At 12:19am on April 1, my month-long flirtation with vegetarianism came to an end.  And it was not a moment too soon.

I wish that I could say something positive about not eating meat (fish and other seafoods were allowed), but I’ve got nothing.  It didn’t make me feel any better physically.  It’s not like that by cleansing my body of meat products I became a better athlete, worker, lover, or person.  This is probably because I replaced protein and vitamin-rich meat not with fish and vegetables, but pasta and pizza.  LOTS of pasta and pizza.

I didn’t feel morally better.  As I’ve said, I firmly believe that God put animals on this earth for us to dominate, eat, and perhaps train to perform simple household chores.  So I could care less if I saved a few chickens or cows.  They’re born to be eaten, so if I felt anything, it was guilt about not taking advantage of the plentiful bounty that God has provided us (especially when so many of His children can’t). 

I didn’t feel sexier.  A lot of women readers wrote in and said that I should try to use my vegetarianism to impress women.  The women who suggested this obviously don’t know me very well.  Any sex appeal (and I use that word in the loosest possible sense) I have is based on being a man, a real man, an alpha male.  I have a beard and lots of body hair; I’m fat and have fat boy strength; I like drinking beer, watching sports, and yelling; I get jealous if other guys talk to you and will beat up any co-worker who hits on you (never mind that I listen to Sade in the shower and have a good cry).  Vegetarianism is the antithesis of my "man" persona and is essentially emasculating.  So in between taking shots of whiskey and yelling about titties and "god damn Mexicans", dropping "I’m a vegetarian" didn’t work out very well.   

I did, however, feel a little superior.  I found myself looking down on the meat-eating peasants, feeling much more sophisticated than the assholes lining up in Burger King for a meat fix.  But that was quickly replaced by jealousy, because, well, I wanted some Burger King, too.   

On Friday night, March 31, I had dinner with two friends.  We went to the restaurant in the swankalicious 60 Thompson.  I normally don’t go to such classy establishments, but a buddy was in town on business and expensed the meal. 

Long story short, the point is that my last vegetarian meal was delicious: fish cakes, tuna tartar, and chilean sea bass.  And a lot of wine.

After leaving the dinner, I joined my roommate Brian and some friends for drinks.  But I was itching.  I knew at midnight I could have meat, and god damn it, that’s what I was going to do. 

So just before midnight, I pulled what my roommate Brian calls an "Irish exit" – I left the bar without telling anyone.  I said I was going to make a call and just kept on walking.  I was going to Bereket.

Why I decided that my first meat-meal in over 30 days would come from a middle-aged Turkish man slicing processed meat of questionable origin off a spit, I do not know.  But when I started digging into that doner kebab at 12:19am, it was all good.

…Until I was done, when my stomach staged a small revolt.  Perhaps even a revolution.  Over the next day and a half, I was hurting.  I am no stranger to gastrointestinal pain, but this was something new.  And not good.

But I soldiered on: bacon, egg, and cheese bagel for breakfast, chicken salad sandwich for lunch, chicken parm dinner.  This was only the beginning.

I’ve been eating meat a breakneck pace and my body seems to have righted myself.  Just in time too, because I’m going to Philly tonight, and you can bet your ass that when my dad picks me up from the train station he and I are going to Jim’s and I’m getting TWO steaks, extra whiz, without.  I have a boner just thinking about this. 

So it’s over, dead and done.  Thank god.  It was a stupid and miserable experience, but I have a (small) measure of happiness having proved to myself that I could do it.  So to my friends who doubted me, a ha!  Take that, bitches.

(To which they have been replying, "Yeah, but you were miserable for a month, so you kinda lose."  Irrelevant.  Totally irrelevant.)

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This article has, hands down, the best headline/lead I’ve ever read:

Pregnant woman beaten at baby shower
Police: Fight escalated over whether woman gave 5-year-old beer
SPRINGFIELD, Massachusetts (AP) — An argument at a baby shower escalated into a brawl in which one man was shot and the pregnant guest of honor was beaten with a stick, police said.

I mean, call off the search for this year’s Pulitzer Prize winner and immediately give it to this person.  THAT is how you open an article. 

And it only gets better (if that’s even possible), as the main people involved are named Aristotle, Jazz, and Juan.  Sure, it’d be better if instead of Juan we had a "Pluto" or perhaps "Banana", but I’ll take Aristotle and Jazz.

Fucking Massholes, always shooting people up at baby showers and beating mother fuckers with sticks.  You really can’t take them anywhere. 

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Last night, I was walking home from picking up dinner at Sea, the best Thai restaurant in the world, when I came up two semi-attractive hipsterish tourists.  They appeared to have Eastern European accents.  I had my iPod on at the time, but that didn’t stop them from asking me for directions.

Girl: "Hi, do you know where Avenue A is?"

Now, I’m always nice to tourists.  If I see people on the street looking at a map and pointing in different directions, I will usually proactively go up to them to ask them if they need help.  In this way, I balance out my karma, since most of the time I wish death by dog attack on all the fucking tourists who clog my street and walk at a snail’s pace when all I want to do is get home with my laundry and make some really crappy meal. 

Also, these girls were more than good-looking enough.  So I had to show off a little.

Me: "Yes, it’s two blocks down that way.  This is Second, it’ll go First, then after that, it’s Avenue A."
Girl: "Are you sure?"
Me: "Yes, I’m sure – I’ve been living in New York for 51 years."
Girl: [surprised at my age] "Really?"
Me: "No, but I still know where Avenue A is." 

At this point, one might expect a chuckle or at least some acknowledgement of the clever joke, but instead, Girl looked at me strangely, didn’t say anything, and was pulled away by her friend. 

My question: um, what the fuck?

I wanted to run after them and say, "Really?  Nothing?  Not a laugh or even a thank you?  Nothing?  Are you sure?  Do you get the joke?  I know I look older than my age – I’m 26, by the way - but telling two strangers I’m 51?  That’s not funny to you?  No?" 

I don’t think I’m particularly neurotic with my humor – I’ll be the first to admit when something’s not funny (like, for example, this blog for the past, oh, eight or so months), but come on.  That was a pretty solid little joke.  I wasn’t expecting her to drop to her knees and fellate me right then and there, speaking in hushed Ukrainian, telling me how my bird tastes like broccoli, but a little something would have been nice.  Hell, all I wanted was a smile and a thank you.  And I got walked away from.

Fucking tourists.  This is what I get for being nice to them.   

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I was talking to a female friend this weekend when I made some lame joke about blue balls.  My female friend said, "Yeah, they don’t exist."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Blue balls, they don’t exist."

She then proceeded to tell me that it’s a scientific fact that blue balls are all psychological, a product of a man’s frustration upon not having an orgasm.  There is no real physical pain, just mental frustration/anguish.

I informed her that blue balls do, in fact, exist, as I have had them several times.

She said it was all in my head.

I said it wasn’t.

This went back and forth for quite a while, and for some reason, got me more fired up than I had been in years.  How can a woman, who does not (presumably) have testes, talk to me with any authority about testes?

It was eventually settled when I went on the internet and proved that blue balls, technically called vasocongestion, do exist.  According to Discovery Health:

When a man becomes sexually excited, the arteries carrying blood to the genital area enlarge, while the veins carrying blood from the genital area are more constricted than in the non-aroused state.

This uneven blood flow causes an increase in volume of blood trapped in the genitals and contributes to the penis becoming erect and the testicles becoming engorged with blood. During this process of vasocongestion the testicles increase in size 25-50 percent.

If the male reaches orgasm and ejaculates, the arteries and veins return to their normal size, the volume of blood in the genitals is reduced and the penis and testicles return to their usual size rather quickly.

If ejaculation does not occur there may be a lingering sensation of heaviness, aching, or discomfort in the testicles due to the continued vasocongestion. This unpleasant feeling has popularly been called blue balls, perhaps because of the bluish tint that appears when blood engorges the vessels in the testicles.

This was news to me.  I always thought that blue balls were the result of semen that had left the testes in preparation for ejaculation getting stuck in the vas deferens, the tube that connects the balls to the bird, but apparently I was wrong. 

This was news to me.  I always thought that blue balls were the result of semen that had left the testes in preparation for ejaculation getting stuck in the vas deferens, the tube that connects the balls to the bird, but apparently I was wrong. 

In fairness to my female friend, who wished to remain nameless here, Discovery Health goes on to say:

The condition usually does not last long and the level of pain associated with blue balls is usually minor and can be exaggerated. Most men have been socialized to ejaculate when they get an erection during sexual activity. Failure to ejaculate and to feel orgasm often adds frustration and disappointment to the reality of the physical sensation.

Ok, yeah, sure, maybe part of the pain is psychological.  But guess what?  It sucks when some drunk chick is rubbing your bird through your jeans for a half hour and then passes out, leaving you with a chaffed penis, a raging boner, and some chick you just meet at the all-night Chinese food place an hour before snoring in your bed.  Also, she has a weird smell to her, kinda like formaldehyde or maybe like warm bleu cheese.

[By the way, ladies: it is awesome to rub a guy's bird through/on top of his pants.  Maybe it's the whole high school element to it, but it's incredible.  I once hooked with up a girl in college for two months because she did this to me, even though she was basically my enemy and even kinda looked like me, too.  It was worth it for the bird-through-the-pants rubs.] 

The point is that blue balls exist.  They are real.  They suck.  And I get them all the time.  Hell, I’ve had very good hugs give me blue balls, but I don’t want to get into this now.   

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This guy is better than me at playing the ukulele.  And not just because I can’t play the ukulele. 

My natural inclination is to hate this person for being such a good musician.  For example, I’d remind viewers to take into consideration that his parents probably forced him into playing the piano for four hours a day starting at age two.  Because we all know how Asian parents are all about forcing their kids to play music.  And karate – they love karate too.

I’d also point out that the ukulele is like the guitar, but for beginners.  Not only is it considerably smaller than a guitar, meaning there is less ground to cover, but it’s also just the bottom four strings of a guitar.  So if you can play guitar, you can play ukulele.

[Actually, I’m not even sure if this is true.  There are, I think, different types of ukuleles.  I’ve only played one, but I know it was tuned the same as a guitar.  So that’s what I’m going with.]

But even through my hate-filled jealousy, I have to say: wow.  Totally fucking awesome.  Sick, even. 

Now someone please buy me a ukulele.  Maybe I can learn "Something" and put up a dueling video, but instead of playing really well, I’ll just film myself in the shower playing and singing and breaking into "Slow Ride".

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Six Songs

"Friday’s Child"  Them
The two disc The Story of Them Featuring Van Morrison is one of the five best cds I own.  If you even marginally like Van Morrison, I suggest you get this cd.  It’s a bunch of dirty-ass men from Northern Ireland playing straight rock.  Maybe it’s because I’m the perfect combination of mentally, physically, and emotionally drained, but this is not a song; this is a moment.  Really beautiful stuff. 

"Apple Tree"  Wolfmother
If Jack White wrote half a song and Ozzy and Tony Iommi wrote the other half, it would probably sound like this.  Hell, it might even be this song.  Great riff at the end there, when the guitar and bass double up.  I’ve recently grown to appreciate hard rock as I continue my descent into madness, and I look forward to rocking out to these guys in the future. 

(And yes, I realize that if I keep recommending heavy rock songs I’m going to have to stop talking about "riffs", but I’ll work on it.)

"You’re The Nearest Thing To Heaven"  Johnny Cash
I’d like to meet a girl who says, "All I want is for a guy to sing this song to me."  I think that would be quite nice.    

"Tymps (The Sick In The Head Song)"  Fiona Apple
In the pantheon of Famous Women That I’ve Been In Love With, there are many notable names, including Sarah Michelle Gellar, Jennifer Love Hewitt, Emma "Baby Spice" Bunton, Elisha Cuthbert, Josie Maran.  But the longest imaginary love affair I’ve had – by far – has been with Fiona Apple.  Since "Shadowboxer", those blue eyes and that total fucking craziness have haunted my dreams and sent me into fits of desire and longing.  It occurred to me only recently that the album Tidal was released in 1996.  That’s ten years ago.  Ten fucking years!  Am I the only one who’s shocked by that?

Anyway, this is another one off her new album.  Hearing it, the fires of my love are stoked with the same intensity as did those songs on Tidal, and it makes me feel all warm inside (especially when she sings "Or I just really used to love him…" over a nifty little chord progression).  There are few artists that I feel non-negotiable about, but if you don’t like Fiona Apple, I don’t know if we can be friends.  Sorry.  Find yourself another humorist-who-happens-to-have-a-blog-but-we’re-trying-to-get-away-from-the-"blogger"-title-and-go-with-"humorist"-instead-because-"blogger"-carries-too-much-baggage to send your naked pictures to. 

"Formula, Cola, Dollar Draft"  Marah
This band is so fucking good I want to pee myself.  This song is so fucking good I want to quit my job, grow my beard out, and ride the rails with only a box of condoms, a banjo, and my geeeetar.  If you can play banjo and would like to play along to the outro with me, please email me asap. 

"Devil’s Daughter"  Silvertide
Speaking of songs that sound like they’re by other artists but are still very good, this song sounds very much like The Black Crowes.  I’m tempted to say it sounds exactly like The Black Crowes, but I actually don’t know that much about either band to make such a strong comparison (because suddenly I’m against making grandiose comparisons or something). 

Anyway, I’d like to make a video for this song.  It’d have a cheesy early 90’s feel and be set in a dusty Texas bar.  The band would be in the bar, along with some rough looking locals.  The video would start when the girl walks in the bar, looking all prim and proper and sits down at the bar.  For the next few minutes of the video, there’d be splits: the band gets up to perform and starts rocking out, with cuts to guys hitting on the chick.  She keeps rejecting them, but as the song continues, you can see the girl getting turned on – not by the guys, but by the song.  She keeps patting the sweat from her forehead, biting her lip, maybe unbuttoning her blouse a little.

Then, out of nowhere, I come out of the bathroom.  I’m wearing the same outfit that the Hamburgler wears.  When our eyes meet, she pushes herself off her stool and stands up, panting and sweating.  I approach her with the sexual confidence of a man who has slept with over thirty women. 

Then during the solo, we have a dance off.  The camera alternates between up close shots of our eyes, shots from our points of view (i.e. me watching her dance, her watching me dance), and views from the ceiling, as we try to out do each other. 

All the locals are standing around in a circle cheering us on.  We are both extremely sexy; she swaying her hips back and forth and rubbing all up on herself, and me, licking myself lips, nodding my head "Yes" seductively and squinting my eyes just a little bit, and occasionally spinning around and pulling down my pants a little, revealing some nice ass shots. 

Then, just when it couldn’t get any hotter, we both pull out guns and start shooting up the bar (the band continues to play unharmed).  We shoot the shit out of everyone and chaos erupts – bottles breaking, people getting shot and failing over tables, gunsmoke filling the room.  She hops behind to rob the cash register while I continue shooting mother fuckers.   We then run out of the bar into a waiting getaway car, driven by none other than the late Jerry Orbach (digitized, of course). 

The video ends with the band playing the song in the middle of desert.  Jerry is outside the car, rocking out and smoking a cigarette.  The car is rocking to the beat of the song, as the viewer picks up that the girl and I are inside making love.  As the song comes to a close, the video ends on the car stopping rocking.  A used condom flies out the window.  Video closes on an up close of the used condom.  Fin. 

If any of you reading this know the band, please pass this along to them as a de facto video proposal.  Thank you.    

If any of you reading this know the band, please pass this along to them as a de facto video proposal.  Thank you.