My friends Brian and Corinne are trying to destroy Pete Townshend.  I believe it is an effort most noble.

Remember back a few years ago when Pete Townshend was found with a bunch of kiddie porn on his laptop?  You probably don’t, since the incident was immediately swept under the rug.  Ol’ Pete claimed it was research for a book he was writing and I guess that was all it took for Pete to get off the hook.  Somehow, I don’t think the same excuse would work for me (though that doesn’t mean that when I finally do get busted I won’t use it). 

For some unknown reason probably borne out of too many cans of Bud, Brian and Corinne are intent on reminding the public of Pete’s pederast tendencies.  And how, exactly, are they planning on doing this?  By introducing a line of t-shirts, of course.

Yesterday, I spent the afternoon with Brian and Corinne emailing t-shirt slogans back and forth.  I don’t want to give too many of these away, since I really think we should make t-shirts, which then I could sell on here for a hefty profit.  But more than the profit, it’s about reminding the world about a child pornographer.  He may have written Tommy, but he also probably touched him. 

A sample t-shirt can be seen on my MySpace page, courtesy of a comment Brian left.  Corinne also has one on her page, but down a bit.  As of right now, when I click on Brian’s page, it says "Invalid Friend ID," which means that someone that he works with probably discovered his MySpace page and he had to delete it.  Or maybe he finally got caught in one of those Dateline NBC "To Catch a Predator" segments.  Whatever.

The point is that just as we dispatched with the guitarist for the Smashing Pumpkins last week, we now have our sights set on a bigger prize.  I am hitching my wagon to Corinne and Brian’s star and we are going to take Pete "the Predator" down.  Bet you thought you’d get away with it, eh Pete?  Not on our watch.   

(Maybe I’ll see Pete Townshend when I’m in LA this weekend.  I think he has a house there.)

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

There’s really no better way to spend the morning than talking to your credit card companies and trying to get an increase in your credit limit.  That is just so fucking sweet.  It really builds the self-esteem, especially when one of them says, "Um, no – you’re a deadbeat" and you have to beg and plead with the other, saying, "No, you don’t understand – I’m actually somewhat famous, but I haven’t been paid yet.  I’m developing a sitcom for a major network and writing my memoirs for a major publisher, but right now I would suck dick for $18.  Soon, I will be rich.  Eventually, I will be rich.  Ok, probably, I might be rich.  Please just increase the credit line.  I can’t eat.  Please.  I’ll suck your bird.  I’ll even cut you a break – $14.  It’s the Friday special.  Please.  Help.  $14.  You can’t beat that."

The good news is that they eventually gave in.  But I had to go down to $12 (no pun intended). 

Does anyone want to buy some old clothes or a barely working laptop (tons of porn and music on it, but so riddled with viruses that it runs like a computer from 1996)?  If so, please inquire within.  Like, immediately.  I think I’ll make rent next week, but come September 1, it’s anybody’s game.   

(Maybe instead of recommending Six Songs I can sell mp3’s of me singing them?  Because I hear that is a lot of money in mp3’s.)

(Well, at least I’m going to LA this weekend.)

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

But hey, at least my diet is working.  We’ve passed the one month mark and we’re at Day 33 and I’m down 18 pounds, only two pounds away from my goal with 28 days to spare.  I’ve decided that will continue to day 60 to see how much I can lose, but really, it’s all moot anyway, since I’m going to gain it back. 

At least I’m not sick of it.  I’ve found that I kinda like the gym, as it allows me to a) listen to angry music; b) be angry; c) sweat without being judged (too much); and d) stare at sweaty, barely clad women.  So really, what’s not to love?   

As far as the eating restrictions, they’ve become so routine that I don’t even mind them anymore.  I eat a little bit, but I’m not starving and I occasionally cheat (over the weekend I got the crab cake fritter and the mac and cheese from 24 Prince, which was dynamite).

I will say something (something that will entirely curse this diet): what is going to happen to this blog if I’m no longer fat?  I know this is wishful thinking, especially since these last few pounds are proving to be real bastards and are hanging onto my body for dear life, but how negatively would this blog be affected if instead of "fat" I was "slightly above average in size?"  What’s more damaging: me being not as fat or me having a real-life girlfriend or lover?  I really can’t choose between the two, but I’m certain both will destroy my career.  I guess we’ll have to find out. 

(But not really – like I said, there is no way that I don’t go on a two week eating binge once this diet is over.  Every time I take a step on the treadmill, I think "WHITE-CASTLE WHITE-CASTLE WHITE-CASTLE."  It’s going to be ugly.  And by ugly I mean really, really fucking awesome.)

(God, I can’t wait to eat White Castle.)

(Also, I’m going to gain like eight pounds in LA this weekend anyway.  I’m having at least one In-and-Out burger, probably more like three.)

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

Two completely disparate celebrity sightings this weekend:

1) One of my favorite bands, the Eagles of Death Metal, outside the Hotel QT in midtown, trying to hail a cab on Saturday afternoon.  At first I thought it was the band, but then as I looked them over I thought they were simply older hipsters, but Brian confirmed that it was indeed them.  Then Brian and I spent five minutes singing "I only want you!" in high pitched voices, but they either didn’t hear us or ignored us.  I still like them.

2) Freddy Prinze Jr. on Tuesday or Wednesday of this week around the corner from my office building, taking a break from filming a movie or commercial or something.  I was tempted to go up to him and say, "Hey Freddie – I know your wife" since I stood next to Sarah Michelle Gellar in a parking lot waiting for my car one of the last times I was in LA (we’re actually represented by the same agency).  Only her car was something fancy and mine was a minivan.  Needless to say, there was no small talk, probably because I was fondling myself and snorting while I ate bbq potato chips and stared at her. 

Anyway, I saw Freddy Prinze Jr.  I’ll probably see more celebrities in LA this weekend. 

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

I will be in Los Angeles (for part of) this weekend, arriving Saturday afternoon and leaving Monday afternoon.  I have one meeting on Sunday evening and otherwise absolutely nothing to do.  If you hear anything on the news about an arsonist who drinks Manhattans, it’s not me.  Got it?  Definitely not me.  Alternatively, if anything awesome happens near the Beverly Center, it was probably me.  Especially if it relates to drag racing.  I love to drag race whenever I’m on the west coast.     

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

Six Songs

"Cry Me A River"  Joe Cocker
I’ve said it before: the best thing about Joe Cocker is that every time he sings he sounds like he’s drunk.  And not just a little drunk either, but really really fucked up.  And it’s beautiful, especially in this foot-tapper, which says, "Suffer for me like I suffered for you, bitch."  Nothing like drunk anger.  Nothing like it in the world.   

"Angeleyes"  Abba
I’m not gonna lie – I fucking love Abba.  And not just because their name is the prime example of chiasmus, but because they made some of the most perfect pop music ever.  This track is not as popular as the rest (I think this one’s on More Gold, the sequel to Gold) but it’s nice, very nice. 

"Year of the Rat"  Badly Drawn Boy
I’ve pimped this before, but can one of you please come over to my apartment to teach me how to play this song on piano?  I don’t play piano, nor do I have one, but I’m a quick learner and a very gifted musician.  And it doesn’t sound that hard and it’s a beautiful song .  C’mon – we’ll make a day of it: you teach me the song, we have a couple of drinks, I kiss you, you pull away, say, "What are you doing?", I say, "Like you don’t want it," then you say, "Dude, I’m not gay," and I say, "Nothing matters but the emotion," then you punch me in the face and leave.  A perfect lil’ Saturday. 

"I Could Drink a Case of You"  Keller Williams
What a lovely version of this song.  I can appreciate that Joni Mitchell is a great songwriter and all, but whenever I listen to her, I’m afraid my testicles are going to fall off.  After about ten minutes of her stuff, I can feel myself starting to menstruate.  Good lord.  The solution?  This lovely (live) cover by Keller Williams, which does not make me like a woman at all.  Very good version, which, if you ask me, is better than the original.

(And to prove I’m not sexist, I feel that some covers of men’s songs are better than the originals.  The first example that comes immediately to mine is Garth Brooks’ cover of Dylan’s "To Make You Feel My Love."  Bob Dylan sounds like he’s just come out of an eighteen month coma when he sings that song, whereas Garth gives it a proper treatment.  Billy "Just One More" Joel does a cover of the song too, but I can’t take him seriously anymore.)

"Living in Paradise (Early Version)"  Elvis Costello
You’re not going to find this song.  I’m not even talking about the version that’s on This Year’s Model, but the one on the bonus disc of the My Aim is True re-release.  It’s the same song, but the early version is much less produced, much more raw, and much more angry.

Anyway, I think the song is about politics, but I don’t mix my politics and my music, so I pretend it’s about women or love or whatever.  Elvis ends the song by singing over and over "And you’re/Already looking for another/Fool like me" in a voice that is half-whine and half-yell (read: my normal speaking voice).  And it is incredible, perfectly encapsulating that heartbreaking/pissed off feeling you get when you hear that your ex is onto someone else.  I remember I broke up with an ex-girlfriend and then about a week later I heard that she was making out with her former high school teacher all over a local bar.  At first I was pissed, then I was sad, then I was like, "Wait a minute – her old high school teacher?  That’s more funny for me and sad for her than anything else.  Winner: me."  But still, I took solace in Elvis’s line, as I believed that in our relationship I was a victim of her craziness, and already she was, well, already looking for another fool like me.     

(Then the following weekend I got a blowjob in the middle of the woods of Vermont after my band played a show at Middlebury College.  That’s when I learned something: if you get on stage and look like you’re all into it, even if you’re thinking about why the hell your ex would hook up with her old teacher, someone is going to put your penis in their mouth.  A true life lesson.)

"Touch, Feel & Lose"  Ryan Adams
That’s it, Ryan – get pissed off!  Yell!  Fucking let it out man!  Fuckin’ A!

This song, like Ryan Adams himself, kicks ass.  From that intro, you’re probably thinking this is a rowdy one, but it’s actually quite slow and bluesy.  Until it picks up when Ryan sings, "I never wanted to be your rolling train/I never wanted to be your dancing shoes" and you can hear him almost spitting with anger and sadness over the line "I just wanted you to love me."  Not like I can relate to that or anything.  It’s just a kick ass song, which I spent figuring out (for some reason it’s not tabbed online) and playing and singing for about two hours last night.  Also, it’s very easy to solo over, so even though I haven’t touched an electric guitar in about two years, I was still able to do something halfway decent.  And yes, I’m only writing this to impress you.  God I’m so lonely.

(Not really.)

(Have a good weekend.)

Today, it dawned on me that last Friday, July 21, was my five year anniversary at my job. 

What a fucking company man.

I don’t talk very much about my job here because, well, I’m not stupid.  A regular paycheck is something that I enjoy and I would like to keep receiving.  Also, insurance is nice, especially since 120 pills of Xanax would cost me a pretty penny on the street (through my insurance: $5).

And to be honest, there’s not too much to say about my job.  I do marketing/pr/financial research for a large corporate law firm.  I like it a lot.  I find the work interesting.  My co-workers are cool.  The job is zero stress.  The pay is good.  I can walk to work in about 25 minutes.  And I rarely work late (my average day is 9:45 to about 6:30).  I might even love my job.  I don’t know how many other non-famous 27 year olds can say that about their employment.

I could honestly do what I do for the rest of my life and not complain.  Sure, I’d like salary increases and promotions and all that jazz, but I could make a good, happy, comfortable living at my job and be content.  I can see myself in ten years living in a suburb in New Jersey, loving a sweet unsuspecting wife who maybe is missing something physical (hand, knee, etc), raising two horrendously obese children, owning a large dumb dog and a luxury automobile, carrying on an affair with one of the lawyers I work with, drinking myself into a state of emotional deadness, spending sleepless nights praying for a heart attack - basically, living the American dream.

But of course, that doesn’t mean that I don’t aspire to other things.  While I can appreciate how good I have it right now in the corporate world, that doesn’t mean that I wouldn’t like to get paid to write jokes about shitting myself while sitting in my underwear in my bedroom, taking frequent beer and jerk off breaks.  Also, with a big bag of Tostito’s and a jar of Amy’s Organic Black Bean & Corn salsa, which is the greatest salsa I’ve ever had – by far.  Great fucking salsa.    

And I’m kinda close to this writing poop jokes while eating/drinking/masturbating for a living thing.  Or rather, I recently tasted its sweet sweetness.  Regular readers know that I took off almost four and a half months from October to February to "work on my projects," namely this and this.  The former was "rolled," which means I’m only starting it now, and the latter I’ve learned is more like an ongoing, never-ending process that will end only if I die or if I lose my eyesight.  Since I’ve been doing a lot of experiments recently that involve fire and cans of hair spray, I’d say the blindness is more likely, but death is not that far behind.

What I’m trying to say is that during those four-plus months off, I did very little.  I actually can’t remember a single day from any of those days.  I’d wake up around 1, eat, and hang out.  Then my old roommate Brian would get home and we’d hang out.  Then when he went to bed, I’d "write," which is to say, I’d sit at the computer, get drunk, and compose long, harshly-worded emails to ex-girlfriends that I’d never send.  Then I’d go to bed.  Repeat 130 times.  I wish I were joking here. 

Now, I work full-time, spend an hour a day at the gym, write this blog, work on both projects, AND still find time to live a (semi-)happy and (not really) promiscuous lifestyle. 

So today when I realized that I’ve been working for five years, I felt pangs of regret because I took so little advantage of that time off.  The most exciting thing I did was drive from Seattle to LA, but we all know how that ended up.  Otherwise, nothing.

And never again will I have that sort of time off.  Which makes me very sad.  For the rest of my life, I’m stuck here, at my desk, doing shit for someone else.  And none of this hit me until today.

(Let’s face it: all this other stuff is going to fail.  And I’m not saying that so you’ll send me emails saying "Oh come on Jason – it’s gonna be great and you’ll be a success!"  I’m saying it so you’ll send me some booby pictures.  Seriously, what gives?  I used to get a few a week, or at least one a week, but I haven’t gotten booby pictures in probably two months.  Was it something I said?  Something I did?  Just when I thought I was going to break the record for most pictures of boobies without faces, the well runs dry.  Thanks a lot, jerks.)

(You know what – forget it.  Don’t even THINK of sending me them now out of pity.  I don’t want your goddamn pity boobies.  Keep them to yourself.)

I don’t even know where I was going with this, but the points are:

1) I’ve been working for the same company for five years and I just turned 27 (though I like my job)
2) I’m pissed at myself that I didn’t take more advantage of my time off
3) I’m busy now and it sucks
4) I don’t want your pity boobies
5) This post is completely fucking retarded or at least very incomplete because I have great difficulty writing anything about work

Yeah, that about covers it.  Um, more tomorrow. 

I’ve spent the afternoon looking at these clips over and over again.  Today is the first day of full-pads practice.  Soon the bargaining with God will begin.  Like, for example, now:
 
God,
 
You know the drill by now, since we do this every July.  While this past year, my 26th, was mostly kind to me, I still have not tasted the sweet sweetness of a championship in my city.  To add insult to injury, you even caused the referees to botch the last Super Bowl after I flew 2400 miles to be in Seattle, hoping I’d experience my first conscious championship (the Sixers won when I was 4).  Just like how when I moved to NYC the Yankees were a dynasty and they haven’t won since.  Also like when I left Boston, the Sox and Pats sucked; after me, the Sox won their first championship in 86 years and the Pats won three of four Super Bowls.
 
(Not that I was a bandwagon fan for these teams – it’d just to be nice to be in a city that wins a championship.)
 
Though history has not been kind to me, I remain optimistic.  I know that I will experience a championship, a championship by one of my hometown Philadelphia teams.  I ask You now, as a supplicant for Your mercy, to allow the Eagles to win the Super Bowl this year.  For this, I will give you anything.  You can insert a proclivity to mental retardation in my genes, make me bald(er), cause me to loss a substantial portion of my monies in a succession of bad investments, take 30 years off my life – whatever pleases You.  I say without an ounce of exaggeration that nothing – nothing on earth – would give me more happiness than a Philadelphia Eagles Super Bowl victory.
 
(Seriously.)
 
Please think of me, God.  I know that there are others more needy than I, but few people who deserve this more than myself and my fellow long-suffering Philly fans.  Plus, I did many good deeds this year.  For example, I wore a condom with over 40% of the women I slept with.  Also, I cleaned my office.  Lastly, I considered giving the money I received from readers on my birthday to some charity or some shit.  But You and I both know that I’m really hard up for cash at the moment and that’s not possible.  Still, I considered it, which, I think, really says something about my character.   
 
I know that we’re a longshot, that the division is much tougher, that few of the team’s needs were addressed in the off-season.  But maybe, just maybe, this is the year.  Maybe the "underdog" role will suit the team just as it does the city.  Maybe with the fucking asshole bitch diva Terrell Owens gone (good luck again, Cowboys fans), the team will come together.  Maybe health will be on our side, allowing our key players to play the full season.  Maybe, just maybe. 
 
You don’t have to answer now, God – just consider it.  There’s plenty of time until the season starts, and even after that, I won’t need an answer until, say, Week 7.  That usually when I start to lose my shit entirely. 
 
In the meantime, please give me the strength to be patient, to read each story from mini-camp calmly without hurting myself or my loved ones, to be sane for as long as I can be, to ignore the deluge of "the Eagles fucking stink" emails that this post will invite.  In return, I promise to do something nice today.  Or tomorrow.  Because it’s already pretty late in the day.
 
Yours, 
In wind, fire, water, earth,
My love feeds on your love, beloved, 
And as long as you live it will be in your arms, 
Without leaving mine, 
I am, 
 
Jason MJPAE Mulgrew   
 
PS – Please stop all the Mideast stuff.  If you can.  Thanks.

My Saturday started like most of my recent Saturdays have started (with a hangover, a random blonde in my bed, and a pile of eggs benedict calling me from a few blocks away), after a Friday night that was, simply put, glorious; many friends and I closing down Burp Castle (in what is becoming a Friday night ritual) and heading to a nearby bar where at 3:15 in the morning I was – gasp! – dancing (bless those strong Belgian beers).  Lovely, lovely, lovely. 

But this Saturday would prove different.  I spent the day wandering around the city buying various alcohol and alcohol-related sundries.  Ever since Brian moved out last month, I’ve been obsessed with creating a bar in my apartment.  Well, not a full “bar” but a little booze area.  I ordered something called a wine table from Crate & Barrell, which looks like a wine rack on steroids.  On top of rack where the wine goes is a little, um, table, on which I intend to put some of my booze things: my decanters, my snazzy ice bucket and matching shaker, and, of course, bottles of booze.

As I mentioned last week, I drank a bunch of Manhattans on my birthday and feel almost immediately in love.  Any drink that is strong, makes me warm, and was good enough for my grandpop to drink every day of his adult life is good enough for me. (Never mind that my grandpop had a fatal heart attack at 53.  Let’s focus on the positives.) So in my travels on Saturday afternoon I picked up a bottle of Maker’s Mark, two bottles of vermouth, some bitters, and, of course, a jar of cherries. 

I did not, however, pick up my wine table.  This, I blame, on logistics.  The Crate & Barrell that has my wine table is at Houston & Broadway, one of the top five most congested intersections in New York City.  And though I am undoubtedly strong, I was very hungover on Saturday afternoon and didn’t feel like carrying a heavy and cumbersome wine table through the packed streets of Soho back to my apartment.  So for tonight, the kitchen counter would do.

My friends’ plan for Saturday night consisted of going to a loft party and then figuring things out.  I was very, very against this.  I HATE loft parties (notice the caps, so you know I’m serious).  One of the top twenty rules about life in NYC goes something like this:

Rule 17: If you live in a loft, you are a more than likely a douche.  As are your friends.

I was not about to go to this party.  Standing around in a stranger’s place, hiding in a corner, rifling beers while deflecting the dirty/pitying looks, was not how I wanted to spend the first part of my Saturday night.  I would stay at home by myself and fix myself some drinks, like a real gentleman.  Like a real goddamn gentleman.

So around 8, I broke open the Maker’s Mark, dropped some vermouth into the shaker, added a dash of bitters, and we had it: my first homemade Manhattan, looking pretty with two cherries in my glass (one for each teste).  I sat down on my couch, turned on the TV, and it was love at first sip.  It was going to be a good night.

[And I'll save you assholes the email: I know you're supposed to stir, not shake Manhattans.  But how fun is it to shake cocktails?]

After the first one went down, I made a second and headed to my bedroom.  You probably can’t tell, since I’m not really sharing it on here, but I’m riding a wave of creativity that comes along with about the frequency of the solstices.  I thought: “This is perfect.  I’ll sit at the computer, write a little bit, and have some fancy drinks.  Then in a couple hours I’ll go out and show my penis to a stranger.  This is going to be a great night.”

And so write I did.  I sat there, banging around on the old computer, plowing through the Manhattans.  My face was flush by now and I was rocking out, having a grand old time, pounding away on the pc. 

And then I made a discovery that changed everything.  From that moment forward, my night, and quite possibly my life, would never be the same. 

I discovered the music of George Jones.

For those of you who don’t know, George Jones is a country singer who writes songs about women, booze, and, well, that’s about it.  I believe that a reader had recommended his music to me awhile ago, but I never got around to checking it out.  But here I was, drinking whiskey by myself, and George Jones seemed a good fit.  I read a little about him while some of his songs were downloading and saw something about how “his career was marked by heroic periods of substance abuse.”  Heroic substance abuse?  That’s almost an oxymoron, but if it is, it’s awesome.  This got me excited and I drank faster.  I kept reading about Jones and was fascinated; here are two excerpts from his Wikipedia entry:

The decrease in hits accurately reflects the downward spiral in Jones’ health in the late ’70s, when he became addicted not only to alcohol, but to cocaine as well. Jones became notorious for his drunken, intoxicated rampages, often involving both drugs and shotguns. Jones would disappear for days at a time. He began missing a substantial amount of concerts — in 1979 alone, he missed 54 shows — which earned him the nickname “No-Show Jones.”

and

Throughout 1981 and 1983, [Jones] had eight Top Ten hits. Although he was having hits again, he hadn’t kicked his addictions. Jones was still going on crazed, intoxicated rampages, which culminated with a televised police chase of Jones, who was driving drunk, through the streets of Nashville.

Before I had even heard a note, I decided that George Jones was one of my top five favorite musicians of all time.

When I did hear a note, I was not disappointed.  The first offering was a little ditty called “If Drinkin’ Don’t Kill Me (Her Memory Will).”  By the end of the first minute, George had covered drunk driving, suicide by alcohol, and using his own blood to start a whiskey still. 

Ladies and gentlemen, it was on.

Over the next five hours, I got drunk off my ass.  Blind, filthy, stinking drunk in my apartment by myself, listening to country music.  I finished the bottle of Maker’s Mark, pounding those fucking Manhattans like they were iced tea.  When I started drinking, I was using a jigger to measure four jiggers of bourbon, two of vermouth, and drinking the Manhattans out of a highball glass.  Once I discovered George Jones however, I was using eight-ten jiggers of bourbon, four-five of vermouth, and drinking out of a pint glass. 

I downloaded dozens of George Jones songs, songs with titles like “She Thinks I Still Care”, “Just One More”, and “He Stopped Loving Her Today.”  After I got the hang of them, I started singing along and ultimately grabbed my guitar to play along.  Then I decided, for whatever reason, to put on a suit.  I can’t really explain this except to say that I really look good in suits, and, I guess I wanted to look good.  So there I was in my apartment, in a suit, alone, drinking Manhattans out of a pint glass, playing guitar and singing lines like “I’ll keep drinking, it won’t matter/I’ll just remember that I once had her.” 

I realize that this may sound depressing (horribly, horribly depressing), but I had a fucking ball.  An absolute blast.  Just because the songs were sad doesn’t mean I was; indeed, I’ve gotten a lot sadder by being out at bars, looking at attractive unapproachable women and the douchebags they were with.  The songs didn’t inspire sadness in me, but rather a profound awe.  I couldn’t believe that a) people wrote songs like these; and b) I hadn’t heard them in my 27 years.  Bottom line, there is a lot to be said for getting blackout drunk by yourself (on bourbon, no less), listening to country music.  And if you can’t appreciate that, well, then I don’t think you should keep reading this.

By now it was about 2:45 in the morning and I realized that if I didn’t leave the apartment I was going to put myself in the hospital.  Although I was just about out of whiskey, I had an almost full bottle of vodka, two bottles of wine, and about a half a case of beer.  I was prepared for war.   

I called Brian to see what the status was with the partygoers, but he had been elusive all night.  I really wanted to meet Brian out tonight because his new roommate was out with him, who is supposedly very attractive.  I say supposedly because Brian is doing everything is his power to keep his roommate and I apart and I have yet to meet her.  Unlike me, Brian is not a scumbag.  Whereas I would view a new, young attractive roommate as a potential victim, Brian has established an almost older brother-younger sister relationship with her.  And Brian knows just how dangerous I can be, especially now that I’m all thin, fast, and drunker.  Brian remained elusive and I never met him or the roommate that night. 

Instead, I got in touch with a friend who invited me over to smoke a bowl, because, you know, that’s what I really needed at that point.  I headed over and brought a can of Chef Boyardee as a gift and spent about an hour hanging out, getting high, and sitting on a couch in front of the coldest air conditioning vent in all of lower Manhattan (I was out of the suit by this point, thankfully).  Eventually it was time for bed and I left their place a little high and a lot more sober, certain that I wasn’t going to drink anymore when I got home.  So it actually worked out pretty well for me, at least in terms of the whole “drinking myself to death” part.         

When I got home, I did have one last vice to cross off the list.  After a bottle of whiskey and a couple of bowls, I couldn’t stick to my diet and ate almost an entire bag of Tostitos, the equivalent of about two days worth of calories on my diet.  I tried putting on the George Jones while this chip orgy was going on, but it didn’t feel right – like our moment had passed, like waking up next to the stranger you brought home from the bar the night before.  So I switched it off and went back to feeding.  I don’t regret it because fuck it – I was very, very messed up – but the next day when I weighed myself I had gained 2.5 pounds in a day.  God I love binging and starving. 

I don’t remember going to sleep, but when I woke up the next day (at 1:30), it was the nicest day of the summer in NYC and I felt spectacular.  I had not a hangover to speak of and nary a headache, but a desire to get out and enjoy the day.  I showered, dressed, and then went for a walk that took me over seven miles away in the Upper West Side.  Just a great afternoon.

And another spectacular weekend in the books.  I have two new loves, Mr. Whiskey and Mr. Jones, and I think we’re going to be in the honeymoon period for a long, long time.  This could be the start of something very beautiful – as long as I only keep one bottle of Maker’s Mark at a time.  Any more than that and it might get ugly.  Or awesome.  Whichever.   

I just joined a beer of the month club, loaded up my Amazon.com cart with all your book recommendations (thank you), and sent a hand-written fax to my old roommate Ben, who now lives and works in Seattle, that went like this:

BEN,

The PONZI SCHEME has COLLAPSED.  EARTH.  PLEASE call me when you get this.  It is NOT an EMERGENCY (NOT), but we should TALK.  I have NO phone.

Love,
LUCAS/jason

He’s going to be so, so pissed.  He got pissed at me last week when we were emailing and I reminded him that I’ve slept with more women than he has (but to be fair, I’ve really been with a lot of women).  So I can only imagine his reaction when a co-worker brings this fax to him.   

At any rate, this is how slow my Friday is.  I can almost taste the beer in my throat.  If I had a TV in my office, I would have turned it off by now, having grown sick of watching it.  I’m not really sure if that makes any sense, but what it means that I’ve been so bored that…forget it.   

I think I’m going to go for a walk.  It’s a perfect day to head down to the Seaport to make eyes at all the underage tourist girls.  

[And yes, I realize that this has no point and is not funny, but I wanted to share my boredom with y'all.  So forgive me.]

[Besides, I thought the fax was pretty funny.  Maybe you have to know Ben.]

[Oh, and I feel better.  Not 100%, but probably around 82%, which is coincidentally the percentage needed to get the green light to start drinking whiskey right after dinner.  So that's nice.]

[And have a good weekend.]

I am sick as a mother fucker today.  I feel like I did about a month ago, like little land mines have been placed between my skull and my flesh and in my ear canals and they’ve been going off about every four hours.  Fucking head cold.  Last night, I woke myself up about every half hour between 12:30 and 4 because I was making extremely loud gargling noises.  After waking up, I’d spend two to four minutes coughing up golf ball-sized phlegm into paper towels I had stashed next to my bed, saying "Mother fucker" over and over again.  So yeah, great night.

(During one of the gargling/spitting up intervals, a thought occurred to me: how do married people do this?  If my wife was sleeping next to me, making these godforsaken gargling noises, then waking up every 30 minutes to cough up mucus, I would flip out.  I mean, flip the fuck out.  I found myself getting angry at myself for making such disgusting bodily noises.  But hey, I guess that’s where love comes in.  Must be nice.)

(And is it gargling or gurgling?  Since we started with the former, let’s keep going with it.)

But, though sick and very tired, I am still in work.  I don’t know why really; this is a very good reason to stay at home.  But when I woke up, I felt like I had to get out.  Maybe I would feel better if I interacted with the world, get my mind off how much I feel like shit.

Big mistake.

So I’m at my desk, eyes half-closed, blowing my noise constantly, and groaning.  What’s worse is I haven’t heard from my mom, who I’ve both called and emailed.  Since I’m a pussy when I’m sick, I need her, and she’s abandoning me.  If I don’t start talking about something else immediately, I’m going to start crying.

At any rate, send me some get well vibes.  And if you are a (reasonably) attractive woman who lives in the vicinity of Chinatown/Little Italy and would like to practice her nurturing skills, please contact me asap.  Thank you.

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

Many moons ago, we used to have a feature on this site where I’d list some of the search terms that people entered into Google, Yahoo, etc that brought them here.  Then it was copied by just about every blogger under the sun, so I stopped doing it.  Also, I stopped obsessing and/or masturbating over site traffic, because, after all, I’m now Larry Awesome.  Larry Awesome doesn’t have to worry about how many people view his site, because he’s Larry Awesome. 

However, inspired by an email I got asking what happened to those search word write-ups, I headed to the admin page for the site to look over some of the search terms that brought people to this here website recently.  And there were some real gems. 

Without further ado, a list of search terms in the past month that have brought people to jasonmulgrew.com:

- steps on how to squirt white stuff out your dick
- guide to awesome sex
- there’s at least 1 person on your myspace that wants to date you or sleep with you/or make out with you
- one night stand indian lady want sex women of india want sex sex by indian women
- why does my vagina tremble after sex
- my semen is yellow what is wrong

Don’t worry sister, my vagina trembles after sex, too.  As for the first one, it’s nice to know that jasonmulgrew.com is educating the youth of world on love, sex, and how to squirt the white stuff out of your dick.  I will sleep well tonight. 

- celebrity armpits
- please give me some tips for wide the penis
- herpes convention
- eating your own semen
- men peeping at women pooping
- craziest belly punching pics

I should note that jasonmulgrew.com is the net’s leading resource on eating your own semen, celebrity armpits, and belly punching.  Way too many people came to this site using either of those search terms for me to feel comfortable.  Way too many.

- if loving me is wrong than goddamn you do it right
- italian licked my moustache
- std via licking whipped cream
- how to lie about we met on the internet
- how can i make sex more exciting instead of just lying there
- i was married to the ultimate warrior

Wow – if the Ultimate Warrior’s wife is still reading this site, please contact me.  I would like to date you. 

- uncomfortable with my gay roommate always walking around naked
- should i make myself throw up? and drinking
- my aunt caught me masturbating my penis
- i desperately need a tomato sauce bottle signed by the big brother ninjas in my life
- grinding the corn sex act
- mickey mantle blowjob

I think I have a new way of talking about jerking off: "masturbating my penis," as in, "Well, I was masturbatin’ my penis and Cheryl came in and was like, ‘What you doin’?'  And I said, ‘What’s it look like I’m doin’ – I’m masturbatin’ my penis!’  Man, she’s dumb."  (It also works better if you read that in a Southern accent.)

- take me somewhere internet
- was johnny damon really apart of color me badd
- of what ethnicity is anthony keidis is he greek?
- how to recuperate after masturbating
- my bicep in her vagina
- why does doing doggy style hurt me?

Those last two are quite antithetical: one person is hurt by a normal sexual position, the other is trying to stick his upper arm into his girl’s special place.  The internet is a wonderful place, no?

- my wife wants to lick another mans ass in front of me
- on the way back to the dorm mike told me to open my shorts. i did. looking at my shaved crotch made me think of
- if a women suck my finger does that mean she want to suck my penis
- i want cheerleaders to tie me up and piss and shit on me
- kindly show me the indian sexy girl for sex
- t shirt spanish triathlon drinking eating fucking

Think of what?  Think of what???  C’mon!  You can’t just end it there!

Also, I thought we covered a number of justifiable reasons for murder recently, but we have another: you can legally kill your wife is she says, "I want to lick another man’s ass in front of you."  You wouldn’t even need to hire a lawyer for that trial, because there’s simply no way you’re going to get convicted of that crime.  Good lord.  I’ve heard some pretty damaging things from women in the bedroom, but fortunately, nothing about licking another man’s ass in front of me.  I mean, wow. 

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

Today is Day 25 of the diet and so far I’ve lost 13 pounds (goal: 20 pounds in 60 days).  I’m on the lighter side of 220 for the first time since 2000.  Which is nice.

However, I still can’t really tell when I look at myself naked, gazing longingly, holding a torch, doing jumping jacks.  Sure, I’ve lost some weight, but I am still fat.  However, there are two reasons for celebration:

1) I can now remove my jeans by simply pulling them down, even when they are zipped, buttoned, and belted (I’ve already gone down one notch on the belt and am moving toward a second).  So this means that if I have to have sex in a flash, I can certainly do so.  Maybe not something that has to be in the forefront of my mind, but encouraging nonetheless.  While a month ago I was a size 38 waist pushing 40, now I’m probably about 37. 

2) I still can’t really run at the gym on the treadmill, so I do what I call ralking.  It’s walking very quickly up a steep incline.  In this way, I get the maximum benefit I can without having to actually run and embarrass myself in front of other gym goers.  That’s pretty much all I ask for at the gym: a solid workout with being pitied by the women around me (though sometimes, this is too much to ask). 

Over the weekend, I was walking around the city and got caught in the middle of the street when traffic started moving.  So I ran from the middle of the street over to the sidewalk.  And I was, dare I say, explosive (and the only time that word was used with me previously was when it was followed by "diarrhea").  It was a moment comparable to when Peter Parker first shot web out of his wrists: how did I do that?  I looked back and thought, "How did I get from there, to here, so quickly?"  I was shocked at how quickly and effortlessly I moved and I had a total boner the rest of the day.  So it looks like I may not be giving up on my dreams of playing in the NFL just yet.   

Anyway, it’s going well, I haven’t died from anorexia, and am still getting fucked up.  All good things.  I realize that this last few pounds will be the hardest, but I’m confident.  It’s about time I actually accomplished something.

(Also, I really want to start dating hot chicks.  This fat stuff isn’t helping me in this department.) 

(One question: can someone tell me where I can buy normal mesh shorts?  I’ve looked everywhere, but I don’t want shorts that the ballers wear that come down to my feet.  Nor do I want ball huggers that runners wear.  I’m just looking for a normal pair of shorts.  I mean, how fucking hard is this?  I have only two pairs that I’ve been wearing to the gym and come wash time, there is significant plant life growing in them.  So I need some more.  What the fuck.)

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

Thank you to all those who sent in birthday donations. I really do appreciate it.  Like I said, it is your donations that help me lead the life I do, for better or worse, so thanks for that.  I love you guys.

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

Like reading intelligent, impassioned prose about love and death?  Like characters with depth?  Like finishing a book and saying, "Wow"?  Then check out Johnny Dufresne book Johnny Too Bad, a collection of terrific short stories. 

I don’t want to give much of it anyway, because I don’t want to muck it up.  But trust me, it’s a terrific read.  I read it in about three sittings over the weekend and have started on one of his novels, Love Warps the Mind a Little, which I’m enjoying (though I’m only 60 or so pages into it). 

Secondly, recommend me some books.  I read a couple of books a month and I have a very impressive book shelf that women are floored by when they’re in my apartment, drunk, stoned, frightened, and, most importantly, fresh out of mace.  But I’m running out of things to read.  

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

Six Songs

"Come Back"  Pearl Jam
The best song on Pearl Jam’s new album.  Also the slowest and the saddest.  That’s just how I roll. 

"Mama You’ve Been On My Mind"  Jeff Buckley
Speaking of slow and sad, this song was written by Bob Dylan, covered by Sir Rod Stewart, and given life by Jeff Buckley.  This is a live cover from a radio show, but you should be able to find it through LimeWire.  But, be warned: do not listen to this if you’re feeling down.  This is the flagship song on my "Sad as Fuck" playlist.  Don’t say I didn’t warn you.  Bob’s version is ok, Sir Rod’s is almost comical (and my love of Sir Rod has been well-documented here), but Jeff Buckley’s…wow.  That whiney voice, that reverby guitar, that empty room: get ready to miss someone. 

"Cruising Together"  Smokey Robinson 
I’m convinced: this is the song played in the waiting room in heaven.  Beautiful song. 

"I Feel For You"  Chaka Khan
Do yourself a favor and learn how to lip-synch the intro to this song.  It will really come in handy at parties, weddings, and corporate events.  Trust me. 

"A Little Less Conversation"  Elvis Presley
I’ve been listening to a lot of Elvis lately, but I’m not ashamed to admit that I prefer the remix of this song to the original.  The original seems a little…punchless.  If you think about it, this is a pretty ballsy song: "Shut up and let’s get to the doing."  The remix really builds to that, which is nice.   

Man, I miss Elvis.

"1000 Seconds"  The Secret Machines
Really pretty and intense when we get to the "And did you think that I had planned it all along?" and "And did you leave because you thought that I would stay?" parts (Also, "I need love/That doesn’t mean that I need you" isn’t too shabby either).  It’s rather moving when you can basically transcribe an argument with your lover and turn it into a song, which is what I feel this song does (or at least, that particular part does).   

(God, I really hope that I get seriously famous because there is truly no better way than to get back at (or just get at) former loves than through art.  There is a girl who those lines are about, who so affected her lover that he was moved to create for her, about her, because of her.  This is why women are the most wonderful things in the world.  Men are clowns, extant for utility; women are gods, here for beauty, life, art, love – all the good stuff.)

(No, not goddesses – gods.  I know what the fuck I’m doing.)

(I shouldn’t even say this, but the idea for my sixth book is a chapter by chapter discussion of every woman I’ve slept with.  And yes, books with only two chapters do qualify for the Pulitzer.  However, we might have to open it up to include any woman I’ve loved, because though I know a good bit about my first girlfriend, I don’t know much about that girl from the parking lot of the Pink Floyd concert in 1999.  I remember she had only one ear, but that’s about all I got.  I think her name was Laurie, but that could be very wrong.  So the book would be pretty lopsided with the current "every woman I’ve slept with" idea.  But hey, it’s my sixth, so we have some time to work it out.) 

Two years ago, I greatly lamented the loss of my friends Annie and Nicole, who moved out of NYC to greener pastures (Annie to Seattle, Nicole to London).  Their departure was a devastating blow to me, as Annie and Nicole were my two closest female friends in the city, just as they had been in college.  No longer having them in NYC meant that I didn’t have anyone to go to with my lady problems, no one I could ask questions like “Is it weird to ask a girl the first time you’re having sex ‘Where do you want it?’” or “I really like this girl at work and we were all out the other day and I kept dropping the ‘N’ bomb over and over again.  Turns out her uncle is black.  Is there anything I can do to get her to go out with me now or should I just cut my losses?”

But as much as Annie and Nicole meant to me as sources of information and guidance, it worked both ways.  And when they left the city, I lost a role that I had been playing par excellence for years: the role of the gay best friend.

(Well, I’m not gay.  Now.  But you know what I mean.)

I had been playing the role of the gay best friend from just about the time that my testicles descended.  Forever, I was “the nice guy” (read: the asexual guy).  At my peak, in my early high school years, I would spend hours a day on the phone, talking to all the girls in the neighborhood about their boyfriend problems, while secretly lusting after them: 

Girl: “I don’t know, I like Billy and all, but sometimes, you know, I don’t think he, like, understands me.”
Me: “Well, that certainly is a conundrum.  Have you ever spoken to him about this?”
Girl: “I tried to, but we don’t really talk.  All we ever do is have sex.”
Me: [grimacing, pushing the mute button and whispering "Goddamn it!" through clenched teeth] “Well, maybe it’s time for a change, you know?  Maybe you should find someone that you have something in common with, someone who you can talk to.  Like my favorite Grateful Dead song says: ‘Once in a while you get shown the light/In the strangest of places if you look at it right.’”
Girl: [understanding] “Oh…I get it.  You’re saying I should start dating outside the neighborhood?  Like maybe some of the Italian kids from 16th & Jackson?”
[Jason pushes mute button, begins sobbing, rubbing genitals]   

I rocked this role and this role only until I learned an important lesson in college: if you want chicks to make out with you, you have to get drunk and get them drunk.  This worked out pretty well, and at one point (I believe it was the summer between my junior and senior years) I was ranked the #4 Lover in the World in my weight class (behind a Chinese guy, a Canadian guy, and some dude from Tucson).  Not too shabby.

This didn’t mean that I gave up my gay best friend role.  I still was the GBF to my female friends, but then I’d get drunk and try to get their friends to let me take pictures of them in my clothes.  And maybe a deer skin or something.  Yeah, a deer skin.  That’d be hot.

Then Annie and Nicole left New York.  And I was sad.  Coincidentally, about that time I stopped getting ass.  That also made me sad.

BUT – though Annie is still stuck in the Pacific Northwest, Nicole is back in New York City.  And I’m a gay best friend again.  Yay!

Last night, Nicole took me to dinner for my birthday at the Mercer Kitchen.  There, I gorged myself on all sorts of delicious foods: a shrimp salad, a steak, mac and cheese that may actually be better than Schiller’s, and some cake.  Oh, and a lot of booze.  Which was nice.

But what was nicest of all is that Nicole and I got to re-bond and I was able to get back to being a gay best friend.  While dinner for me was waiting to see if my ex-girlfriend and current girlfriend would call to wish me happy birthday (they didn’t, but at least I won a bet with Nicole and now get a bottle of booze of my choosing; Nicole said they definitely would, that they had to, and I said no way, that I am pretty terrible; the lesson being never underestimate my ability to disappoint, piss off, or otherwise alienate women), Nicole took the time to ask me all sorts of questions about love and guys.  Nicole has just started seeing a guy who’s constantly texting her and trying to get her to go out.  It’s a little much.  

Nicole: “So I don’t know what to do.  I mean, I like hanging out with him but he’s a little too much right now.”
Me: “Eh, just fucking blow him off.”
Nicole: “I don’t want to do that.”
Me: “Ignore his texts for a little while then surprise him with a random expression of warmth.  That’s how you have to do it.  Trust me.  I know everything about women.”
Nicole: “No you don’t.”
Me: “Have you slept with him?”
Nicole: “No!”
Me: “So be a dick, then sleep with him.  You’ll have him all confused and will own him.  You’ll be like the puppetmaster or some shit.” [starts singing circus theme song]
Nicole: “I don’t want to sleep with him.”
Me: [disgusted] “Look, sleep with him, don’t sleep with him – whatever. [turning away] Waiter, can you bring us another bottle of this wine? [turning to Nicole] You’re paying for this, right?” 

I admit: I’m a little rusty.

But the good news is that the more we talked, the more we drank, and the more we got drunk.  When I’m drunk I’m sensitive, and I think I was able to help Nicole out in the end.

Me: [slurring a little] “Let me tell you something: omnia vincit amor.  Do you know what that means?”
Nicole: “‘Love conquers all.’”
Me: “Wrong!  It’s Latin for ‘love conquers all.’  I took Latin.”
[four seconds of silence]
Nicole: “So what does that – “
Me: “Love conquers all, Nicole.  Love. Conquers. All.”
[five seconds of silence]
Me: “Four years of Latin. 
Nicole: [sighs]
Me: “You can’t stop love.”

After dinner, at which I swore that I would murder Nicole if a troupe of Mexicans came from the kitchen singing Happy Birthday to me, we went to the Pegu Club to meet friends Jeremy and Meredith.  There, buoyed by the martinis and the wine, I decided to start drinking whiskey.

My first drink was a Manhattan, which was delicious.  Then another Manhattan, which was also delicious.  Then something called a Sazerac, which I decided I would have one a day of for the rest of my life.  Somewhere in there, I peed myself a little bit.  I was warm, happy, and, like I said, I peed myself a little bit.  It was awesome.  

I don’t really have an ending here, since I don’t really remember the rest of the night.  But as I was being helped into a cab, I remember Nicole looking at me and saying, “Thanks.”  I assume this meant for the advice I gave her about her man issues.  Or perhaps she said it sarcastically, because I stepped on her foot and possibly broke her toe.  I can’t really say.  I’m very hungover.

But the point is two-fold.  First, I had a lovely birthday after all.  Second, I am fully willing and able to once again become a gay best friend.  Now that Nicole is back in NYC, I look forward to giving her all sorts of advice on men and relationships.  Of course, I’m going to have to bone up by watching some reruns of “Sex and the City,” but I’m not ashamed to admit that I don’t mind that.  Not one bit.

And maybe I’m turning a corner.  Now that the birthday is over, perhaps my depression from the past few weeks is lifting.  Maybe I’ll get back to my normal self and stop sulking.  Maybe I’ll get out of the house more and stop masturbating so goddamn much.  Maybe things will be different from here on out.

So we have a solution.  As long as I go out every night for a delicious expensive meal (for free) and drinks lots of whiskey drinks (for free – thanks again Jeremy), I think I’ll be just fine.  Let’s all welcome back the new Jason.  Omnia vincit amor, baby.  Omnia vincit amor. 

[Oh, and I'll save you the email and tell you that I was joking about the current girlfriend.  I've been really wanting to fuck with you guys since the whole engagement thing, but then I realized I'm just going to get 300 emails unless I clear that up.  So I guess what I'm saying is that I'm not a very good fucking-arounder.  Whatever.]    

This is how it’ll go:

1) The Word Game

2) James Fucking Iha

3) The Lonely Hotel

4) Begging

1) The Word Game
I have this thing that I like to do when I’m very messed up, like I was on Friday night.  Basically, you make up a non-sensical phrase for the night, use it in social situations, and see if anyone calls you out on it.  No one ever does.

This game is relatively new and was borne out of a night about two months ago when I went to a party and told everyone I met I was an EMT.  I didn’t know anyone at the party (it was through a friend of a friend) and didn’t think I’d see anyone again, so I figured I’d just fucking lie to make the night more interesting.

It worked.  I talked to people all night long, and they asked me all sorts of things about being an EMT, which I thoughtfully answered.  At one point, I was waiting with some others in the bathroom line for so long (even by party standards) that I said, "I hope everything’s alright in there, but if not it’s cool – I’m an EMT."  Out of nowhere, a very drunk dude started banging on the bathroom door, screaming, "IS EVERYTHING OK IN THERE?  IF NOT, WE HAVE AN EMT OUT HERE!  PLEASE LET US KNOW IF YOU NEED HELP!"  He was very serious.  In short order, two meek girls walked out and apologized for taking so long.  I said, "That’s ok, but I just wanted to make sure you were ok.  I’m an EMT, after all."  Awesome, awesome night. 

Back to the word game: Friday’s phrase was "Jacobean challenge."  This means absolutely nothing.  "Jacobean" is the Latinized version of "James" and is used to refer to the rule either James I or James II in Stuart England (as opposed to Carolinian, the Latinized Charles, referring to reigns Charles I and II).  We all know what "challenge" means.  But when you put them together, Jacobean challenge is gibberish.  Total fucking gibberish.

Now to the game itself: I suppose it’s not really a game per se, since there are no points or winner or anything.  I suppose if you’re playing it with friends, you could each make up a different gibberish phrase, and the winner could be either the first person who gets called out on the gibberish or the last person who does not.  Mostly, it’s just to see a) how dumb people are; or b) how much you can weird out others.  

I said "Jacobean challenge" five times to five different people on Friday night.  Not one called me out on it.  I don’t blame them; since I invented this game, I am excellent at it.  The trick is to not be a dick about it and use the phrase seamlessly in conversation.  I don’t recall the specifics of my usage, but it went something like:

Me: "Can I get five drafts of Miller Lite?"  
Bartender: "Are you going to be able to carry them all?"
Me: "Well, that will be the great Jacobean challenge."
Bartender: [silence]

Friend of friend (female): "So you’re writing a sitcom?"
Me: "Yes."
FoF: "Wow, that must be hard."
Me: "Not really.  The Jacobean challenge in television is not creating the show, but getting it on the air."
FoF: "Really?  Why is that so tough?"

Old roommate Brian: "Did you shit in there?" [in the bathroom at the bar]
Me: "Yeah, but it was nasty."
Brian: "I know, I saw it in there with the shit and piss on the seat and all."
Me: "Yeah, it was quite the Jacobean challenge, but I managed.  When you gotta go, you gotta go." 
Brian: [slightly confused laughter]    

Much to my delight, no one called me out.  

I highly recommend this game to spice up the night.  I already have next week’s phrase picked out: primordial usurption (this one is especially good, since "usurption" isn’t even a word; it’s "usurpation").  I will let you know how it works out.     

2) James Fucking Iha
James Fucking Iha, former guitarist for the Smashing Pumpkins, is always out and about in NYC.  I’ve seen him, Drew Barrymore, and Christina Ricci many times.  So many for Christina in fact that we’re practically dating.

[Quick story about Christina Ricci.  An ex of mine actually grew up with Christina in the suburbs on NJ.  They went through grade school together, but had some sort of major falling out in 8th grade and stopped speaking to each other.  One night the girl and I walked into a bar, Sweet & Vicious, and lo and behold - there's Christina Ricci with some dude.  My ex suddenly stops, grabs my arm, and says, disgustedly, "Oh my god, there's Christina Ricci.  Let's not go over there."  Having known of their acrimonious history, I said, "Honey, I think it's over now.  She's a movie star and you're dating me.  So it's a draw.  Let's go over and say hi."  My ex refused and instead hung out on the other side of the bar.  That didn't stop me from going over to where Christina was, sitting next to her, and drinking my vodka tonic (my drink of choice when looking sophisticated with my ladies).  The ex was pissed and we didn't do it that night.  Oh well.  I was probably too drunk to anyway.

Anyway, back to James Fucking Iha.  I’ve seen him a bunch of times, out in bars of NYC.  I’m sure he’s a nice guy and all, but I don’t know…he just has this look to him, with his pretty hair and his soft features and his fine hands, that any minute he’s capable of saying, "I’m James Fucking Iha!  Who the fuck are you?  I was in the Smashing Fucking Pumpkins!  James Fucking Iha!"  So my friends and I call him James Fucking Iha.

On Friday night, the same night as the word game, I saw James Fucking Iha.  This time, it was at a small hole in the wall bar on the border of Alphabet City.  By this point, I was very drunk.  The good thing about my diet is that I now have the tolerance of a uncoolest girl on the St. Anne’s field hockey team.  When you’re anorexic, you’re not going to win any drinking contests.  And on Friday, after starting out with 9% beers at a Belgium bar, and after barely eating and working out, I was bombed by midnight.

So, I decided, with my friend Brian’s encouragement, to start secretly yelling at James Fucking Iha.  Then, with more of Brian’s encouragement, to not-so-secretly yell at James Fucking Iha.  We’re not talking a very high tech operation here; I think I started by saying to my group of friends, "Yo, over there – it’s James Fucking Iha!" (remember, this was a small bar with only maybe a dozen people there).  Then I basically repeated "James Fucking Iha" over and over again until he and his friends left the bar.  It was fucking awesome.  If you had asked me in 1993, as I rocked out listening to "Cherub Rock," if I would ever make the Smashing Pumpkins guitarist leave a bar because I was drunk and kept yelling his name, well, actually, I probably would have believed you.  But at any rate, James Fucking Iha left.  We stayed.  It was the best birthday present I’ve ever given myself.

Friday night was awesome. 

Saturday was not.

3) The Lonely Hotel
I am unhealthily obsessed with hotels.  I don’t know what I love about them – maybe the anonymity, maybe the potential for sex, maybe the luxury, maybe the showers that I know that other people have used just days before me – but I love them.

On Saturday, I woke up with one of the worst hangovers I’ve had in a long, long time (another thing that sucks about anorexia: you get drunk quick, but your hangovers are very, very bad).  I looked around my room, which was trashed.  The sun was streaming in through the curtains and some time during the night my air conditioner stopped blowing cold air.  So there I laid in my hot room, windows closed, AC blowing warm air, condom wrappers everywhere (for decoration).  Nasty.  

I immediately made a decision: I was staying at a hotel on Saturday night.  I craved coolness and cleanliness.  I needed to get out.  I’d treat myself.  It was (sort of) my birthday, after all.

Using Priceline, I named my own price and got a four star hotel in midtown for astoundingly cheap (much less than I had spent on booze the previous night).  By the time I grabbed breakfast and packed, it was time to check in.  

Some of my friends were going to the Siren Festival on Coney Island, but I declined their invitation to join them.  Not only because I was too hungover, but the thought of throngs of hipsters on Coney Island listening to hipster bands – not really what I’m looking for.  Plus, my friend Jeremy only had two VIP passes.  I don’t roll unless I roll VIP, so fuck it.  After all, I am Jason Fucking Mulgrew.  

I took a nap at the hotel, walked around, grabbed some food and booze, hung out.  I was basically waiting for those guys to get back around 11pm to go out.  Which was fine with me.  I blasted the AC, jumped on the comfy king size bed, cracked open a bottle of wine, and relaxed.

Then it all fell apart.  My text messages were not returned.  I could not get a bead on where my friends were.  I started texting other friends.  Some were out of town, some were with significant others, some didn’t answer.  I started panicking.  Sure, I didn’t want to make a big deal out of my birthday, but it was Saturday night in New York City.  I wanted to go out.  I wanted to party.  I wanted to (try to) make out. 

But it was not meant to be.  The specifics are boring – the texting, the phone calls, the pleading – but I couldn’t find anyone to go out with.  I drank faster.  I saw that "Pirates of the Caribbean" was on.  I kept texting.  "Silence of the Lambs" came on.  I finished the second bottle of wine.  I made some calls.  I kept drinking.  "Silence of the Lambs" was over.  Somewhere in there, the night died.

So on what should have been the night I celebrated my 27th birthday, I sat alone, in a hotel room, drinking in bed.  This sound very depressing, I know.  And at the time, I was drawing some tepid water for the tub (my last text message to Brian at almost 3am was "Jesus.  Rock bottom birthday.").  But, in retrospect, I guess it wasn’t that bad.  I had a nice little night to myself, got drunk, watched some movies, and passed out in a big, comfortable, cold bed.  Not bad.  Or maybe I’m just telling myself that because spending your birthday night alone in a hotel room because you’re unable to find even one friend to drink with you is at best sad and at worst scary.  Whatever.

4) Begging
Please send me some money.  It’s my birthday and I love you and I’m not so happy.  I won’t ask again until next year (and probably not then, as I hope to have been paid for my projects by then).  It’s your donations that allow me to live the horrible life I lead.  Thank you for your support and consideration (click on Make a Donation on the right).

Happy birthday to me (the "happy" part is more of a guideline).

There is a secretary at my work who, when I run into her in the halls, looks at me with such fear and disdain that I can only assume that she reads this site.  That, or I look like the man who murdered her toddler in 1998.  And I smell like him.  And I have the same DNA as he does.  Semantics.

Anyway, Ms. Secretary, if you’re reading this, you don’t need to be so afraid/disgusted.  Just say hi to me.  I’m actually shy in real life (lie), so I’ll probably just smile, shrug it off, and then whisper in a low, raspy voice, "Billlllyyyy…" before licking my lips. 

Looking forward to meeting you! 

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

Yesterday at work, I had a morning meeting.  I actually prefer morning meetings, because I’m usually a zombie after noon.  But this particular meeting is outside my area of specialization (translation: I don’t know anything about it, nor do I know why I was invited).

About five minutes into the meeting, which was with five other people, it became apparent that I was not going to contribute anything.  So I made a vow to myself: I would not say anything at all during the entire meeting.

But really – that’s not a that big of deal, so I upped the ante a little bit: Not only would I not say anything during the whole meeting, but I would not even grunt, nod, or write anything down.  That would be much more difficult.

But, forty minutes later, I had succeeded.  I sat in that meeting like a goddamn deaf mute, giving no sign that I at all recognized what was happening around me.  People were just talking away, engaging each other, even arguing a little bit, and I just sat there, staring.  It was incredible.  As soon as I got back to my office, I closed my door and giggled like a schoolgirl and then made like fifteen personal phone calls. 

…

I just read this over and realized it’s not funny at all.  Let’s just chalk this up to "You had to be there" and move on.

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

The diet is going reasonably well.  So far, I’ve lost 10 pounds in 18 days (remember, the goal was 20 in 60 days).  Though I moved down a notch on my belt, I still can’t tell the fucking difference when I look at myself naked in the mirror, in a crouching position, holding a wrench in my hand.  However, I’m a numbers guy, so as long as the number on the scale keeps getting smaller, that will keep me motivated.

So far, it’s been a weird diet, because interspersed among the days in which I eat 900 calories and burn off 500-600 at the gym, there have been days when I’m in Philly/down the shore consuming 3000+ and burning off zero (in the past 18 days, I’ve spent 11 in NYC and 7 in Philly/the shore). 

Last night was a major setback as well.  When I woke up yesterday morning, I couldn’t recall a time when I felt more tired, and that feeling stayed with me all day.  Then during the course of the day, I got some good news and some bad news.  So after work, I decided to blow off the gym and eat an actual meal, because a) I was tired; b) to celebrate the good news; and c) to lament the bad news.  The result: one chicken burrito from Cafe el Portal and a whole pint of Haagen Dazs Cookies ‘n’ Cream later, I actually gained a half-pound.  Fuck.

But fear not: this is not the end and last night was only a minor transgression.  I feel great today, since after eating that giant meal I took a Xanax and slept from 10:30pm until 8am – more sleep than I’ve had in weeks.  I’m going to try to eat under 700 calories today (corn flakes with milk is 200, Slim Fast shake is 180, frozen dinner is 290 = 670) and burn off 700 at the gym.  Therefore, I might die tonight.  If this is my last post, remember me as a hero and a soldier of love.  And I’m so sorry we never got to do it.  So, so sorry.

(And yes, I’ve realized I’ve completely lost my mind about this.  But I’m sorry, I have to start dating a hot girl.  Also, isn’t it better to go crazy about something like this than, say, murder?  Wouldn’t you rather I count calories than fingers I’ve collected?  Actually, don’t answer that.) 

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

Since my birthday is on Monday, this weekend will be the unofficial celebration of my birthday.  Of course, for some reason, I am having a severe, almost allergic reaction to turning 27, so I hope to stay in both nights and drink alone.  A good way to start the year.

This means that my streak of making out on my birthday will more than likely come to an end.  Every year since 1998, I have either made out or, in better years, actually fornicated on my birthday or on the celebratory weekend/night of my birthday.  Of course, the past few make-outs in recent years have been cheap, forgettable, and mostly out of pity.  (Last year was not a high point: "C’mon!  Let’s just make out!  I’m one of People’s 50 Hottest Bachelors and it’s my birthday!  I’ve bought you like five fucking drinks!  C’MON!"  Sad.)

But still, a streak is a streak, but I just don’t know if I have it in me this year.  I suppose I’m willing to accept the end of my birthday make-out streak, but I only hope that an alternative streak doesn’t begin this year: NOT making out on my birthday.  Remember: it’s not how many times you go down, but how many times you get up.  So if I don’t make out this weekend or Monday, I’ll live.  But I swear to God, I will pay for it on my 28th if I have to.  Because I ain’t goin’ out like that. 

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

Speaking of love, thank you to the five of you who have donated for my birthday.  Of course, I will send a personal thank you, but I don’t remember the password to the email address to which my Paypal account is connected.  Long story short, I cleared my cache or cookies or whatever and don’t remember the password that was saved for that gmail address.  I had to do this because all of my passwords were the same, including the password that Site Guy Brendan and I use for this site.  A little while back, we had a falling out, and I thought it best to change all of my passwords so that Brendan wasn’t firing off emails from my accounts to ex-girlfriends and old professors, telling them that I’ve hit some hard times and am on the lam somewhere "in the Dakotas." I picked random passwords and saved them onto my computer.  However, I decided it was time to clear the cache because I’m pretty sure that two nights ago I stumbled onto a kiddie porn site (accidentally, of course).  And I don’t know that email’s password, so no email. 

Anyway, I’ll figure this out later today, send the email thanks, and will show up at your place sometime next week with a bottle of wine and some of my favorite Sting cds.  We’ll make a night of it.  (The good news is that three of the five donors are from Texas, so I can kill three birds with one stone!  Go Lone Star state!).  

The rest of you, it’s totally cool if you wait until Monday to donate.  But after that, we’re not speaking to each other.  We can still be in love, but just not the talking kind of love.  Sound good? 

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

Speaking of not getting mail, I have now not received any mail for over 4.5 months.  During this time, my mailbox has been broken and my landlord has refused to fix it.  I was just about ready to give up on this, but then I realize that because of my landlord’s failure to achieve even in the modest task before him I’m not going to get any birthday cards this year.  FUCK. THAT.  

The point is, I’m going to need your help soon.  I’m planning on starting some kind of demonstration or smear campaign against the restaurant that my landlord owns if the mailbox is not fixed.  So get your picket signs and bags of shit ready.  We’re about to go to war against some overpriced, bad Italian food.  I hope you’re up to the challenge.  Look for more information soon, and start doing some push-ups.     

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

A quick, but serious note: some pretty heavy shit is going on in the world right now.  Israel is seriously pissed at just about everyone around it, Japan is threatening a preemptive strike on North Korea (whose leader is the worst kind of ladyboy: a nuclear lunatic ladyboy), and the Indians, well, if there’s one thing I’ve learned about Indians, it’s that they don’t fuck around.  Sure, they may seem unthreatening and smiley behind the counter of your local gas station mart, but once they find out who’s responsible for those train bombings, it ain’t gonna be pretty.  So pray if you got ‘em. 

(Oh, and people are still dying by the busload in Iraq, Afghanistan, and about 94% of Africa.  So there’s that too.  Not a great time for Earth.)

(Oh, and as of this writing the two most popular stories on CNN.com are "Former ‘Idol’ contestant indicted on child porn charges" and "’House’ star gets huge raise."  God bless America.)

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

Six Songs

"All That I Want"  The Weepies
I am completely and utterly obsessed with this song, just like I was with their song "Gotta Have You" a few months ago.  It’s even a little Christmasy, but not so Christmasy that you can’t listen to it all year around.  Excellent, excellent, excellent.  

The following two songs come from the "Dirty Hipster Stripper" mix:

"Why Can’t You Be Nicer To Me"  White Stripes
In my 26 (almost 27) years, I have learned one thing: niceness is all I want from a woman (well, niceness and boobies).  Just be nice to me and we’ll get along fine.  I’m not talking about sending me emails about how no one has ever done you like I have (because I already know that’s true, but in a bad way), or hourly text messages telling me you miss me (I don’t want to pay for those), or phone calls that list all the nasty things you’re going to do to me the next time you see me (because, well no, that one is ok).  But I need some niceness every once in a while.  I’m an artist and possibly a manic depressive.  I’m fragile and insecure.  I thrive on positive feedback.  Without it, I will go insane.  So be nice to me.  Even if you don’t mean it.  I am great at pretending and being duped, but bad at waiting for niceness (let’s add "not necessarily impatient but only so patient" to "fragile" and "insecure"). 

Sexy song, though. 

(Also, in addition to niceness, if you could wear something a little slutty but also still classy, that’d be awesome.)

"Party the Baby Off"  Icarus Line
If you are not standing up, filled with adrenaline, trying to rip your genitals off when this song hits the 1:20 minute mark and the singer says, "Tonight, take off all your clothes," and the guitars start crunching away, well, you should see a doctor.  Because something is wrong with you, friend.  Probably cancer.  But check with the doctor to be sure.   

The following two songs come from the "Balls Out Workout (But Less So)" mix:

"Love You Madly"  Cake
I fucking love Cake.  I’ve written before about how I think people think liking Cake is not cool, but I don’t care.  Just listen to the song. 

"Cherry Cola"  Eagles of Death Metal
What a fun fucking band.  Yeah, I know that they’re kind of a joke, but anything band that sings, "I can razzamatazz you honey if you want me to/I can be your daddy, be your rock and roller/You can be my sugar, be my cherry cola" is more than ok in my book. 

"Hello Old Friend"  Eric Clapton
This is cheesy Eric Clapton song whose chorus goes: "Hello old friend/Really good to see you once again."  I don’t like the song, but it’s noteworthy here because I sing this line to myself every time do something I haven’t done in a while, usually something related to vice.  For example, if I don’t drink during the week, I’ll sing this line to my first weekend beer.  But last night, I actually sang it to my penis after I hadn’t masturbated in, like, two whole days.  The image of me sitting at my desk after eating a burrito and a pint of ice cream, wearing only boxers, and singing to my penis before I nearly took its life because of such a vicious beating, well, that should give you sweet dreams for the rest of the summer.   

[Have a good weekend]

By the time I arrived down the shore on Thursday night, for the "Drink Until You Shit" weekend, it was almost 1am.  So I watched a little TV and went to bed. 

After a day of lying around the pool and walking around the town, on Friday night I couldn’t find anyone willing to go out.  Make no mistake – I didn’t want to get bombed, since the last thing I wanted for the DUYS tour was a hangover.  But I wanted to have a couple of beers in a social setting.  But it was not meant to be.  Everyone I called was taking it easy, so I did what any logical depressed, alcohol-loving, soon-to-be 27 year-old would do: I drank 11 beers in my underwear, watched three episodes of "Sex and the City," showered, and decided to go for a drive at 4am when I couldn’t sleep.  You know, standard, awesome stuff.

The next day, the day of the DUYS tour, it was overcast.  There were no threatening rain clouds, but just enough cloud cover to ensure that I would not be getting any sunburn that day, which was unfortunate.  I’ve come to embrace my sunburn and celebrate as though it were a tan, as I realize that pinkish red the only color I’m ever going to get. 

My buddy Kyle arrived from Philly in the afternoon for the tour.  My buddy Joe from Boston was supposed to arrive also, but Joe has this thing about making plans.  It follows these steps:

- Two weeks prior to an event or weekend, Joe will says he’s coming to NYC/the shore/wherever to hang out. 
- Joe will spend a week excitedly talking about the weekend he will be in town
- On or around the Tuesday before Joe is to visit, he will stop communicating with me entirely.  I will send Joe repeated emails and text messages and call him, but get no responses.
- On the weekend or day he is supposed to arrive, I will send Joe an impassioned plea via one of the above mentioned methods of communication, which will ask, "Dude, I really don’t care if you can’t make it, but PLEASE tell me whether or not you’re coming so I can make my own plans."
- Joe will call and offer a lame excuse explaining that he’s not coming after all (i.e. car is in the shop, girlfriend had made plans, stuck at work, race riot, etc).  I say something like, "Sweet" and hang up the phone.

This happens about five times per year and is Joe’s "thing."  My friends and I joke about "pulling a Joe" whenever we say we’re going to show up or go somewhere but then don’t. 

(We actually use his last name, but I won’t print that here.)

Joe’s no-show was not so detrimental to me, as I would know almost everyone on the tour, having grown up with them, but more so detrimental to Kyle, since he wouldn’t know too many people on the tour.  Perhaps I should explain.  I draw my friends from four different groups:

- People I grew up with from the neighborhood
- People I went to high school with
- People I went to college with
- Assholes I’ve met in New York City

Because of my charm, intelligence, and ambition, I was able to beat poverty and attend a "prestigious" private high school in Philly (on scholarship).  There, I made a second group of friends separate from the peeps I grew up with.  After high school, because of my manipulation, humor, and ruthlessness, I left Philly to attend a "semi-prestigious" college in Boston (on scholarship).  There, I made s’more friends, separate from the previous two groups.  Finally, because of luck, alcohol-induced nonchalance that was mistaken for confidence, and a wonderful job market, I got a job in NYC (not on scholarship, though every time I worked past 6:30 I could get reimbursed up to $25 for dinner – $25 can get you a lot of Taco Bell).  Sadly though, I haven’t made many friends here, but rather know some assholes that I drink with sometimes.       

All the people on the DUYS tour would come from the "people I grew up with" group.  Since I go back to Philly about once every six weeks, I hang out with these people all the time and love them.  Kyle and Joe however, come from the second group of people (I also went to college with Joe, but since I met him in high school, he’s in Group 2).  Though both Kyle and Joe know some of my Philly peeps, I hoped that the two of them would be there for each other while I systematically walked around the bars up to random women and say, "My name is on this shirt.  Can you just hold my hand for like, fifteen seconds?  I’ll sweeten the deal: you can count out loud if you like and I’ll give you $4."

The point: Kyle was flying mostly solo.  

Kyle and I arrived at the first bar fashionably late at 7:30pm, thirty minutes after we told people to meet there.  This really didn’t matter, since people were still showing up at 8:30pm.  

Before I continue, the rules of the DUYS tour: Show up, buy a t-shirt, drink.  That’s it.  It’s a very unorganized tour without any drink specials or itinerary.  Last year, not having an itinerary was not a problem, since maybe 35 people were on the tour.  This year, we sold all 60 shirts and had a number of stragglers, bringing the number to around 80.  That’s kind of a lot of people.

Since my colleague David (co-founder of the tour) was bombed approximately 28 minutes into the pub crawl, it fell on my shoulders to be the Tour Whip, making sure everyone knew when and where we were going next.  At first, this was fine.  But after a while…not so much. 

Things began to fall apart at the second bar, the Number One Tavern (or is it Number 1? #1? whatever).  This bar is famous for a Hurricane-like drink called the Tully Nut, which, at $8, is a concoction that boasts five liquors and various fruit juices.  It’s pretty strong stuff.  On a typical night down the shore, you might stop there for two Tully Nuts to pre-game.  Two Tully Nuts will leave you feeling pretty good.  I had three in under an hour.  David had four. 

This is where it starts to get blurry.

This is also where it started to get crappy for me.  Telling 80 people who are rapidly getting progressively (almost alarmingly) drunk where and when to move is not an easy task, even if they’re your friends (probably especially if they’re your friends).  So while I’d go up to groups and say, "Hey guys, at 10, we’re heading over to Keenan’s," people responded with any number of answers aside from "Ok," including but not limited to:

- "I thought we were ending at Keenan’s?"
- "No way, we should go to Annie’s next."
- "Why don’t we just stay here for another round?"
- "Last year we ended at Keenan’s.  Now it’s the third bar?"
- "Did you really go on a date with Gary’s dad or is that just a rumor?"

Fortunately, I was able to move people out of the Number One and onto the next bar, which after a small revolt, was determined to be Annie’s.  More fortunately, I was pretty fucked up at this point.  Less fortunately, this means when I tried again to get people moving and no one listened, I was getting angry.  Real angry. 

The rest of the night…it’s a little blurry.  Highlights include:

- Seeing my mom, who waited at another bar to take a picture of my brother, sister and I (all on the tour), and calling her a "drunk" for being at the bar alone (mostly playfully though, since my mom doesn’t really drink);
- Getting into an argument with the bouncer at Keenan’s who would not let my underage sister into the bar, despite the fact that she had been there the night before and there were girls younger than her inside, nearly pulling the "Do you know who the fuck I am?" card;
- Seeing a girl I went to grade school with in Echo’s and telling her that I "loved her when I was a kid."  She laughed.  I’m not entirely positive, but I think I took her laughter to mean "You sorry son of a bitch" and I went into a spiel about how awesome I am now;
- Meeting a friend’s co-worker in Echo’s, a gentleman who reads the site, who proceeded to buy many MANY more shots that I needed in a VERY short time (shortly after this, our mutual friend left Echo’s, walked home, and "puked along the street for a good three blocks," even though he kept walking the whole time, the champion that he is).

After Echo’s I remember very little.  Apparently, I was ignoring Kyle, who is secretly very high maintenance.  Of course, I was not aware of this at the time, nor was I aware of his repeated requests for my keys, so that he could leave and go back to the apartment.  No, all I remember was Kyle coming up to me at the bar, pushing me, and yelling, "Give me the fucking keys!"  Always looking to disarm a potentially dangerous situation, I allegedly said, "But I already gave them to you."  Kyle assured me that I did not, finally grabbing the keys off my person and storming off.

I spent the rest of the night acting like a goddamn unmedicated mental patient (supposedly) before the lights came on (probably) and I began the long walk home (eventually).

When I got home, per my usual "I’m super fucked up" routine, instead of properly storing my contact lenses, I took them out of my eyes and threw them the fuck out.  I went to bed in the bedroom, leaving Kyle passed out on the couch.

I suppose that I still had some laden guilt about pissing Kyle off, as sometime during the night, I crawled into bed with him.  Whether or not I did so after I went to the bathroom or just got straight out of bed and wanted to lay next to a warm body (very lonely), I do not know.  

All I know is the next day I woke up on the sofa bed (thankfully, alone).  My first instinct when I wake up in a strange place after a night of heavy drinker is to check and make sure my boxers are on.  Not because I’m concerned that I was seduced by some succubus in the night, but because if my boxers are off, that usually means I’ve pissed myself; I’ll sometimes piss myself in bed and throw them off during the night when I finally recognize the wetness or, more likely, I’ll get up, walk to a corner or wall in the room, drop my boxers to my ankles and piss, leaving the boxers to soak up the warm urine bouncing off the wall and collecting at my feet.   

My boxers were on, so I was safe.  That meant that more than likely I didn’t piss myself and I later confirmed that I did not.  After talking to Kyle, all I did was simply crawl onto one side of the sofa bed.  This woke him up and he protested, saying, "Dude, go back to bed."  I told him, "I’m sleeping - shut up" and started snoring.  He immediately got off of bed and slept in the bedroom (note by "immediately" I mean "after a little light ass play").

****

Thus concluded the 8th Annual Drink Until You Shit tour.  No, no one shit themselves.  The closest was my buddy Chuckie, who "exploded" outside one of the bars, spewing galloons of vomit everywhere.  I don’t know if this means he’ll be captain next year, but the Rules Committee is looking into it (to help his claim, Chuckie said he probably shit himself a little bit while throwing up; Forensics is on this).  

I guess I had a good time, but I don’t think so.  At least I learned something for next year: we need an itinerary, or a whistle, or someone who’s willing to be the Whip.  Because there’s no way I’m doing that again.    

And hey – at least I have another t-shirt that I can hear around the streets of NYC and get funny looks.  Nothing makes me quite as happy as making other people uncomfortable. 

First point: Fuck it – no more whining.  You’re right, it’s not very becoming.  So I’m done.

(See?  I listen to you.)

(Also, you have to know that I’m totally going to continue whining.  I just want you to know that I’m aware that I’m doing the whining and that I don’t like it.  Isn’t that the first step to recovery?)

On a related note, I’ve thought about why I’ve been so severe in my self-editing lately.  Sure, I’ve had a rough stretch as of late, but I think I’m over that.  And sure, I dread that I’m turning 27 and while I’m not over that, at least I can accept it for what it is: shit.  Instead, I think it all has to do with this lil’ post.  

See, I don’t know if you could tell by my misspellings and broken syntax, but I never really edit posts.  I don’t really have time to, nor do I have the energy to, nor do I have the brain power to.  Sure, I’ll give them a read over just to make sure they’re complete and that I didn’t say anything that might get me assassinated, but I usually don’t make many changes and just put ‘em up.

And then the engagement thing happened.

And now – guess what? – I’m reading more closely.  Doing some editing.  Making changes.  And it’s completely robbing me of my mojo.

The hardest thing about writing the book is just that – it’s hard (indulge me for a moment).  Writing a book, especially when there is no overlap between it (the book) and my current subject matter (the blog), is a very difficult and ginormous task.  Sadly, I learned early on that I couldn’t just string together a couple of "I’m fat" jokes and be done with it.  Which totally fucking sucks. 

So after spitting out posts, there was an adjustment period for the book, which required reading, editing, rewriting, re-reading, and weeping.  However, I still stayed strong on the blog (in some respects) and didn’t overanalyze the posts.  I wrote them and put them up.  Done and done.

But now I feel like I’ve regressed and have been more conscious of what I write.  And this is destroying me. 

I realize that this may be too much; that me, talking about the craft of writing, is like the pope giving advice on how to R the girl of your dreams and get away with it or like my brother Dennis talking about how not to be bisexual. 

But I thought I would share this revelation with you all and let you know that I’ve stopped thinking about it.  Much like in a relationship when you stop caring about the other person and he/she only cares for you more, I’m not going to overly concern myself with the posts, just like the old days.  Nothing works better in life than insouciance.  This mantra has gotten me this far.  It’s time to go back to it. 

Second point: remember: it’s never to early to send me a birthday gift in the form of cold, hard cash.  Nothing will improve my mental state like an email from Paypal saying that I’ve been given money (well, certain sexual acts will, but I’ve been sleeping around too much lately and really need to cool it).  So click on the "Make a Donation" button on the right and help make my 27th birthday my best birthday ever!  Remember, this is the only time during the year that I ask for money!  Don’t make me put ads up!  Please!

(If you need extra begging before you send me the damn $10, please see here.)

(I’d also like to take this time, as I’m under $200 away from maxing out my second credit card, to thank the good people behind both of my projects.  It’s most excellent that both projects were agreed to eleven months ago and since then I’ve received only a small portion of my promised monies – and that went directly to the debt I accumulated from taking off work for 4.5 months to work on said projects.  So again, thank you.  This has been working out for me really well so far.  The good news is that one of the busboys at the Italian restaurant that my landlord owns just died, so I’m picking up two shifts a week to help offset the cost of rent.  So that makes me happy.)

Third point: I would be remiss if I didn’t at least mention what the scene looked like my Little Italy neighborhood after Italy won the World Cup.

Prior to leaving the shore, I saw the World Cup final on television.  I walked into my aunt and uncle’s place just as regular time had run out.  I saw the headbutt.  I saw the penalty kicks.  I saw the celebration.

My reaction: "Eh."

The reaction, which I would learn later, of my Little Italy neighborhood: "GABAGOOL!  MARONE!  BAHDAHDEEZH!  ETC!"

I got to my apartment about 10pm Sunday night and to find madness.  The streets were packed with people, all sorts of swarthy drunks wearing Italian flags, screaming EE-TAL-YA over and over again.  The crowd was mixed: there were genuine off the boat Italians, who were not surprisingly the most passionate (and drunkest); there were "normal" Italian-Americans of all ages, wearing the blue jerseys, some with their faces painted; and there were the guidos, with their gelled hair and trimmed eyebrows and wifebeaters, looking more interested in starting fights and crushing p-ssy than the Italians’ victory. 

Unsuspecting tourists either delighted or cringed from their sidewalk tables as these "hooligans" took over the streets.  Police were out en force to keep order, and later I learned that several arrests were made.  For what, I don’t know, but I imagine it has something to do with prozhoot or mutzharel.

Horns, honks, whistles, shrieks, chants, songs.  Songs, chants, shrieks, whistles, honks, horns.  This is what I heard all night long, until I finally feel asleep sometime around 3am. 

What’s weird about this is that Little Italy is dead after, say, 1am.  The nearest bar to my apartment is about five blocks away.  This doesn’t sound very far, but several areas of Manhattan (Bleecker Street, 2nd Ave in the East Village, much of the frat part of the Upper East Side) have four or five bars per block.  So to not have one within a five block radius, well, that’s not really a party area. 

So as I laid there in bed listening to my whop friends, I wondered what, exactly, they were doing out there.  There are no bars and all the restaurants were closed.  It sounded to me like different groups of Italy fans were basically showing up in the neighborhood and simply walking down the street, yelling and singing, despite the fact that the neighborhood was otherwise dark and desolate.  It’s as though a bunch of mid-twenties corporate Italian-Americans were drinking at a bar in the Upper West Side, getting progressively drunk, until one of them said, "You know what?  We should totally go down to Little Italy to carry on and scare the fuck out of the Chinese people that actually live there.  We’re Italian!  And we just won!  Let’s get some of the worst beer in the world and head down there - even though everything is closed!  Who’s with me?"   

(I can’t express this enough; this is my sixth year in NYC and I’ve lived in four different neighborhoods and spent many a late night in many more.  None are as scary as my current neighborhood at night.  This is because the tourists all have to get up early in the morning to get a head start on the Statue of Liberty line and the Chinese people have to wake up early to scurry around all day, sell shit that I’ve never even seen before, and/or smoke cigarettes.  ChiLiTa at night is a strange place.  If it weren’t for the constant rumbling of trash trucks on the streets, you could hear a pin drop.  Very, very weird for Manhattan.)

(And really, Italy has some of the worst beer in the world.  If I had to make a list of my top five least favorite beers, it would go:

1) Beck’s
2) Peroni
3) Moretti
4) Heineken
5) None.  I only dislike four beers.)

Anyway, then it stopped and now everybody’s back to not caring about soccer.  Thank god. 

(By the way, the best part about the whole headbutt drama is the Italian’s reponse that he prompted the headbutt by calling the Frenchie a terrorist.  When confronted about this, his response was: "It is absolutely not true, I did not call him a terrorist. I’m ignorant. I don’t even know what the word means." 

What?  How do you not know what the word "terrorist" means?  I know Italians are not necessarily known for their brain power (not in the past 300 years, anyway, long before Italy became Italy), but that is really no excuse.  That’s like saying, "I didn’t murder my wife.  I don’t know what murder is. I just wanted her to stop cheating on me, then she died."  Come on.  Ridiculous.  Just ridiculous.) 

Fourth point: you’ll get your damn "Drink Until You Shit" recap soon.  But I’ll save you the drama: I did not shit myself.  I’m sorry to disappoint, and I’m willing to do a lot of stupid things while drunk, but pooping myself is not one of them.  Also, I dropped a monster deuce right before the tour started and didn’t have to go.   Crap.

(Well, not literally.)

I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me, but for the fourth time in three weeks I’ve written a post, read it over, and scrapped the whole thing because it sucks.  I suck.  Not a good day.  Or series of days.

I’ll try to get more to you later, but hey – I’m trying.  I didn’t want you to think that I’ve abandoned you, that I’m not trying, that I’m actually working at work.  No, I assure you that I’m working to get you your daily fix of curse words and failures, but I have apparently completely lost my touch.  If it’s any consolation, this bothers me much more than it bothers you.  I promise.

So let me get back to being completely fucking miserable and I’ll see if I can come up with anything "good."  Wish me luck.   

Thank you for the emails and messages sending condolences.  They are much appreciated.  In order to turn the mood a little happier, I wrote a post yesterday talking about funerals, describing about how I want my funeral to be, even writing a eulogy for myself that could be given by any number of my friends ("It’s always especially sad when someone attractive dies.  Fortunately, we don’t have to worry about this in Jason’s case."). 

Then I read it over and saw that it was secretly the most morbid thing I’ve ever written and scrapped it.  So that sucked.  However, we now have a new addition for "Shit That Sucked the First Time Around and Still Sucks: The Lost Posts of Jason Mulgrew" (to be published posthumously, of course).

I think this means that I can’t really talk about death or any such serious things on here, so let’s just move on and try to never mention this again. 

But once again, thank you for the emails/messages.  You are all very nice.

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

As I mentioned earlier this week, I’m on a diet.  I actually started it last week, but then it fell apart with my grandmother’s passing.  There was no way I could be in Philly, on drugs, drinking heavily, and mourning, and pass up food. 

(God I love creamed chipped beef so much.) 

The goal for the diet is to lose 20 pounds in two months.  I think this is attainable, but it will require some commitment. 

I’ve never seriously dieted.  Typically, when I say I’m on a diet, it means I’ll have a salad for lunch instead of a sandwich for two days, then when the weekend comes around I’ll eat a bag of Oreo’s at 4:30 in the morning.  I’m not a nutritionist, but I think this is why my past "diets" have failed.   

However, I think this time might be different.  It’s only been four days, but I’m feeling pretty committed.  And I know the reason this time around: immediate results.

A reason why I’ve never seriously dieted is that I have a very short attention span.  For example, in the past, I would get pissed off when I saw that I lost maybe one pound in three days.  So I’d go right back to a three-course lunch and the late-night Oreos.  And the creme pies.

(God I love creme pies so much.) 

This time around I took a different approach and have severely limited my caloric intake so as to produce immediate, and thus encouraging, results.  I’m eating between 800 and 900 calories a day.  To put that into perspective, a person is supposed to eat between 2000 and 2500 per day.  I am used to consuming 3500 per day (and on the weekends, it’s probably over 5000).  My meals per day have been: small bowl of Frosted Mini Wheats, Slim Fast shake (gay, I know, but pretty tasty), and a Lean Cuisine/Healthy Choice/Weight Watchers frozen dinner.  That, and all the water I want, but no sodas, juices, or anything like that.  If I get hungry, I can have a handful of peanuts during the day (only 50 calories and high in protein).  I’m also taking a shitload of vitamins to make sure my heart doesn’t stop from the sudden change in diet.        

In addition to the food limitations, I am back at the gym.  It was very hard to get back to the gym, but I owe my return solely to my taste in music.  My two previous gym mixes, "Hype" (for cardio work) and "Punch Your Goddamn Balls" (for weightlifting) had gone very, very stale.  This is not surprising, since I hadn’t been to the gym in like a year and a half.  In a flash of inspiration, I sat down at my computer and quickly created two new gyms mixes with fresh songs: "Balls Out Workout" (weightlifting) and "Balls Out Workout (But a Little Less So)" (cardio).  I’m now at the gym just under an hour a day, burning between 500 and 600 calories, thanks to the Balls Out Workout mixes.

Since I started the diet last Monday, I’ve lost 9 pounds, including 6.5 in the last three days.

(Is this worse than saying I’m engaged?  Are you handling this ok?  First, I poison your mind with the fact that – gasp! – I might actually be having sex on a regular basis, and now it sounds as though I’m turning this into a diet blog.  If you’re still reading, I ask you to hold on for a little longer.  Please.  You owe me that much.)

BUT…there is one problem with my diet plan: I like to drink.  Lots.

I’ve been sober this week, which has not been too hard, but there is no way that I can stay sober through this weekend or any weekend.  This is non-negotiable.  This weekend on the Drink Until You Shit tour, I’m going to have probably at least 15 Bud Lights.  That’s 1500 calories right there.  

So thus begins my adventure on a see-saw diet.  900 calories a day Sunday to Thursday, 4000 a day on Friday and Saturday.  But hey, that’s better than 4000 a day every day, right?  Right?

(What’s the over/under on when I quit this?  I think Wednesday, July 12 sounds about right.)   

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

Reason Number Six (of Six) Why I Miss Living with My Old Roommate Brian:

In the early afternoon hours of July 4th, Brian sent me this text message out of nowhere:

"Is there anything I can do or something I can take to stop me from masturbating?  This is ridiculous."

I’m sorry friend, but there’s nothing.  Just let it wash over you and enjoy it. 

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

Horrible news for me: Italy is good at soccer.  I guess they won a big game recently (I don’t watch soccer because it’s for gays and rich kids who grew up with such luxuries as "fields" and "two parents"), but judging from the noise, Italian flags, and unprecedented level of Eyetal-ness in my Little Italy neighborhood, something’s a-brewin’. 

As I walked through the streets, I saw all the people screaming "Italia! Italia!", their faces painted, wearing Italian flags, and I thought, "Great, this is just what this neighborhood needs - more people and more fucking noise."  The only people who weren’t riled up by Italy’s (apparently good) performance in the World Cup were the waiters at the Italian restaurants, since they’re not really Italian but instead Albanian and pissed off that their home country can’t even field a team (but still happy to be living in a country that has pasteurized milk and a scarcity of smallpox and polio). 

I’ll keep you up to date on this, but I can tell you this much: it’s going to get worse before it gets better.  No doubt about that.  But if there is a God, Italy will lose soon.  I can’t bear the thought of all those Italians celebrating.  Seeing them happy is like poison to me, pure poison. 

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

If you did not get the monthly email, you should check your spam filters and add any correspondence from jasonmulgrew.com to your safe list.  I have no idea what any of this means and I’m not even sure I said it right, but Site Guy Brendan told me to say this (or something like it).

Speaking of, for the one millionth time, any technical issues should be directed to Brendan at brendan@jasonmulgrew.com.  When you complain that you didn’t get the email even though you signed up, I have no idea how to fix that.  So please email him with any technical issues. 

(And yes, I know on the sidebar on the right it says "One of People’s Hottest Bachelor’s for 2005" when it should say "One of People’s Hottest Bachelors for 2005."  Brendan is a computer guy and not a grammarian and has trouble with possessives vs. plurals.  I sent him an email, cutely titled "Apostrophe Catastrophe," but he neither got back to me nor made the change.  So just deal with it for now.)

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

Six Songs

(Special Ten Songs edition, since I haven’t done this in a while)

"Here I Am (Come and Take Me)"  Al Green
Smooth.  That’s all you need to know.  I’ve said this before, but I can’t understand how anyone with full capacity of their hearing could not like Al Green.  His music is incredible.  And this is my favorite song of his.  When the horns break over the chorus as he sings, "Here I am, baby/Come and take me," it makes me dance more than a little.  I kinda want to wear a zoot suit (with a hat) and dance with a girl in a dress to this song.  Does that make me weird?  Don’t answer that.   

"Come and Get Your Love"  Leon Redbone
In keeping with the soul music that involves coming and loving and makes me want to dance, listen to this lil’ number.  I don’t know…maybe it’s because I’m perennially chasing women that there’s something appealing about a woman coming to me.  You know, for my love.  And etc.   

While we’re dancing, one more:

"Can’t Fight the Moonlight"  LeAnn Rimes
I’m sorry, but I really like this song.  I think it’s sexy, catchy, and makes me a little randy. 

(Do you know that I just googled "leanne rimes" to learn how to properly spell/case her name?  That, my friends, is commitment.)

"Do You Know What I Mean"  Lee Michaels
This song recently came up the shuffle on my iPod and it confirmed something I have suspected for a long time: I am capable of homicide.

It’s a silly song about a guy who breaks up with his girlfriend and she starts dating his best friend.

Well.

There are only a few real, justifiable reasons for murder.  For example, if someone r’s a loved one, you can totally murder that person (I use "r" because I’m not comfortable with the word "r@pe" ).  If someone kills someone close to you, depending upon the circumstance, you might be able to murder that person, too. 

But one thing that is certain: if your best friend starts dating and f’ing your ex, you can murder the best friend.  I will pretty much betray my friends at every opportunity, but I don’t go after ex’s.  I admit, I’m a little sensitive here – a buddy of mine hung out with one of my ex’s a few weekends ago in a completely non-sexual situation and when he told me about it I threw a stapler at him – but I don’t think I’m unreasonable.

There are crimes of passion, there is revenge, there is retribution – but some shit just needs to be taken care of, you know what I mean?  And I believe this is what Lee is asking us.  Yes, Lee, we know what you mean.  And God bless you, you magnificent son of a bitch. 

"I Just Want to See His Face"  Rolling Stones
This songs holds two distinctions.  First, it’s probably my favorite title of all-time, reeking of sadness, desperation, and pity (you know, kinda like me).  Second, it doesn’t really have any lyrics and it’s sort of a loose jam session, so it’s my favorite song that doesn’t actually say anything intelligible (aside from the title and some other words here and there).  It sounds like it was recorded at about 5am in a dark, smoke-filled studio while everyone had more drugs and/or alcohol in their bodies than blood. 

If I write a movie, I’m getting this song in there somewhere.  Supremely cool.

"New Amsterdam"  Elvis Costello
Elvis Costello is hands-down (HD) by far my favorite artist, yet I hardly pimp his music on here.  I suspect this is because I’m an EC snob; my first reaction would be to recommend something like a bonus track of the Rhino re-release of "Punch the Clock" ("Town Where Time Stood Still" – great song).  But instead, let’s keep the training wheels on and start with this one.  Quick story that may finally end all speculation about my sexuality: in college, I’d put this song on, turn the volume all the way up, run into our common room and start spinning around with my arms spread out, screaming "This is what love feels like!  This is what love feels like!" 

I really wish I were kidding. 

"Echo Park"  Joseph Arthur
Previously, I had resisted all attempts at Joseph Arthur.  My buddy Jeremy is a big fan and has been for some time, but when other people rave about how great something is, it turns me off.  Seeing as I’m a dick, my logic is, "Well, if it’s so great, I’d probably already know about, dick."

But like the Lee Michaels song, this song popped up on my iPod shuffle about two weeks ago when I was cleaning and I had to stop cleaning and sit down.  The song is so wrenching, so sad, and so beautiful, that I immediately wept upon hearing it (as though it was written in D minor).  I don’t want to say much more, because it’s truly a beautiful song, and anything I write will only, by association, make it uglier.  So I’ll stop now. 

"Look What Love Has Done"  Chris Whitley
You probably haven’t heard of Chris Whitley and that’s a shame, since he’s responsible for some of the coolest music of the past few years.  I don’t mean "cool" as is "awesome" or "great", but in the truest sense of the word cool: a little mysterious, a little indifferent, deep, exclusive, empowering.

(Well, I guess the truest sense of the word cool is "slightly warmer than cold," but you get it).

I’m not going to try to describe his sound, so just download the song and figure it out for yourself.  Also, he’s dead now, so that makes it even more profound.   

"You or Your Memory"  The Mountain Goats
Geez, this song sounds eerily familiar; whenever I go to LA, I stay just off La Cienga, I also drink, and I also get sad.  Only instead of "St. Joseph’s baby aspirin/Bartles & James/And you/Or your memory," my version would say, "$13 vodka/A bag of Doritos/And you/Or the cell phone pictures I took of you naked."  So, so familiar. 

"Tell Me Baby"  Red Hot Chili Peppers
The new Chili Pepper’s album is a double disc and it’s taking me forever to get through it, but I noticed this song right off the bat.  Sick bassline here, which I am making my mission to learn how to play.  Unlike my previous mission, learning how to play Fleetwood Mac’s "Never Going Back Again," I will not fail with this one.  The only problem is that I don’t know how to properly slap-and-pop while playing bass; instead of getting my fingers under the strings to pop, I use my knuckles to approximate the popping sound.  So this might be a little difficult.  But I’ll figure it out.  Or probably not. 

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

The Drink Until You Shit Tour is going down this Saturday night in North Wildwood, NJ.  If you are in the area and interested in attending, we are meeting at Casey’s on 3rd & New York around 7pm.  We’ll be there about an hour or so and then carry on to the other North Wildwood bars.   

I don’t expect many people to show up (meaning, many people to show up from this site that I don’t know), since North Wildwood is not exactly a bustling metropolis.  But if I don’t know you personally and you plan on coming on DUYS, just a few pointers:

- Please don’t be weird or freak me out.  I am painfully shy in person.
- If you want to start a debate about Philly sports, be prepared to be beaten.
- You don’t need anything and there are no drink specials.  You only need to buy a t-shirt, which will not cost more than $20. 
- You can not stay at my place.
- I am not getting in a fight for you.
- Again, don’t be weird.  Please.  

If you are coming or thinking of coming, please email me, as we’re trying to get a head count.  And if you get there and feel weird, you don’t have to talk to me or any of my friends; you can just follow us around and watch me fail.  

For the rest of you, many of you expressed interest in buying an official "Drink Until You Shit" t-shirts.  We will put up any remaining t-shirts we have on sale here on the web, but I don’t think we’ll have any left (although the t-shirts are not my department; I just bring the star power).

Wish me luck.  I hope it’s fun, since I’ve been looking forward to it for some time.  Also, since I’m not really eating, I should get really drunk really quickly, so that will be nice.

[Have a good weekend.] 

Good morning!

It’s raining like a bitch here in NYC.  As much as I love living in Chilita (Chinatown/Little Italy), surrounded by 100,000 Chinese people and the stink of garbage from the restaurants, it’s absolutely breathtaking in the pouring rain.  Loads of Chinese people frantically running for cover, the garbage getting wet and leaking into the streets – it’s a beautiful site, really.  But you know how the old saying goes: "The only thing better than 100,000 Chinese people in a five-block radius is 100,000 wet Chinese people in a five-block radius."

I’m at work and completely soaked.  There’s really no better way to start the day than arriving 30 minutes late to work, literally dripping from the rain (even though I had an umbrella).  I just tried to cross my legs and my pants made a noise like a sponge being squeezed out.  Yes, today is going to be a great day.

But there may be a silver lining: for those in the NYC area, I am pretty sure there is an article about me in today’s edition of a paper called The Irish Examiner.  I can’t confirm this, because I haven’t seen it yet, nor do I know if the article is flattering or uses such words as "bigot," "hypocrite," and "crony" to describe me, but I was told it’d be in there today (and unfortunately, because of the rain, it doesn’t look like I’ll be leaving my office anytime soon, so I won’t be able to confirm or disconfirm this for some time).  If you want, check it out.

I’ll hopefully get more later…I’m feeling more "disinterested" and "apathetic" than "productive" and "efficient" today, so if I can take some time away from staring at the backs of my hands, I’ll add a post later today.

(Of course, since I just wrote that, I’m going to get slammed with work today.)

(God, I love the rain.)

Death stinks.
My grandmom died last week. Suddenly. Which was pretty fucking terrible.

Long, miserable story short: early Monday morning, she fell. Not unusual, but not cool. She was taken to the hospital, but was acting strangely: speaking gibberish, being all spacey. By Monday night, they thought it was her gall bladder, which would need to be removed.

On Tuesday, her condition rapidly worsened. She had a heart attack during the night, starting bleeding internally – all sort of bad things. By the time the doctors figured out it was a blood infection, not her gall bladder or anything else, it was too late. She died on Tuesday night. I was on a train, stopped at Newark Penn Station, trying to rush home to Philly to say goodbye to her (even though she was in a coma at that point), when my sister called and told me.

Last week, I wrote a 3900 word post about the experience. But I couldn’t post it; it was just too personal and painful. There are many things that I’m willing to share with you all, down to the last nasty detail, but some things…no dice.

Basically, this sucked a lot. I was very close with my grandmom; my mom, brother, sister and I lived with her for almost three years when my parents were getting divorced when I was a kid.

I feel like I should say something eloquent and wonderful here, but another part of me screams, “Leave it alone.” I don’t feel right eulogizing anyone here among fat/poop/boob jokes, let alone someone so close to me.

But that doesn’t mean that I miss her any less, that I am any less sad, that I’m burying this experience. I am embracing her death, just like I did her life, but this is a personal experience. The good news is that I’m on it. The bad news is that I’m not gonna tell you about it.

Yet I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the astounding capacity to soldier on that my family displayed during the whole ordeal. Of course, much of the experience is blurry to me, since I was heavily medicated (justly so, for the first time ever), but I do remember how everyone pulled together for each other. I’ve mentioned before that the traditional Irish Catholic view of death is to celebrate the life lived and not the life lost, and we certainly acted upon that.

I only hope that when I die, there is more laughter than tears. I think that says a lot about the person who has passed, and I know my grandmother would have been happy with that.

She will be missed.

I am unqualified to write a eulogy.
My family, most of whom do not read this website, assume that I am a writer because I am writing a book.

Big mistake.

(For example, I have no idea if I used “most of whom” correctly there. I think I did, but I can’t say for sure.)

So when it can time to write the eulogy, my mom came to me and asked me to do it. I protested, asking if she was aware of “what I do” (namely, talking about getting drunk and waking up with pizza crushed into my pillows). She, and some other family members, responded, “Well, you’re a writer.” To which I responded, “Um, no I’m not.” Them: “Yes, you are.” Me: “No, you are wrong.” This went on for quite some time. It was all very adult.

A compromise was eventually reached: I would write the eulogy, but couldn’t give it. I knew that I had little chance of being able to stand in front of everyone and speak, since I’m very emotional (I’m a Cancer, after all). So my cousin Michael, the oldest of the grandkids, would give it. I’d take a crack at it, send it along to Mike, he’d edit it as he saw fit, and then give it.

The enormity of recapitulating a lifetime of someone dear was not lost on me. And by “was not lost on me,” I mean, “was completely and utterly suffocating and HOLY FUCKING SHIT.”

Thus began a roller coaster of emotions. I sat in my living room, alone on my couch, looking at a picture of my grandmom, my mood shifting between completely inconsolable, frustrated, laughing at my frustration, hunger, inconsolable again, begging for a lil’ help from my grandmom, hunger again, laughing at my hunger, more begging, inconsolable once more, and finally – finally – it came to me.

I didn’t have my computer (I’d left it in Philly, to where I’d return the next day), and I hate my handwriting so much that I find it stifling and impossible to “create” with, so I spoke the eulogy into my little digital tape recorder. Without having an idea of what to say, I turned it on, spoke straight through, and in five minutes, it was done.

(Big assist from grandmom on that one.)

The next morning, I sent it to my cousin Michael, who edited it, removing some of my stuff and adding much of his own. This was good, because I think it might have been a little too light for the occasion. For example, the part:

“I could go on and on about what a great person my Grandmom was, but I won’t. This isn’t because I’m drunk right now and can’t, but because everyone here knows what an incredible person she was. And I’m only a little drunk, Grandmom. No big deal.”

probably wouldn’t have gone over so well.

Michael then delivered it at the funeral with aplomb. All my life I’ve looked up to him as my older cousin, the one who actually talked to girls and was good at sports, but I can’t recall a time that I was more proud of him.

(And yes, I’m only saying that because I borrowed $600 from him last year and there’s no way I have that kind of cash to pay him back. Maybe this will hold him over for a while.)

I’ve aged ten years in the past ten days.
There’s a lot of weird stuff going on, and I think I might finally be having that quarter-life crisis I’ve been waiting for for so long. Sweet!

There are something like 15 grandkids in my family. I am the second oldest. However, it terms of maturity, I rank somewhere around 12th.

After the funeral, we had a luncheon. And as I looked around the room (when I wasn’t stuffing my face with the corner pieces of the cake, as they have the most frosting), I saw my cousins: some married, some with kids, all growing up, all maturing.

And then I thought about myself and what the fuck I’m doing and had one of those typical “What’s wrong with me?” moments: no wife, no kids, not even a girl that I’m sleeping with on a regular basis that I didn’t meet through MySpace, Craigslist, Friendster, this site, or my Fantasy Baseball league; while cousins around my age are fussing over babies, I’m at the bar, sticking (free) bottles of Amstel Light in my suit; I have a good job but nothing to show for it except for a few grand in credit card debt and a nice guitar because I spend all my money buying women Amstel Lights so that they’ll let me kiss their mouths and other secret places.

And it kinda freaked me out.

In addition, some other points:

– I’m growing my beard out and my hair is pretty long and messy and I look like a goddamn crazy person. I’m hoping to take care of this soon, but I can’t guarantee this.

– I’m on this weird, strict diet for no reason. Well, I want to lose maybe 20 pounds, so last Monday I started a diet. It took a setback when my grandmother passed and I was in Philly surrounded by all sorts of lovely foods, but since then I’ve stuck to it. I’m basically eating around 800 calories a day and burning off 500 at the gym. I’ve lost four pounds in the last two days. I actually already feel thinner, but I also feel like a goddamn crazy person: irritable, forgetful, extremely sexually aggressive (I guess the beard doesn’t help with any of this either).

– I can’t sleep. This isn’t uncommon, but after eating nothing and working out, I’m pretty exhausted. So it’s no good when I lie down in bed and wake up thirteen times during the course of the night.

– I’m becoming a recluse. I spent my 4^th of July walking around Manhattan, listening to my iPod. No barbeques, no parties, no nothing – I don’t even think I spoke to another human being, aside from store employees that I bought bottles of water from on my walk. Again, goddamn crazy person.

– My birthday is coming up and it’s freaking me out. I’m not one to get worried about birthdays or anything like that, but this one legitimately concerns me. I’ll say this for a full post later on, but 27, well, that’s late-twenties. Late-fucking-twenties. Wow.

I assume, like a bout of diarrhea, this will pass – most likely when I’m down the shore this weekend, wearing a t-shirt that says, “Drink Until You Shit!” on it, trying to convince a woman I’ve just met to give me a beejer because “my name is on the shirt.” But as for right now, it stinks.

…

I’ve just read the post over and a) have no idea where it’s going; and b) no idea where to end it. See? I told you I wasn’t a writer.

Let’s just break here and let Uncle Jason get his shit together. But please, do not worry. Long-time readers know that I have been feuding off and on with God for many years now. Though He won a major battle this week, I have not yet begun to fight. As a matter of fact, I plan on unleashing such a torrent of sin over the next few weeks that I should have Him on the ropes by late August. Come hell or high-water, we are going to finish this.

Now I have to get sinning. As I write this, I’m coveting my neighbor’s wife. I’m also screaming the Lord’s name in vain (I don’t want to scream and write it – that’s kinda redundant). So that’s two sins at once. And it’s only just begun…