Articles Archive for May 2006
I’m leaving for Jamaica tomorrow (Thursday) morning. I will not return to NYC until Wednesday, May 31. I’m working next Thursday, June 1, and then heading up to Boston after work for the weekend for my five year reunion at BC. I’ll be back in NYC full-time on Monday, June 5.
I don’t know if I’ll be able to post until then. But I’m thinking that I might. Of all the people going to Jamaica, I’m the only single guy going (it’s all couples and families). I should amend that; I’m the only single person going. So at the ends of evenings, when others are retiring to their rooms to make romance with their loved ones, I’ll be setting up shop at the computer, with a pina colada and porno playing. If they have internet access, I’ll put up a post.
Wish me luck. I’m pretty much over my fear of flying. By “pretty much”, I mean I’m not afraid of flying over the continental US. If you think about it, anywhere you are, you are within 200 miles of an airport in the US. Since planes travel at around 500 miles per hour, that means you’re, uh, close to an airport should a need for an emergency landing arise. But when you’re flying over the ocean and the shit hits the fan, start praying. I suppose crashing into the Caribbean is preferable to crashing into the cold, dark Atlantic, since the water is warmer and there are craploads of islands there. But one thing that the Caribbean has that the mid-Atlantic does not is lots and lots of sharks.
(I should probably stop talking about this now and instead go get another glass of wine. Did I mention that I have to wake up in less than four hours?)
Have a good holiday weekend.
Last night, I was planning on meeting an ex-girlfriend for a drink after work. She’s engaged now, moving out the city, starting her grown-up life. Meanwhile, I’ve been pissing in a cup and throwing it out our bathroom window because the toilet’s broken and spent most of the last week organizing and renaming the porn on my computer.
(For example, "HOTT YOUNG TEEN GETS FUCKED AND CUM" was renamed "Jeans in the Shower", because the guy, T.T. Boy, wears jeans while having sex with a girl in the shower. I also made it so that prominent starlets’ names appear first, for easy sorting. For example, I have about seven Briana Banks clips on the computer, but instead of having names like "Evan Stone-Briana Banks fuck on bed" and "Hot Secretary Big Tits Briana Banks," they are now called "Briana Banks - Sexy Time on Bed with E. Stone" and "Briana Banks – A Celebration of Breasts." This took all weekend. And I’m totally ok with that.)
(And it’s not really a cup, but rather a seldom-used piece of Tupperware.)
I was hungover all day, but as it got closer to 5:30pm, closing time, I started to turn a corner. But before I left the office, I decided to take a poop.
I did my thing in my favorite bathroom. I couldn’t find anything good to print out and read, so I just played Monopoly on my cell phone. After my standard 15 minutes, I finished and went back to my office.
When I got back to my office, my message light was on. We have a system in our system whereby another person in the office can leave you a message without leaving a voicemail. When you see your light is on, you hit a button and it will show, "Jason Mulgrew — [my office extension] — [the time I called and left the message]." I saw that my boss called and left this type of message for me at 5:36pm.
My initial instinct, as it has been for many years, was to get the hell out of there as soon as possible. I have succeeded so far in business by doing only the minimum required and it’s worked out for me for the past few years.
But as I was gathering my stuff to leave the office, I started feeling guilty. To be honest, I like my job and the people I work with. And I’m taking the next ten days off to go to Jamaica and Boston. I didn’t want to leave them in the lurch over that time. So I picked up the phone and called my boss back.
Big mistake.
HUGE mistake.
I can’t get into what I’m doing, but I’ll put it this way: A few weeks ago, it took me a week to work out nine of these things. Last night after 5:30, I was given nine more to work out – in one day.
Now, I admit that I’m hardly a model of professional efficiency. It would have probably taken a normal worker much less than a week to do what I did. However, even the most efficient and bestest worker would have taken at least two days.
So now I am slammed at work. I canceled the drinks with the ex and worked until late. Later than I ever have before. I came in early this morning and am now scrambling to finish at a reasonable time so that I can get home and pack. I can’t complain too much, since my hours are not usually bad and the work is actually pretty interesting. But this experience has only confirmed what I’ve known for years:
1) Hard work is for losers and chumps.
2) Never do more than you are required to do. If you do, you are a loser and chump.
But there is a light at the end of the tunnel. At 9:30am tomorrow, my flight leaves for Jamaica. I will have so much Xanax running through my veins that I may need assistance at the airport. I’m flying out of NYC, while the rest of the wedding party is flying out of Philly. However, their flight gets in shortly before mine, so they’re going to wait for me so that we can all take the shuttle back to the resort together. It is my goal to be wheeled out of the plane and tunnel, so that when I emerge I will appear not only crippled, but will also have some sunglasses on, as well as a straw hat, and be drooling on myself. I can think of no better way to start the week.
This is no proper way to say goodbye for week, so I’ll post something tonight in between packing. But I wanted to say something this afternoon. I have been working hard and needed a break. And now I need a milkshake.
Since I’m hungover, I’m in no mood to write much, but I wanted to touch upon something of Great Social and Political Importance.
Condoleezza Rice gave the commencement address at my alma mater, Boston College, yesterday. She was also awarded an honorary degree. Some people were not happy with this. Others were. I’d like to add my thoughts on the matter, if you don’t mind.
To be honest, I don’t care that Rice spoke. I disagree with her stance on a number of positions as I disagree with the administration as a whole, but unfortunately, I have grown too jaded to give a fuck. Sad, but true. What’s even sadder is that I’m ok with this.
On the other hand, in a way I think it’s good that Rice spoke at commencement. Do you know who my commencement speaker was? Neither do I. I had been up all night, was sweating Popov vodka, and was melting under my black robe in 85 degree heat. Upon entering Alumni Stadium and walking on the field, I actually had to leave the line, go back into the stadium, and hop over a metal gate to take a shit. Then I got back in line and walked onto the field again.
Having someone like Condoleezza Rice speak draws attention to the university. It shows that it is growing into a big name academic institution. Hell, if I applied today I probably wouldn’t get into BC (well, that’s not true, but you get the point). Even if you disagree with her, you have to admit that she’s not only one of the most famous people in the world right now, but also one of the most powerful.
Some of you emailed me drawing my attention to Steve Almond’s piece in the Boston Globe. Almond, my former writing teacher at BC, resigned from the university when he learned that Rice would be the commencement speaker and awarded an honorary degree. Almond claimed not just that her actions as secretary of state were not consistent with the views of the Catholic/Jesuit college, but that she was a straight up liar.
I have long sung (sang?) Steve’s praises on this site and have pimped him at every opportunity. But when I say that I do admire his cajones and willingness to stand up for a cause he believes in, it comes with concessions.
At first, it seemed awfully dramatic to me. Writers, by their nature, are dramatic, sensitive people. I sent this article to some friends who either had or knew Steve in college, and we spent an afternoon trying to come up with a list of people more dramatic than our old prof. We decided that the only person we could definitively say was more dramatic than Steve was Sir Elton John. Zsa Zsa Gabor was also mentioned, but we decided it wouldn’t be fair to mix females into this competition, since they are total fucking lunatics to begin with and thus have an unfair advantage.
Then, I thought it might be a publicity stunt. As an attention whore, I know that there is no such thing as bad press, and doing something as crazy as resigning from a respected college over its choice of commencement speaker is certain to raise a few eyebrows. And that’s what it did. This was a fairly big story in the Boston area and Steve was on NPR, laying into the administration of Boston College for getting involved with Rice.
But I think I have a little more insight into the situation that needs to be applied. I’m not claiming that Steve and I are friends – to be honest, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t even like me – but I’m certain that he is passionate about his politics. I also know, more than most, that Steve had a pretty good gig at BC. He taught one, maybe two, classes per semester. He dominated the classes with his outlandish personality, pissing off some, but entertaining and educating the majority. He made many a new fan. And pretty much every chick in the class wanted to sleep with him.
So all things considered, I think that the motivation behind Steve’s resignation is genuine. Most people, like me and everyone else I know, don’t give a fuck about things like ideals or what’s right. I’m more concerned with The Sopranos and titties. You have to give it to someone who’s willing to walk away from a sweet gig in order to raise awareness about a cause he believes in.
Conversely, for the reasons mentioned above, I can understand why a number of you sent me the link to the Boston Globe piece with a literary eye-roll. Yes, it’s a weird thing to do and he sounds like a god damn hippy, but hippies were lovely people who gave us tie dye, primo drugs and Jefferson Airplane.
In conclusion:
- I don’t care about Condoleezza Rice speaking at/being awarded a degree from BC
- Steve Almond’s resignation: strange, but genuine
- Thank god I don’t have to watch Vito kiss another man on Sopranos
- I will not rest until I have sex via MySpace
Now back to putting my head on my desk and not answering my phone.
All weekend I stayed in a hotel room drinking wine and reading. Sometimes Uncle Jason/Larry Awesome gets a little run down and likes to head to an out of town hotel to recharge his batteries. Wine and hotel rooms and not really talking to anybody, I have found, are the best ways to do this. I can only hope that this is the beginning of my slow descent into materialistic asceticism (because I like being alone but I also like marble bathrooms and very high thread count sheets). But I don’t think I can make that call at this juncture. Perhaps it is the start of my hermitage, or maybe I’m just really fucking weird and sexually confused.
It’s been a strange couple of months for me and I have some big things coming up in the next few weeks. My life has been exciting, empowering, scary, and poopy all at once recently. I don’t mean to sound mysterious, but I say this to spare you the minutiae and long-story-ness of my life (although isn’t that what a blog is supposed to be about?). Regardless, this was a good weekend to have one of my trips, to get some alone time before amping it up in the coming weeks.
(I know this sounds completely weird and believe me, it is. A grown-ass man walking around naked 12 hours a day in a hotel room, drinking moderately priced wine and reading books, most of the time in the shower, is not normal. However, I enjoy it, so let me be. You can judge me if you want, but keep in mind that I have never judged you, even when I ran into you in Old Navy smelling the bikini bottoms in the children’s section.)
I usually bring two books per trip. This time, I brought a book called Collapse by Jared Diamond, the same guy who wrote Guns, Germs and Steel. Though I didn’t finish that book (way too long and disappointingly boring in parts), I was gifted this book recently and figured I’d give it a shot. Perhaps, I thought, it would give me something good to say at parties, aside from "Did you guys feel that toilet paper? I would have been better off using a fork!" and "Fun fact: if you wake up in the morning and before brushing your teeth put ketchup on your tongue, your breath will smell like vagina." But I never got to it.
The other book I brought was by wunderkind Jonathan Safran Foer, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. Like Diamond, I was familiar with and not particularly a fan of his earlier work. I read Everything is Illuminated and thought it was ok, but wasn’t able to see what all the fuss was about. Admittedly, this could have been out of jealousy. Like many "creative types" (if I dare call myself that; I’m not sure making a joke about wiping my ass with a fork qualifies me as such), I am very jealous of everyone more successful than me, especially if their success allows them to be credit card debt free and/or sleep with attractive women. But the book had been highly recommended to me by someone whose tastes in literature I consider excellent, so I brought it on my weekend.
I read the book in about twenty-four hours. When I say "I couldn’t put it down" I mean it in the most literal sense; one hand was constantly on the book, the other more than likely holding a glass of wine or my penis or scrotum. I read it on the bed, on the toilet, on the floor, in the tub. There was no stretch of time greater than two minutes that I wasn’t reading this book.
The effect it had on me was staggering. I can’t definitively say why. The story, which I am loathe to summarize for fear of short changing it, was enthralling. The writing was…I don’t have a word. I don’t have a joke, either. At times it was so immaculate that I wanted to break my own fingers, having realized that nothing I could ever write, create, sing, think, draw, or yell would be so exceptional.
But instead of sending me into a whirlwind of self-doubt, it changed me in a more positive way. Rather then allow myself to get depressed, I fell into some sort of hyper-sensitive trance. When I finished the book around 1am on Saturday night, I put it down on the bed next to me and drank some wine. I put my iPod on and let it play. And I sat there, thinking and drinking, for the next couple of hours, just staring into the room. Just fucking working shit out.
Again, I know this is weird. I don’t usually have deep moments, and less than twelve hours later I was back in my apartment in NYC downloading gang bang porn. And I readily admit that I was pretty drunk by this point. I’ve been really into wine lately because it tastes good, gets me where I need to go faster than beer but won’t kill me like hard stuff will, and has a different, warmer, pensive buzz. So I’m sure that helped with my situation.
But if I’m not mistaken, I had a genuine bona fide moment there. It hit me right around the time when Marah’s "Walt Whitman Bridge" came on the iPod. The song itself deserves an entire post to explore its depth, but I listened to it dozens of times in a row. The chorus, specifically the lines "Your memory/Blows away", could be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.
I wish I could give a better explanation of my moment or what the hell happened in that hotel room, but I suppose that is part of the intrigue of it all. It’s not like I made any concrete decisions then and there, saying to myself, "I’m going to sleep with five girls before the year is out if it kills me (or them)" or "I’m quitting my job and really going to focus on my swimming career" or "I’m resigning my post of President and CEO of Jason Mulgrew Against the Blacks (and the Gays too) LLC."
It was a more abstract sense of: Yes. This is good. I got it all figured out.
Because sometimes the world looks perfect, nothing to rearrange. Sometimes you get a feeling like you need some kind of change. No matter what the odds are this time, nothing’s going to stand in my way. This flame in my heart and a long lost friend gives every dark street a light at the end.
Standing tall, on the wings of my dream.
Rise and fall, on the wings of my dream.
The rain and thunder, the wind and haze – I’m bound for better days. It’s my life and my dream. Nothing’s going to stop me now.
[spoken over harmonica outro]
No, my friends. Nothing is going to stop me now. Excepts bullets. And sharks. And any number of things, really.
[End scene]
[Since I've been MIA lately, you're getting an extra long Thursday post. See? I can be nice sometimes.]
I like boxers. I do not wear tighty whities, because I dare not inflict that type of punishment on the world (though I have definitely rocked tighty whities in the past to surprise girlfriends, and by "surprise" I mean "make frigid"). I have two pairs of boxer briefs that I wear only on special occasions, like weddings. I kinda like them, but fat men have no business in boxer briefs.
So I am a boxer man. I buy all of my boxers at the Gap, for no other reason than it’s easy. But recently, the Gap has changed the way they make their boxers. Previously, I would fit snugly into a pair of XL boxers. But it seems that they’re making the boxers bigger nowadays. I recently bought a couple of XL boxers and they’re larger than some mesh shorts I have (although I do like my mesh shorts nice and tight).
This morning I woke up late and had to get ready quickly. After showing, I put on a pair of these extra big XL Gap boxers, my undershirt, work clothes, etc. Just before leaving, I decided to quickly take a piss. I unzipped and reached in to grab my bird. I was having trouble. This is nothing new, since sometimes finding my bird is like trying to find a pea in a salad. But this was ridiculous; I kept pulling at the clothy boxers, looking for the pee-hole, when I realized something. My boxers were on backwards.
I was too late for work to take off my shoes and pants and fix them, so I just pulled them down and peed. I figured I would just switch them around at work.
But then I got to work and realized that I can’t do that. I don’t want to be balls naked in a bathroom stall at work, standing there in my socks and nothing else, as I try to reverse my boxers. That shit is nasty, and the last thing I need is for some co-worker to see/hear my changing in the stall, grunting and banging into the door and walls as I finagle my way out of my clothes.
So all day long I’ve been wearing my boxers backwards. I have to admit, it’s not nearly as uncomfortable as I thought. And it’s kept me on my toes (I guess it’s kinda like how you’re supposed to take one shoe off if you start feeling tired while driving). I’m having a pretty good day at work today, so maybe I’ll keep rocking the backwards look. Of course, my ass is no directly on my pants, so I’m going to have to get them dry cleaned. But $4 is a small price to pay for a productive day.
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If you have not already done so, please take a minute to vote for Brittany D’s essay. All you need is an email address and it would significantly improve my neighborhood.
(If you have no idea what I’m talking about, read my post on the subject.)
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When presented with the question of whether you’d rather have short daily posts (five times a week) or long less frequent posts, by overwhelming majority you guys said that you’d rather have three long ones a week. This surprised me, as I thought for sure that many of these posts are too long. But the more I thought about it, I realized that the people complaining about the length of the posts are my friends and people I already know, so they’ve pretty much heard all the jokes in person anyway. So I could see how long posts about stuff we talked about the night before might get tedious for them.
(And by "friends and people I already know" I mean "family members," since I’m down to about four friends and haven’t even spoken to them in weeks.)
The verdict…whatever. I’m not really going to think about it and just post when I want. Don’t expect too much of a change, which is good (or bad, I suppose).
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Let’s talk for a minute about that elusive monthly email. I will be brief about this. The first monthly email has been written, but it will probably not go out until June. Site Guy Brendan is currently on strike. The management of JasonMulgrew.com, in cooperation with Larry Awesome Enterprises, is negotiating with Site Guy Brendan and all the brown people he has doing the coding for him. Talks are proving difficult, because Brendan has been drunk for about two months now and I can’t understand a fucking word of what the brown people are saying.
I will poke fun at this situation once we have made up, but I won’t write anything else about it right now. You know, since Brendan has the keys to this site and with one click he can make the whole thing go away.
But needless to say, no, I haven’t sent it out yet; yes, it’s coming out soon; and yes, I’m sorry it’s taken so long. In the future, I’m going to dedicate myself to making this a regular thing. But like many things in life, the first one is the hardest. Once we have the mailing list up and running, and now that I have more free time, I’ll be able to pump them out.
(And yes, you can use that paragraph against me when the second "monthly" email comes out in November.)
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This is how little I have going on in my life right now: I’m considering growing my hair out for the next seven months for my Halloween costume.
My goal, still, is to get a girlfriend so that she and I can go out on Halloween as Roxette. I still have hopes for this, as Halloween is a long time away. But let’s be honest - it doesn’t look too good. While I stared at a girl on the subway today without her looking away and starting to tremble, I think I’m still far away from "couple costume" territory. I should probably first work on making out with someone who hasn’t thrown up that same night.
Regardless, I think I might grow the hair out. After the wedding over Memorial Day weekend, I don’t have anything that I need to look good for. And everyone at works thinks I’m weird anyway, so I don’t think they’ll mind. The hair might give me a bit of an edge and would make the costume much more authentic (of course I won’t tell you about the costume). I’ll have to think about this some other time when I’m not queasy from all the night sweats.
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Two things I am calling for an immediate moratorium on:
1) Using the word "lurve" in place of "love."
I have no special reason to call for the end of this, other than it looks tremendously stupid and is very annoying to read. I tried to figure out where this came from, but had no luck. If it has some cool significance (like "Lurve" is what it’s called when two black guys fuck each other in a truck), then I’m cool with it. Otherwise, please stop.
2) The hip/ironic obsession with David Hasselhoff.
Unlike lurve, this was actually funny at one point. My buddy Pat used to send pictures of David Hasselhoff to us every Friday and I always got a kick out of it. That was about a year ago. Pat stopped doing this about seven months ago. I’m not saying that he was a trailblazer, but maybe he realized that this had limited appeal (you know, like this blog).
So yes, I get it, David Hasselhoff is funny. It’s hilarious how he was in Night Rider and there are all these corny/sexy photos of him. And yes, I know that he’s loved in Germany. But people, enough. PLEASE STOP THE OBSESSION WITH DAVID HASSELHOFF. If I get one more forward talking about "The Hoff" or another person tries to put a pic of him on my MySpace comments, I am seriously going to flip the fuck out. Wake up people. Making fun of David Hasselhoff is no longer cool and hasn’t been for some time. Go back to Chuck Norris, since that only has about two weeks left.
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Speaking of balls (?), is there any substitute for a freshly Gold Bonded set of testes? This time of year is always hard on my jennies, with the weather changing and all. It’s not so much the outside conditions that bother them, but the fact that my office has trouble acclimating to temperature changes. Spring in NYC is erratic. One day it can be 80 and sunny, the next 55 and rainy. My building heating/cooling system is always a day behind, resulting in an uncanny ability to match the outside conditions. When it’s cold outside in spring, it’s cold inside my office. When it’s hot outside in spring, it’s hot inside my office.
Again, not good for the jennies. My balls basically stew for ten hours a day like two grapes in a hot bowl of oatmeal. Gross.
So during this time of year, I slap a nice coating of Gold Bond on the ol’ bird and testes for relief. And every spring when I do so I wonder why I don’t use this stuff year-round. But there is one question I have: Have any ladies performed mouth-to-bird play on their man and tasted the Gold Bond? Can we get a ruling on this? I ask because once I was hooking up with a girl who somehow tricked me into saying that all vaginas have varying degrees of a smell (I don’t need to get into this here). This made her self-conscious, and the next time we hooked up, she had douched and it tasted like tilapia sprinkled (heavily) with Gold Bond. Have any ladies had similar experiences with the penis?
(Hey, at least tilapia is the least fishy fish. It would have been nastier if I said salmon or anchovie or trout.)
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Last night, I took the following of cocktail of pills between dinner and bedtime:
- Nexium, for the unbearable heartburn that came out of nowhere (7:30pm)
- Bayer, because the heartburn was so bad I thought I might have a heart attack (8pm)
- Stool Softener, since, as I mentioned recently, I have literally been shitting not poo but rather large slabs of stone (8:15pm)
- Claritin, to prevent any nighttime allergy attacks (9pm)
- Xanax, to help aid sleep and generally make the worries go away (10:30pm)
Heartburn medicine, aspirin, stool softener, allergy medicine, and anti-anxiety pills. My name is Jason Mulgrew. I am 26 years old. And I am a physical and mental mess.
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Six Songs (special Nine Songs edition)
"Sway" The Rolling Stones
If you want to really appreciate the Rolling Stones, buy three albums - Black and Blue, Exile on Main Street, and Sticky Fingers. Then listen to every song on these albums that you have not heard before. Then send me an email thanking me for your world being rocked.
Though the Rolling Stones are an embarrassment today, I can say with 95% certainly that they have created more good songs than other musical act in history – and you probably haven’t heard 80% of them. If you wanted to, you could take one Stones album a month, listen to it constantly, and grow completely into it. In the understatement of the century, a great fucking band.
(I especially like when Mick screams "Hey!" three times in a row around the two minute mark in this song. Just Mick being Mick, sounding like a lunatic.)
"I Wanna Destroy You" The Circle Jerks
Because I just want to fucking destroy you.
"I’m Still Your Fag" Broken Social Scene
I’m pissed because this was the working title of my book.
"Be Gentle With Me" The Boy Least Likely To
GOOD LORD this song is catchy. My roommate Brian downloaded it and said, "Yeah, I think I just downloaded your new favorite song." While I’m not ready to make that claim myself (since "Sexy Sadie" has held that title since about 1995), it’s certainly my song of the moment. Listen to it on my MySpace profile and see if it doesn’t get you moving.
"Said Sadly" Nina Gordon and James Iha
A sad little duet from the former lead singer of Veruca Salt and the Smashing Pumpkins guitarist-turned-hipster. I like this song a lot, but one line almost ruins it for me. "I’m so afraid that no one cares" sounds like something written by a depressed 14 year old nerd who just found out the girl he has a crush on is dating the captain of the football team (not, uh, that I’m speaking from personal experience or anything). Maybe I’m being a little over analytical, but really, that is a weak line. Ugh.
"Never Going Back Again" Fleetwood Mac
Every since I got my new expensive guitar two weeks ago, I’ve been looking for a kick-ass acoustic song to learn how to play. One of the unspoken rules of guitar playing is that you have to be up the level or better than your guitar. For example, there was nothing I hated more than those kids in high school whose daddies bought them $2,200 Les Pauls but couldn’t play the opening to "Plush." Meanwhile, my guitar cost $99, came from K-Mart, and had an amplifier built into the guitar. Fucking assholes.
So when I got my new gee-tar, I needed to find a song that would prove I was worthy of it. Since this is no longer high school, the opening to "Over the Hills and Far Away" or "Blackbird" wouldn’t work, so I chose this song. For the past week, I’ve been working on it probably two hours a day.
And it’s not going well. I can play the main (high) notes, but I can’t play the root/bass notes (by the way, I have no idea if I’m using the correct terminology here; part of the reason why I suck is because my playing leveled off after one year because I’ve never had a guitar lesson). And there is no way around this. I’ve tried fingerpicking the song in various ways, but since I don’t really know how to finger pick, we’re stuck. But hey, at least I’m trying. And it’s a good song nonetheless.
"Somewhere Over the Rainbow/What a Wonderful World" Israel Kamakawiwo’ole
I can, however, play this song on the ukulele. A pretty little ditty but a six hundred pound Hawaiian, it’s now my go-to ukulele song.
"What Katie Did" The Libertines
There are a couple of different versions on this song that I’ve heard, but I most like the crappiest/demo-sounding one that has and acoustic guitar and is missing a verse. Don’t you hate it when a band messes up a song by overproducing it? Sometimes it’s best to keep it simple.
"A Love Bizarre" Sheila E. (with Prince)
When the played this at the UTA party on Sunday night, I swear to god I thought the place was going to crumble to the ground. I hadn’t heard this song in about ten years and have listened to it about twenty-five times since Monday. A MUST for any party mix.
(And guys, if you can find a girl willing to grind with you to this song, marry her. Trust me on this.)
(Although I will never forgive Sheila E. for making it impossible for me to download Cool C’s version of "The Glamorous Life" as opposed to her song by the same name.)
(Also, that link is awesome.)
But anyway, let’s focus on the positives. I can add a new title/accolade to my list of accomplishments. "World’s Best Bachelor Party Planner" will now be placed on my resume in between "Can Shit Up to Six Times Per Day" and "Once Masturbated While on Phone with Dell Technician." The bachelor party went off without a hitch. We had an open bar and food from 6pm to 8pm (at a local bar), another open bar from 8pm to 10pm (at a cool Philly bar), and then a third open bar from 10:30 to 12:30 (at a titty bar). Then we made our triumphant return to the neighborhood in the Hummer Limo at the end of the night.
Going into it, I was set on staying relatively sober so that I could take care of the groom-to-be, my buddy Steve. But for some reason, my tolerance for booze has slipped precipitously over the past few weeks, probably because of all the internal bleeding I’ve been doing. Also, since my drug dealer got arrested in December, I have been pretty much clean for the past few months. I could have made another connection in the meantime, but that seems like a lot of work.
And though I was having fun, I was very nervous for most of the night, unable to fully relax until we got settled at the strip club around 11. Until then, I had to make sure everything was ok with the limo, make sure we were able to get into places, and make sure we didn’t leave anyone behind at any bars. The result is that I was drinking very quickly, as I usually do when I’m nervous.
So by the time we got settled at the strip club, I was bombed/high out of my mind. It was good thing, but it creeped up on me. I think my nervous energy kept me sober, but while I was watching Jesse Jane dance around stage, it was as if my brain said, "Ok, well, things seem to be in order here. I’m gonna take off for the next few hours. Remember: don’t go down on any strippers. They can blow you, but don’t do any basement work on them. Remember what happened in Denmark in 2000? We’ve just gotten over the cold sores and don’t want to see them again. Anyway, later."
I remember the remainder of the night only in flashes. I did not get a lap dance from Jesse Jane, as it cost $100 and I would have had to wait in line. Also, to be honest, she wasn’t even the hottest girl at the club. I love porn and totally appreciate and am thankful for the blond/huge fake boobs look, but she looked…used. I suppose that’s what happens when you have sex with guys with nine inch penises for a living, but as I looked at her, I kept thinking, "Damn – I wonder what she looks like without any make up." And then I thought, "I wonder what my own semen tastes like." And then I thought, "Oh wait, I already know - onion rings."
The only advice I can give anyone who’s planning a bachelor party is to get money from other attendees up front, not the night of the party. Remember when I said the over/under was $312? Well, we blew that out of the water. I expected 18 people to be at the party (16 paying people, not including me and Steve). Only 12 made it (10 paying). I set the price at $80 a head, which included the Hummer limo, the booze in the limo, the two hour open bar and food to start the night, and admission and two hour open bar at the strip club. This actually cost substantially more than $80 per person, but I heavily subsidized it so that we could have a kick-ass party. For example, we could have gotten a normal bus for a fourth of the cost of the hummer, but fuck it – that’s not how I roll.
When those 6 people didn’t make it, I started out the night already $480 in the hole. It’s tacky to complain about money and I don’t mean to do so here, but I promise that I will come down on those who didn’t show up with a vengeance the likes of which the world has never seen. God help them. How do you just not show up for a bachelor party, especially when I talked to everyone on the list the day before? Apparently, there was a rumor that we were going to Atlantic City. This scared people away, because they didn’t want to spend the money for AC. But neither I nor Steve ever said anything about Atlantic City. I have no idea how this rumor started, and if it kept people away from an excellent party, that’s a shame.
So for my next bachelor party, I’m not taking a "Sure, I’ll be there." I will set up a paypal link for people to get me the money beforehand. Those who do not pay before the bachelor party and show up looking to participate in the evening’s activities will have to wrestle me in the street. And a lot of you reading have street-wrestled me and I know that I do NOT fight fair.
But I didn’t let that ruin the evening for me and I had a blast. Sure, I spent enough money to put a down payment on a house or buy a rather nice car, but how many times in your life to you get to be the best man? I had a great time, Steve had a great time, and everyone involved had a great time. I couldn’t have asked for more.
(And yes, of course I left some details out. What kind of best man would I be if I wrote about every detail of the bachelor party on the internet? C’mon – give me a little more credit.)
(But seriously, if you want to know the dirt, send me $30. I’ll fill you in on all the secret stuff.)
(I’m joking. If you send me $30, I’ll send you a thank you email, but that’s it.)
***************************
Last night, Sunday night, Mother’s Day night, I partied again.
This week, the television networks announce their fall lineups during something called the "Up Fronts." This is HUGE deal in the industry. For many writers, actors, and producers, this week you learn whether you’re going to make $30,000 a week (in many cases, substantially more) or be unemployed.
Therefore, on the Sunday night before Up Fronts week (last night), all the Hollywood agencies throw swanky parties in NYC clubs for their clients. Since I am "in the industry", I went last night to my agency’s party (UTA) at the nightclub Marquee.
I would never, ever get into Marquee on a normal night. It just wouldn’t happen. The bartenders and waitresses are models and I have a neck beard. The clientele are NYC’s trendiest and I haven’t bought a new shirt in two years. The drinks cost more than most double cds and I prefer my $7 twelve-pack of Pabst.
But one of the benefits of being "in the industry" is that you get invites to things like these. So you can bet your ass I went last night, bringing along my roommate Brian and my buddy Mark.
If complaining about money is tacky, talking about which celebrities I partied with (read: drank in the same bar with and stared at criminally) is tackier. So I’m not going to go down that road. But needless to say, I was the crappiest dude there – by far. Well, that’s not true. Brian and Mark were crappier than me. But you understand what I’m getting that.
So the three of us sat up in the mezzanine, pounding vodka tonics served by a waitress who was probably the second most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen in person, staring at rich and famous people. Not a bad way to spend a Sunday night.
I occasionally got up and made the rounds to talk to people and I realized something: I have it pretty good right now. Christ. I don’t mean to pull the "Aw, shucks" card again, but I really am truly grateful to all you jerkoffs for reading and passing on this site and such. The fact that I was at that party last night with all those people I see in TV or movies, at a club I have no business being in, drinking twenty-five free Grey Goose and tonics, well, that’s just the tops. And I’m not one to be superficial or star struck, but I just kept thinking of what my parents would think if they saw me in that element last night. My mom would probably cry. My dad would say "Hmph" and then light a cigarette.
And it’s all because you guys keep reading and have told your friends about this site, who have told their friends, etc. This may sound terribly corny, but with both the book and the TV show, my only hope is to (queue the tears) make y’all proud. I know, I know – I am total gay and all that, but I’m serious here. Even though I beg you for money around my birthday and have horrible grammar, I just hope you know that I don’t take you or your reading and support for granted. I feel a great deal of responsibility to entertain you a few times a week, and I take that responsibility pretty f’ing seriously (though I’m obviously not entertaining you now).
But that’s enough about that. And if that was too corny for you, well, I’m still drunk.
A question now: I’m wondering if I should change the format of the blog just a little bit. Meaning, I’d get away from the 3000 word posts that come three times a week and commit to writing something every day (or almost every day), even if it’s smaller. Don’t get me wrong – I’d still write the occasional giant post that tackles the important issues like race, gender, and who wears condoms anymore, but would you prefer if I gave you a lil’ something to read every day? It seems like the biggest complaint I get (well, one of the biggest complaints I get) is that the posts are just too damn long. I’m wondering if other people feel this way.
Let me know your thoughts on this if you have the time. But so I don’t get inundated with emails, let’s make the cut-off noon on Monday (EST). So if you’re reading this after 12pm on Monday, do not email me. We’ll see how this works out.
In the meantime, have a good weekend. And wish me luck with the bachelor party this weekend. I’m putting the over/under on what I spend at $312. Bet amongst yourselves.
I talk about how I grew up in the means streets of South Philly a lot. This is my chance to do my part to help make those mean streets a little nicer looking.
The abridged version (because I know you have a short attention span):
A twelve year old girl named Brittany from my neighborhood entered a contest sponsored by Briggs & Stratton. According to the email I received from a friend, Briggs & Stratton sponsored a contest in which they asked Little League players to write an essay describing why they thought their baseball field should be selected for renovation.
The good news: Brittany’s essay was selected as regional winner and the field in which I played ball on as a kid won a $5000 check. Sweet!
Now, the field could receive a $20,000 check if her essay receives the most votes on the Briggs & Stratton website.
While I’m not good at raising money or playing baseball, getting internet votes is something I can help with.
Please go to the contest website. There, you can find Brittany’s essay in the left column, second from the bottom (Brittany D. from Philadelphia). You can read her essay, but you don’t have to – just vote. All you need is an email address. Note: you can only vote once per email address. If you have multiple email addresses (I have 7), feel free to use them, just don’t duplicate. I do not know when the voting ends, so please vote right away.
Conversely, if you pass this on to your friends, I will kiss you on the mouth. This is not a joke. Forward this on to ten friends, send me the email showing that you’ve forwarded it on, and I will come to your home and kiss you on the mouth. If you forward it to more than ten, things might get a little friskey. Remember, it’s Brittany D., from Philadelphia at http://briggsdiamondsintherough.com/.
So please, take a moment to vote and help Brittany and the neighborhood out with this. Trust me, this field is shit and really does need a lot of work. Hell, if I were able to play on a clean and level playing field growing up, I would probably be in the Seattle Mariner’s system right now. Instead, I write poop jokes to you from a tiny bedroom in NYC. Obviously, it worked out in the end, but let’s make sure other neighborhood kids don’t face a similar fate as I have. This would really help to improve the neighborhood, where resources like $20,000 are hard to come by. And the benefits would be directly passed on to the kids.
Thank you for your support on this. Seriously.
I am looking for a good strip club in the Philadelphia area. Preferably close to South Philly, meaning over the bridge in NJ is acceptable. Requirements are as follows:
- topless
- not so sketchy that I need to bring a gun
I am planning a bachelor party for this weekend (more on this later) and thought what I found was the perfect strip club. I called the club yesterday, made the necessary arrangements, and even pulled the "I’m kind of a big deal" card, telling the manager that I’m famous and was one of People’s "50 Hottest Bachelors" and yada yada yada. He ate it up then significantly reduced the rate per person, which made me feel just about as cool as I’ve ever felt. Then, just when we were about to hang up:
Him: "Alright, Jason – you’re all set."
Me: "Sweet. See you Saturday."
Him: "Well, one thing I want to make sure of. You know we’re not topless, right?"
Me: [having no idea that they were not topless] "Um, sure. Sure, I knew that."
Him: "Yeah, because in Jersey if you serve alcohol you can’t be topless."
Me: [driving my hand through my livingroom wall] "No, I totally knew that."
Him: "Great – see you Saturday, Jason."
So now I have to call and cancel this reservation, because I didn’t know that alcohol-serving strip clubs in NJ couldn’t be topless. I actually think I secretly knew this, but forgot. My question is how can the state of New Jersey have a rule like this but also allow strip clubs that are a) BYOB and b) completely nude (I’ve been to these clubs in NJ, but in North Jersey, too far away from Philly)? Also, have you seen "The Sopranos?" The Bada-Bing is topless and serves booze. What gives?
Therefore, I turn to you. I know there are lots of clubs in Philly proper, but they are always very expensive and very crowded. That’s why this club in NJ looked a good fit; within in an hour drive from Philly, reasonably priced, and supposedly very good-looking girls. So please don’t recommend the big Philly clubs, since I already know them.
So if you can help, shoot me an email asap. Thank you and I love you and I will write more later or something.
First, I had every intention of going to the reading. However, my friend Kyle was driving up from Philly and got stuck in traffic. Instead of arriving at 6pm and heading to the 7pm reading with me, he got into the city just before 8pm. I had to wait at my apartment for him. So no reading for me.
Second, creepy, people. Very, very creepy.
Since this comes up quiet a lot over email (this is where the "dickhead" part comes in), it’s time to address the JasonMulgrew.com official policy on meeting people who read this site.
If I do not know you or am not connected to you in some way, I can not meet and/or hang out with you.
Full disclosure before I continue: I think something is becoming seriously wrong with me. I may have to get back on anti-depressants because I am pretty sure I’m finally starting to lose my shit. It’s one thing to enjoy wine and long showers. It’s another thing to drink a bottle of white wine while laying the tub naked (but with the water draining and the showerhead pointing only at your feet) for almost two hours, while your roommate bangs on the door saying that he has to piss and you scream back, "Just come in! It’s not a big deal!" and have another swig of your moderately-priced chardonnay. So there’s that.
So when I got the emails coming down on me for not going to the reading, it freaked me out a little bit. I’m not trying to sound like some shut-in or attention-phobe (you know, since I started calling myself an "Internet Quasi-Celebrity" when about 25 people read this site), but um, no. Not cool.
So while I appreciate the offers and yada yada yada, the whole prospect of meeting anyone who reads the site who doesn’t already know me makes me uncomfortable. There is precedent for this; I have meet some people in the past who read the site. And not to slander them, as they were all lovely people (except the one girl who made me drag all of my friends to a bar across town after promising them "Lots of hot girls" only for her to stand me up, much to the delight of my friends), but I learned pretty quickly pretty early that me meeting anyone from this site is not a good idea for anyone involved. So thank you again, but I can’t meet you for a drink. I can’t even grab a cup of coffee (I don’t drink coffee anyway). And I especially can’t fly you and your friends up from Florida because you’ve promised to have a threesome with me or at least "do stuff to each other in front of [me]."
I fully realize and accept that I may regret making official this position. I’m sure that as soon as I publish this post, I’m going to get an email from some knockout Czech girl who reads this site and is visiting the US for the first time and wants someone to show her around NYC and have sex with her and her lovely 18 year old boobies. Know that if this happens, I will completely meet this girl. Like, in a heartbeat. While this is an official policy, it is not a strict rule and is open to interpretation. It certainly does not mean that I will never met someone who reads this site, even though that’s kinda what it says. For example, we’re contemplating opening up the "Drink Until You Shit" Tour to everyone, but it’s in North Wildwood, NJ, so I don’t think that anyone who doesn’t already know me would show up for that.
Besides, I’m used to regretting things I write on here. For example, this post has haunted my dreams and sexual fantasies since I put it up. In it, I said that I can’t marry a woman who smokes, won’t take my last name, has fooled around with my friends, or has small boobs. Good lord, I was idealistic. Many girls, over email or in real life, have pointed out that I couldn’t marry them because they had one of those four characteristics. Most of the time, I would have pulled out every last hair on my head to sleep with these girls. In my defense, that was written a long time ago. Now, my only qualifier for a wife is, "Please not have fucked my dad. I would prefer that you didn’t sleep with my brother either, but if you did, we can get around that."
So while I’m sure that I sound like a total douche, I’m also fairly sure that I don’t care. And if you really want to stalk me, there’s a much easier way to do so. Every Saturday and Sunday, I have eggs benedict at the LoSide Diner sometime between 1pm and 3pm. If I’m in NYC, I’m there (though I won’t be in NYC for another six weekends). So stalkers, come on down. I have no problem with you meeting me there – as long as you pay for the eggs benedict.
(Fucking dynamite eggs benedict.)
Now’s the time where I complain about how I don’t have many friends in NYC because they’ve all moved away or weren’t here in the first place, but it doesn’t really matter, since (drumroll, as this is a major announcement) I am 90% sure that this is my last year in New York City. I love the city and I have some great friends here, but I feel like I’m about ready to move on. I wouldn’t move until next June, so that means that by that time I’ll have been in NYC for six years. That’s a long ass time. I feel like if I’m going to do something crazy and pick up and move, I should do it now before I get too old and while I’m still single and desperately lonely. I have a pretty good idea where I’m going to move, but a lot can (and will) happen over the next year, so I don’t want to make any formal announcement yet. But I have been thinking about this for some time and it seems very likely that I will be moving to a new city next June.
But to stress, this is not because many of my friends have left the city. While this is true, it’s not the impetus for my (possible) move. Even though for the most part I have not made a new friend since 2001, I have adapted nicely and we had a pretty good crew all weekend. Friday night we boozed at my place before going to Lolita and another bar where a friend knew the owner, so we had many free tequila shots, which meant that my Saturday morning/afternoon was not very fun. Saturday night we watched the fight, went to a local bar, but then wound up taking a limo (?) to Tribe, where two of my buddies randomly realized that they went to college with the bartender/owner, so though I ordered about $200 worth of booze, my bar tab was significantly less.
The ups and downs of the weekend were that though I had a good time, some of my good buddies completely dissed the hell out of me and didn’t partake in any of the weekends activities. One dude ignored me so hard that I’m seriously hoping that he is ok. Another went on a date, because that is obviously much more important than a friend finishing his first book (though to be honest, I probably would have done the same to him, although in my defense, I go on dates with the frequency of the Olympic games, whereas he goes on dates about every four days). And a third friend was simply too drunk after the fucking horse race to make the trip into the city from Brooklyn (this was the easiest to forgive).
Other weekend randomness:
1) I’m not a ladies’ man, but did I miss something this weekend? I’m pretty bad with women to begin with, but it seems like every woman I came in contact with from the time I woke up on Saturday afternoon could not have been less interested in dealing with me. I’m not just talking about sexually either (though that was certainly the case as well); every woman I spoke to – chicks at bars, female friends, the waitress at breakfast on Sunday morning, my own damn family members, – just seemed pissed off at me.
Was there some sort of Woman’s Conference on Jason Mulgrew at the Newark Airport Ramada on Friday night/Saturday morning that I didn’t know about? And was the theme of the weekend, "Jason Mulgrew: What a Dick?" Was a consensus reached that all women should be a total bitch to me in order to further deflate my ego and self-esteem?
If there was, I’m sorry. Women of the world, whatever I did to incur your wrath over the past 72 hours, I assure that I did not mean to do it. I was probably drunk and being insensitive and made a mistake. But I am truly, truly sorry. So please go back to being nicer to me. I’m not saying that we have to make out all the time, but a little kindness would really make me feel better right now.
2) Excellent fight on Saturday after some of the most boring undercards I’ve ever seen. I’m a little upset that Mayorga couldn’t put up a better showing, but they say that a boxer will always beat a fighter. I really enjoyed it though, and not just because I got to watch two Mexican-type people beat the hell out of each other. I secretly really love boxing.
3) Lastly and most importantly, I have a new addition in my life. Previously, the most important thing in my life was my iPod, which I use about six hours a day. However, it has been replaced. By this: a brand new Martin guitar.
I know it was a little expensive, but the theme of the weekend was a celebration of me, and what better way to celebrate myself than to buy an exorbitantly expensive present (for myself)? I justified the purchase as follows:
- What fun are credit cards if you don’t use them?
- I will have this guitar for many many years (or until I become retarded after a hot air balloon accident)
- When else can I reward myself for finishing my first book?
- At least I’m not spending the money on booze
Also, I love this guitar. As soon as I started playing it in the store, I knew I had to have it. It makes me deeply and profoundly happy. So I’m ok with the purchase.
I even went so far as to take some pictures of the new guitar so that I could post them on here – the first ever pictures posted actually in the blog. I took some exterior shots of the guitar, the neck, etc. Then I thought about taking a picture of me playing the guitar before I realized that that would be just about the gayest thing ever (c’mon - my roommate Brian, standing there, taking a posed picture of me playing guitar? I had a momentary lapses of toolness). So instead, I had Brian take a picture of me simulating masturbation on the guitar. Because I’m into photography, art, music, and self-sex.
But then a snag: I lost the cord that connects my digital camera to my computer. Therefore I could not upload the photos to my computer. Therefore my digital camera is now useless.
The point is that I had a hot and cold weekend but I have a lifetime keepsake for the rest of my life. Never mind that my rent is due in a week and I have NO IDEA how I’m going to cover it – that is not as important as art.
[I apologize for my lethargy in the post. It's Monday, I was too stressed to sleep well as I worried about money, and my ass is killing me. Apparently, my intestines have turned into a cement mixer. I'm so loaded on stool softener right now that I accidentally called my manager "Grandpa." Christ. I really need to go to a clinic or something and get everything taken care of at once.]
A couple of emails worth sharing. The first two I got either today or yesterday in regards to yesterday’s post about my body hair. The third email I got about a week ago (I think), but it relates to the same stuff.
First, Adam from Waco:
You know it’s funny because I lived with a guy in college who we called sweater chest. Towards the end of our college career I started working full time before he did. My first job after five glorious years of college was a yard dog at my company’s asphalt plant. Yes, I went to school to do construction. Anyhoo, I got to come home for the weekend early on a Friday and couldn’t wait to tie one on. When I walked into my house I could smell chemicals, I mean really strong chemicals. As I made it through the living room wondering what the fuck was going on, I make the turn into my room and as I pass the bathroom there’s sweater chest Nairing his back. He didn’t hear come in because the stereo was blaring and he was singing along. He looked at me like I said the F word in front of The Pope. After we exchange eye contact and I ask him the hell he’s doing, he asks me if I could rub some Nair in the area he couldn’t reach. Being the good friend that I am didn’t think twice and grabbed the bottle. Well, the time it took me to grab the bottle, fill up my hand and start rubbing it on his back our other roommate comes home from work. To this day he swears we’re gay. So tell Brian good friends do that and think nothing of it.
This was a mistake on your buddy’s part. Nair is dangerous. A few years back, I tried to "surprise" an ex by de-hairing with Nair and burned the shit out of myself. I couldn’t wash the affected areas for like a week, because every time soap touched my body, it stung like a mother fucker. I’m surprised Sweater Chest didn’t face a similar fate.
But thank you, Adam. I’ll be sure to tell my roommate Brian that there is precedent for dude-on-dude grooming. And that it don’t make you gay.
The second email comes from Carolyn in San Fran:
jason-
as i started reading your post today, i chillingly remembered a time about 6 years [ago] when i was hooking up with a friend/bartender (yeah, i’m classy). upon getting down to business, i reached up and felt two rough handfuls of back stubble. i recoiled in horror, saying "shit john! do you shave your back?". he then proudly told me of his back shaving apparatus which consisted of his beard trimmer rubberbanded to a metal hanger.
as i continued reading your post, i realized you had come up with pretty much the same idea, but somehow "wooden ruler" is a lot less scary than "metal hanger". i also realized that having read every word of your blog before, i should have caught this earlier. either i was drunk, or the memory was buried too deeply. or both.
at any rate- please, please, please don’t use too low of a setting on the back. it doesn’t feel like a chihuahua or a doberman, it feels like back stubble. if you ever get laid again, you will thank me.
love- carolyn
ps- i fucked him anyway
While I appreciate the input, Carolyn, I assure you that my back is not stubbly. I make sure that the hair is just long enough so that it is not rough, but just short enough so that it is invisible to the naked eye (especially in the dark). I stand by my doberman/chihuahua comparison and invite you, if you disagree, to come and touch my back. It will probably be the biggest mistake of your life.
(But hopefully you’ll sleep with me anyway.)
Carolyn’s email is a nice segue into the last one. Some chick who wishes to remain anonymous (really? anonymous? all I want is a first name and location – is that too much to ask?) writes:
Hi Jason,
You have hit upon something that actually applies to me. Today you said in reference to the threesome website guy: "I’m sure he’d love to have sex with as many women at one time as possible, so long as he could keep his shirt on."
Now, you have spoken at length about sex and relationships, most of which we’ve all heard before. A lot of which I think is bullshit. But, I think you’ve touched upon an interesting point that I have never heard discussed before, anywhere, if memory serves.
My question is: what is it with guys who want to keep their shirts on during sex? I had one long-term boyfriend who did this occasionally. Sometimes, being a girl, I would throw a moderate hissy fit bemoaning his emotional unavailability, which I attributed directly to his preference for shirt-on intercourse.
Is this all it is? Are guys who like to have their shirt on during sex just immature, emotionally withdrawn jerks? Or, is there something else to it? Whether it is the former or not, what is your opinion on this? Should us girls run from all of them? Or, are some of them quasi-redeemable and suffering simply from contemporary socialization?
I’d love to hear your thoughts. No one discusses this!
Talk about overthinking. Yes, I occasionally keep my shirt on doing sex, but I used to do this much more in the past than nowadays, since I don’t really give a fuck anymore. Speaking from experience, the reason that I kept my shirt on during sex is because I’m fucking fat and hairy. That’s why. Not because I’m emotionally unavailable or anything like that, but because I don’t want to show my nasty torso to any poor woman who happens to be confused enough to have sex with me. Obviously, if she’s willing to let me make love to her, she’s been through enough already. She doesn’t need to see and feel me giving her rug burns from her belly button to her neck.
But again, I got over that and am now a shirtless love-maker. The good news is that by taking my shirt off, I am able to prolong ejaculation. Whenever I think I’m about ready, all I have to do is look at my 230 pounds of maniac and fury jackhammering away at my lover, usually a poor immigrant girl who is so far from home and keeps muttering "Dios Mio" over and over again (but not in a good way), and I can keep going until my heart stops. Me = S-E-X machine.
I suppose it could mean that the guy is emotionally withdrawn, but this email sounds like a girl being crazy and overthinking. I’m guessing it was just a body image issue on his part.
(Of course, I’m leaving on intentional, partially-clothed sex, which is awesome. Anytime I can keep my shirt or most of my clothes on but can pass it off as "the heat of the moment", well, I’m going to take advantage of that.)
And that’s all the emails for this week.
***********************
Speaking of the threesome guy, I got an email from Jim, the original threesome guy himself. He wrote to me last week to try to set the record straight on his site.
It seems that Jim started an original site at helpwinmybet.com. This is the site that I saw a few weeks ago and was planning on writing about, believing it was a worthy cause.
However, someone stole Jim’s idea and created helpwinTHISbet.com. The dude copied Jim’s idea entirely and passed it off as his own, but it was this site that was passed around the net, getting a ton of hits.
That is not to say Jim’s site didn’t get hits too; he got his two million, but he writes on there that his girl has now backed away from the threesome, agreeing to do it only if he gets 74,261,867 hits (he’s currently at almost 3.4 million).
I wish Jim luck with this, but I don’t think it’s going to happen. It’s difficult but attainable if he’s just counting hits, but if he’s counting unique visitors, it ain’t going to happen. That means 74 million different IP addresses would have to log onto his site. Pretty much impossible for something that isn’t already a top ten site.
But I thank Jim for taking the time to write to me to set the record straight. Let’s all hope that Jim’s girl relents and gives into the threesome, the lucky son of a bitch.
***********************
There is major, major construction going on in my street. I can deal with it though. I like noise in general at night, because it makes me feel safe. Noise means things are alive. That is good.
But I have a limit. This morning, the noise outside my bedroom window was so loud that I did not hear my alarm, which was blasting Spanish radio six inches from my head. My alarm, very loud and right next to me, was drowned out by the bangs and clangs and rumbles of construction that were taking place outside of my apartment.
That should give you an idea of how fucking loud my bedroom is. The good news (or sad news) is that Brian is moving out soon and I will soon be sleeping in his old bedroom, which is essentially a tomb/walk-in closet with a two by two window. Quiet. Very quiet. A real sex tomb.
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This isn’t really a joke (it’s not a joke at all actually), but this is the worst allergy season I’ve ever experienced – by far. I’m popping Claritin like jellybeans and spending my time rubbing my eyes and nose, wondering how so much snot could come out of me (and I’m a big boy).
Again, no joke, but I know how you guys like it when I suffer. And I am suffering. Big time. So I hope you’re happy.
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Some very quick sports things:
1) The Flyers are a joke. That was a terrible, terrible series. I’ve never, in my lifetime, seen Philly hockey so embarrassed. I was just starting to warm to hockey, but this is why I stay away from it.
2) I watched a lot of the NFL draft this weekend and, like the rest of the world, was surprised by some of the picks. However, I do like the Eagles’ picks very much. I was salivating about Bunkley when Kiper brought him up at #9, as he is a beast. I also like Justice, not only because of his great name ("Winston Justice") but because he was an integral part of (arguably) the best o-line in college football the past few years. And I like Bloom, a very athletic guy and great competitor who could be a real Philly fan favorite.
3) The Phillies…I don’t even know. I agree with what Charlie Manuel said last year, that you can’t judge a team by a month’s performance. But things look pretty obvious. The team is hovering around .500 (though they have won four in a row), the offense is playing pretty well (save for Jimmy Rollins who is in a horrible slump), and the pitching, aside from Flash and Brett Myers, is suspect at best. The Mets are the cream of the division and you can never discount Atlanta (even though they look discountable), so early indications are that it’s going to be another long, mediocre season for the Phillies.
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Six Songs
"Gotta Have You" The Weepies
I am very particular about my play count on iTunes. Flawed as it may be, it is the only real or quantifiable source of song goodness that I have. For example, the most played song on my iTunes is "She Came In Through the Bathroom Window" by Joe Cocker. The next is "A Lack of Color" by Death Cab for Cutie. We currently have a tie for third between Beulah’s "You’re Only King Once" and Wilco and Billy Bragg’s "One by One."
Again, I know this is flawed; while I like these songs very much, I wouldn’t say that they are my top four favorite songs. The reason is that to register a play, a song must end and be followed by the next song. That means the iPod or iTunes must end the song, all the way down to the last second, and move on to the next song before a play is counted. So this makes it an imperfect system. Many of my top played songs are slow songs, because I have a mix called "Mood" (which is secretly the Make Out Mix) that I often fall asleep to. So those songs are played all the way through as I lay in bed, drunk, hard, and alone. Conversely, good songs with long endings or outros are penalized because I often skip to the next song before it can properly end. A good example is Ted Leo’s "Timorous Me", which ends with 45 seconds of buzzing feedback, which I regularly skip. So although "Timorous Me" is one of my ten or twenty favorite songs, it only has a play count of about 15.
Now to this song. This is a very good song that I recently discovered and have become mildly obsessed with. I’m a big advocate of keeping it simple with love songs and this song does just that, repeating "Nothing else will do/I gotta have you." Real, real pretty.
Now the problem. I was listening to this song on repeat because I like it. Then the phone rang or Brian got his hand caught in the microwave or something and I went away from the computer for a while, leaving this song on repeat. When I came back, it had a played over 40 times, bringing the play count to over 50. Since then, subsequent plays have brought it over 60 plays (in top ten play count territory).
I can’t decide if I’m OCD or just totally fucking weird because this is giving me fits. I like this song, but it shouldn’t be among the top ten played. This is seriously keeping me awake at night. I’ve contemplated resetting the play count to zero, but that’s completely immoral. So I’m stuck. Big time.
…
I just read all of this over and all I can say is I’m sorry. In the future, I’ll keep my neuroses to myself. Check out the song. It’s nice.
"Adultery" Koufax
I’ll give a shout out to any song that starts: "A little problem has arrived/I have learned that you are someone’s wife." Geez. Who can’t relate to that?
"Mambo Sun" T. Rex
This is only the third T. Rex song I’ve ever heard, behind "20th Century Boy" and "Bang a Gong." But based on this song, I’m going to listen to more of T. Rex. I think this might be a good song to do it to. But I’m not sure.
"Reach Up For The Sunrise" Duran Duran
I don’t know whether or not this is a gay anthem, but it should be. Also, I plan on starting a Gay Rights Group called "Reach Up For The Sunrise." Doesn’t that name really work?
"One More Night" Stars
A recommendation from The Midwest Grrl. It makes kinda sad and uncomfortable at the same time, but I can’t stop listening to it.
"Goldigger" Kanye West
For some reason, every day this week I’ve been putting on this song in the morning when I get ready for work. I had no previous inclination to it, but it’s been my theme song this week.
For some reason, every day this week I’ve been putting on this song in the morning when I get ready for work. I had no previous inclination to it, but it’s been my theme song this week.
By recommending it though, I can provide a public service announcement for any ladies contemplating marrying me: I am definitely getting a prenup. Not only did I come from a broken home, but I work hard for my money and my wife isn’t going to get half of it because she falls out of love with me. Fuck that. I used to talk about getting a prenup with an ex:
Me: "You know, if we ever get married, we’re getting a prenup."
Her: "Well, we’re not."
Me: "Not getting married or not getting a prenup?"
Her: "Both, if you keep talking about prenups."
There were subsequent conversations, the tone of which can be summarized best as "You, Jason Mulgrew, are a fucking insensitive asshole."
So my question is, am I wrong to have brought this up? Partially I was joking, since we weren’t getting married, but I am serious. I want a prenup before I get married. It works both ways, really, protecting both parties in the marriage. For example, I plan on making a lot of money in my life, but my family doesn’t have a lot of money. So even if I were to marry a girl who makes less than I do, her family will almost certainly have a lot more money than mine. A prenup would prevent either of us from getting at what isn’t ours.
…
Ok, I just read this over too and yep, I guess I am pretty much an insensitive asshole. But I’ll be an insensitive asshole with all his money after his first divorce. I’ll probably take a real bath after the second one, though. And the third, well, I don’t even want to think about that one. I imagine by that time I’ll be quoting Rod Stewart, who said (I’m paraphrasing), "Instead of getting married again, I’m just going to go up to a woman I hate and give her a house." God bless you, Sir Rod.
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Steve Almond is reading tomorrow (Friday) evening at 7pm at the Barnes & Noble at Astor Place here in NYC. He is reading in support of his new book, Which Brings Me To You, which he co-wrote with author Julianna Baggot, who will also be reading.
The book is excellent; I inhaled it in three days this past weekend. It is the story of a man and a woman who meet a wedding. Their immediate and awkward semi-sexual encounter leads to a series of letters between the two, confessing all the faults and failures of their past loves. It’s a riveting subject, made more interesting by the delivery; that the chapters are letters between the two adds an element of voyeurism that makes the book more enjoyable.
So Almond and Baggot are reading in NYC, Friday, 7pm, Astor Place Barnes & Noble. Come on down. And hey, even if you don’t like books, there is a good chance that they might actually murder each other on stage, so come for that.
They’re reading other places, both separately and together. For more information, see Steve Almond’s website and Julianna Baggot’s site.
Rage is walking back to your neighborhood to hit up your local Mexican place, feeling certain that it would be open. Unlike your favorite place, your local Mexican place is a mildly upscale joint that (you think) would not tolerate such truancy. Rage is finally getting to this place, after a significant walk, to find that it too is closed because of the goddamn Day Without Immigrants.
Mania is what builds when you walk from your local Mexican place to the only other reliable Mexican place you know, which is back in the direction of the original favorite place. It is what happens when you start obsessing over the Mexican food that you so desperately wanted all day long and over the goddamn immigrants celebrating the goddamn immigrant walkout. It is plotting the physical harm of those who might stop you from getting a fucking burrito.Homicide is what would have happened had that third Mexican place been closed. Fortunately, it was not.
Satisfaction is what you feel when you have finally made it back to your apartment and you are absolutely gorging yourself on Mexican food (and on the slice of pizza you picked up for good measure on the way home), after spending nearly two hours walking four miles around New York City. Your previous disappointment, rage, and mania all are washed away in a sea of guacamole, sour cream, and tomato sauce.The moral: Immigrants are vital to this nation, and, more importantly, to my diet (and not to mention to my sexual health). I, Jason Mulgrew, fully support any and all efforts to keep immigrants in this country, so that they can keep making me tostadas and giving me lap dances. And I implore you, my dear readers, to write your local congressperson to tell him/her that you feel the same way.
Let’s keep the immigrants in America. Because if I have to keep eating tacos made in some hipster joint in the Lower East Side and am not able to enjoy the real thing, I am seriously going to flip the fuck out.[Note: I have not divulged where I work or live. Those points on the maps are close to where I work and live, but not actually where I do so. Some of you are sick fucks and I don't want you to know this level of information about me.]
I hit CTRL+S, closed Word, and shut down my computer. Then I opened up a sweet $14 bottle of champagne, which I drank in a fantasy shower (a "fantasy shower" is a ritual whereby I sit naked in the shower with the showerhead shooting at my feet so that the rest of my body doesn’t get wet; it’s kinda like a weird steam shower/bath). Halfway through the fantasy shower, I masturbated.
I got out of the shower and heated up some pizza, drinking the last of the champagne to wash it down. I watched a little tv. Then I went to bed, just before 4am.
I woke up this morning and proofread the last bits on my subway ride and at work over my lunch break. After making a few small changes, most notably deciding to capitalize the word "Penis" every place it appears in the manuscript, I emailed it off to my editor.
Done. I am officially done. For now, at least.
Today, I am exhausted and a little hungover. But I will deal with it. I plan on going home after work and eating a giant meal. My original plan was to get a big ass mother fucking steak. However, this is not meant to be. I really don’t have anyone to go to eat a steak with. This is not a sob story, because I suppose I could bring a friend along, but I can’t really afford to drop $140 on dinner for two. I would have to do this too, since all of my friends are broke. I suppose I could go alone to eat, but something about having a "celebratory" steak by myself is just too much for me to handle, even though my ego is feeling pretty healthy now. And sadly, I don’t think nice steakhouses do take out. Which sucks. Because I would really love that.
Instead, I believe I will go straight from work to get take out from my favorite Mexican place, Festival Mexicano in the Lower East Side. Though it is some of the cheapest Mexican food around, I will spend $40 on nachos, quesadillas, and burritos.
I will take this food home and eat it very quickly. Then I will poop. Then I will take THREE Xanax and go to bed at 8pm. I will wake up tomorrow at 8am. It will be awesome.
In the bigger picture, now that the book is done, I look forward to getting back to being social. I really haven’t gone out that much over the past few weeks as I took care of this. And I haven’t been a very good friend, not returning emails or calls. When I have returned emails or phone calls, I have sounded like a total fucking diva, saying things like, "Don’t you understand that I’m trying to change literary history here!" and "Have you ever written a book? Do you know how hard it is?" and "What are you – a fucking immigrant? What part of ‘I can’t come to your shitty party because I’m more important than you’ do you not understand?"
I have a lot of other things that I can now look forward to, aside from going out more. I hope to do better and more writing on here. I have to finish planning a bachelor party. I’m going to redo my apartment once Brian moves out in two weeks. I have a fancy Hollywood party on the horizon. I am going to Jamaica for an all-inclusive wedding for a week at the end of May. In early June, I have my five year college reunion. Then it’s summer. Before you know it, the Drink Until You Shit Tour will be here (scheduled for July 8 - mark your calendars). Then it’s my birthday on July 17, the big 2-7. So good, fun things are coming up.
(And of course, this weekend I’m going to give myself alcohol poisoning, even though I may not leave my apartment.)
If I have it my way, I will not write about this book on here again. I don’t want to talk about it and I don’t want you to hear about it until it comes out next year. So consider this post a swan song for my book writing complaints (at least until later this week).
But I wanted to let you all know that I am alive, I have made it, and it is done. It might even be pretty good, but that could be the stress, exhaustion, and psychosis talking.
But at any rate, whew. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m just going to put my head on my desk for a few minutes. Please don’t call or otherwise disturb me. Thanks.