here, so let’s move on to other news…

I’m back. Well, not really "back", but close to it. As I write this it is after midnight in my mom’s house in Philly, where I will be spending the night. I’ll get into all of this in greater detail later, but I was supposed to return to NYC on Saturday night. Because of the coming storm, all flights were preemptively canceled. This was fine, because it meant I got to spend another night in LA (which I didn’t take advantage of because rather than going out and having fun, I stayed in to really focus on worrying about having to fly in a blizzard. A twelve pack, two Xanax, and two episodes of "Law and Order" later, I had to have three Mexican janitors help me off the bathroom floor and feed me ice cream to get me to stop crying so loudly).So my flight was then rescheduled for Sunday. I woke up Sunday morning, checked out of my hotel, left for the airport and learned that the NYC airports (JFK and LaGuardia), Newark airport and Philadelphia International Airport were all closed. Fucking sweet. Having nowhere to go, I checked into the Holiday Inn at
LAX on Sunday, where I spent the day/night flipping out, drinking beer, masturbating and eating an entire Chicken Alfredo pizza (which may be the highlight of the whole trip: chicken, alfredo sauce, ricotta cheese, onions, and a little garlic. Yes, it was as good as it sounds.)Today (Monday), I woke up this morning and took a four hour flight from LA to Atlanta. After a layover in Hotlanta, I then flew to Philly (two hours). It was actually only six hours in the air, but probably eleven hours in airports with miserable, miserable people.

So I am glad to be in Philly right now, especially since I completely raided my mom’s fridge. My mom and brother are going to wake up in the morning and think that a gang of raccoons ravaged the kitchen: the refrigerator door is open, garbage is strewn about, the sink is running and filled with dirty dishes, and there’s poop on the floor. And I’m totally ok with all of this.

Tomorrow (Tuesday), I will head back to NYC where I will lay in bed until Wednesday, my new return-to-work date. So that’s where I’m at now. The point(s) is (/are) three-fold

1. I obviously haven’t been posting that much because of the lack of a computer, but I will be posting quite a lot over the next few days. To put it mildly, some stuff happened. I think I’ll break it down into four posts: 1) Seattle; 2) The Seattle to LA road trip; 3) LA; and 4) The Biggest (And Costliest) Mistake of My Life (also called "I Will Hold A Grudge Against the Cocksuckers at Enterprise Until My Dying Day"). So save the emails telling me to get on the ball – it’s coming. My favorite of the bunch was from a cute girl who sent her picture along with a complaint in order to (I suppose) entice me into writing. I handled this in the only way I know how: I asked her if she’d like to engage in role-playing cyber sex – she’d be the Southern belle mistress of the house who isn’t getting any affection from her cold husband even though she looks as beautiful and her breasts are just as
   perky as the day they married twenty years ago, and I’d be the strong but sensitive house slave who helps mend hurt animals, write poems, and has a penis like a saber. As of this writing, I have not received a response.
   
2. We had, and still have, a special "surprise" for the two-year anniversary. But because of the weather and the fact that Site Guy Brendan and I have not been able to communicate, we decided to "release" this surprise one week later (Monday, February 20). To this end, please be advised that the site will be down for much of Sunday, February 19. Not like you
   fucking care, but I’m just putting it out there.
   
3. Happy Valentine’s Day. I don’t celebrate this holiday, mostly because I’m terribly lonely, but also because it’s just totally fucking overhyped and dumb. However, if you are feeling in the mood, just read what I wrote last year about Valentine’s Day, when I wasn’t so bitter about love (and lust – especially lust).
   

That’s it. More to come tomorrow and the next few days. And I promise you something: I am never leaving New York City again. Ever. You can take that to the bank.(If that expression even exists.)

So here we are two years later…as is typically the case wtih big events on the site Jason calls me frantically the night before to make sure everything is set. This time around when my phone rang I ignored him, went back to watching Desperate Housewives and eating my ice cream. A few hours later I checked the message. Below is a mostly accurate rendering of the message he left. I spoke with him and I am sure he will explain himself more fully once he’s back on the east coast. Thanks and Happy Anniversary to us – Site Guy Brendan Jason’s Message:

Brendan, sorry it’s come to this but I think I’m going to have make you do a post tomorrow because I’m stuck in fucking LA, again, and all the fucking computers here are broken.

Tomorrow I have to fly from LA to Atlanta, then from Atlanta to Philly then take a fucking train to New York. So it’s a fucking disaster. I’m broke. I owe Enterprise $1000. I can’t get to any computer and tomorrow is the two year anniversary of the blog. So happy anniversary to us. It’s awful.

I’m in LA and safe and fine and everything. The road trip was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made (seriously), but I’ll get into that later.

What concerns me now is that I fly into NYC on Saturday night, arriving at 8pm. Coincidentally, there is supposed to be a major fucking snowstorm on Saturday night in NYC. And the flipping the fuck out begins…now.

The rest of my time here in LA, which has been wonderful so far, is now ruined by the threat of this storm. If it were any other time, I’d extend my stay by two days just to be safe and return after the storm had passed and the airport had been de-snowed. But alas, I have to go to work on Monday, for the first time in four months. Sweet.

There’s not really a point to this post. My original intention was to let you all know that I successfully made the 19 hour drive down the west coast and was safe and sound in LA. But then I checked Yahoo weather, made a couple of phone calls to friends back east, and have decided to put myself on a regiment of .25mg of Xanax every four hours from now until Monday morning. I knew I should have gone to medical school.

In sooth, I’m not concerned about dying in a plane crash. Well, I am concerned about that, because that would not be so awesome. But realistically, I’m more concerned about shitting myself on the plane. On the flight over to Seattle, we hit some major turbulence over the Rockies and I thought I was going to poop my pants. I don’t mean this in the metaphorical “I was very frightened” sense (although I was), but in the physical “feces will come out of my heinie and spill down my leg and all over my seat” sense.

And that was only a little turbulence. If on this flight to snowy NYC I’m looking out the window while we’re descending and I see snow whipping around the plane and the whole thing is shaking, well, I’m pretty much going to have to put a cork in my ass to prevent a hershey squirt. And I don’t think I’m going to be able to get the cork in there in time.

So I foresee a turbulent descent and landing and a poo accident on my part. Then there’ll be that weird moment when the lights come on the plane and everyone stands up to get their overhead luggage and it will stink like shit and everyone will be making weird faces and maybe some little kid will say, “Mommy, what smells like doo?” and I’ll be red-faced standing in a semi-crouched position, waiting for everyone else to get off the plane before me so that I can get to the bathroom (which my jacket wrapped around my waist) as secretly as possible. So yeah, I can’t wait for that.

I knew I should have just come back to NYC on Tuesday. Stupid fucking bad hangover decisions.

I woke up this morning late for my flight back to NYC and feeling very hungover. So I made a decision. I am not flying from Seattle to NYC today. Instead I am driving from Seattle to Los Angeles and will return to NYC on Saturday from LA.

I think I began regretting this decision even before I made it, but it’s too late to turn back now. I can be impulsive when I’m hungover and I’ve already rescheduled my flight. So today, and for the next two days, I’m about to embark on a 19 hour drive. Alone. And I stink at driving.

(Also, did I mention I’m viciously hungover right now? And that I’ve slept about four hours? And that I absolutely love Seattle, although they could probably call it “Homeless, Washington” and that’d be acceptable? I mean, I’m not sure if these people are homeless, meth addicts, or hippies, but they sure are everywhere. But we’ll get to this another time.)

I think this road trip stems not just from the hangover, but also from the fact that on February 13, I return to work full-time. I am NOT looking forward to this. So as a send-off before I return to the corporate world, I figured that I’d do something I’ve never done before and take advantage of a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. By driving 19 hours.

So I apologize to you, my friends and lovers, for neglecting you as of late. But this is called the “incipient stages of a nervous breakdown”, so I appreciate your support during this fun and exciting time.

If you live along I-5, which I will be traveling on for over 1100 miles, drop me a line. But since my email will be spotty, do so at eiwwme@gmail.com, which was the “reader email” for the old blog before we converted to this one (I can’t check jm.com email from my Treo). I have no idea if we’ll be able to meet up (since I don’t know in what cities I’ll be stopping for the night, though I’m planning on being in LA Thursday and Friday nights) and I never do this, but I figure that I’ll be getting very lonely around Tacoma (45 minutes from Seattle) and might enjoy some company during this special coming of age journey. Also, if you can drive, that’d be great, since there’s pretty much no way I can do this alone. And if you have a camera, that’s an added plus, since I’m pretty sure we can get some great footage of me destroying and/or urinating in a rental car.

So that’s it. For the rest of you, I’ll be posting again with regularity on February 13, which also happens to be the two-year anniversary of the blog (and I have a hunch something special might happen that day — wink wink). Until then, wish me luck. And I love you.

(And if this is formatted weird, do not blame me, but instead blame Macs. Horrible computers. Just horrible.)

First, I’m here and alive in Seattle. I arrived last night after a long-ass flight, but I made it. I didn’t even take Xanax, since I’m trying to use these pills less for psychological and more for recreational purposes. I probably should have though; over the Rockies, we hit some serious turbulence that left everyone in the plane gasping. Fortunately, the flight was very empty, so I had an entire row to myself. When the turbulence started, I gripped my chair like prisoner being put to death by electrocution and held on for dear life, whimpering occasionally. So I’m glad no one was next to me to see that.

It’s a lovely city, but I didn’t go out last night, though. My old roommate Ben (who I’m staying with out here) and I split a case of Sierra Nevada’s and watched “Wedding Crashers”, which is quickly becoming one of my favorite movies, leaving much more hungover than I expected to be today. I have a feeling that all weekend we’re going to be screaming “Erroneous!” or “Play a little game called �just the tip’ � just to see how it feels” or “Mom! MEATLOAF! Fuck!” I also predict that in doing this we will be simultaneously awesome and also drive every woman in a thirty-foot radius away from us. I’m totally ok with this.

But now, onto the Super Bowl pick-

Looking at it across the board, Pittsburgh has it (bear with me). There’s the three road wins against the 1-2-3 teams; Big Ben looking like Joe Montana; the Jerome Bettis coming home/possible last game factor; the shit-talking factor (good job, Jerramy); the fact that there is going to be about 12 Steelers fan for every 1 Seahawk fan at the stadium (and that’s conservative); the whole destiny thing (they barely made thee playoffs but have dismantled each opponent); and the most important factor of all: The AFC has been much better than the NFC all season long. To get to the Super Bowl, Seattle beat an OK Washington team and dismantled a Carolina team who was using their third and fourth string running backs, allowing them to triple team Steve Smith and completely befuddle Jake Delhomme. Meanwhile, Pittsburgh goes on the road and beats Cincy (without Carson Palmer, I’ll give you that), destroys Indy (remember when they were 13-0?), and easily handles Denver at Mile High, where they were undefeated all season and had previously dispatched of the defending champs the week before.

But still�.

Maybe it’s the East Coast media bias, but the Seahawks are a good fucking team. I know that their defense was ranked something like 17 in the regular season, but they have a knack for not only making big plays but also for controlling the tempo of games. And when you have the league MVP, you can’t be too bad on the other side of the ball.

There are a lot of different angles you can take, but I think the game comes down to the quarterbacks. I know this may seem like a “Well, duh” moment, but I’m working on a hunch here: one of these quarterbacks is going to have a very bad day. We’re talking a Jim Kelly/John Elway vintage 80’s/early 90’s game: 13/28, 140 yards, 1 TD, 3 INT day.

I have no idea which QB will do this. None. And not only that, I’m afraid to even guess. Since I am a mush, if I say it’s Ben, he will be the Super Bowl MVP. If I say it’s Hasselbeck, all the Seattle people I’m hanging out with will ostracize me for the weekend. But I’m just going to say one of them will be bad. And now on with the pick.

Seattle (+4) over Pittsburgh

I don’t know if this means that Seattle will win, but to me, Pittsburgh seems like a sucker’s bet. EVERYONE is picking the Steelers, and the majority of them are wondering why the line isn’t higher. One of the fundamental rules of gambling is to go against the majority. If the majority won all the time, Vegas wouldn’t be able to afford such talents as Wayne Newton and Sigfried and Roy (are they performing again yet?). Everyone knows a lot about Pittsburgh, but few know a lot about Seattle. If I’m making a bet, I’m going to go with that unknown and against the majority. It might be viewed as a big chance, but I wouldn’t be where I am now if I didn’t take big risks (“where I am now” meaning sitting in my boxers writing a post on Ben’s Mac � by the way Ben, I clogged your toilet).

So happy Super Bowl everyone. Let’s hope for a good game and please, don’t drink and drive. Be back next week.