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).