Articles Archive for August 2006
Also, just to put this on the record, I am the best singer I know. 100% true. But whenever I listen to Sinatra now it makes me kinda sad, because I always had this weird dream of serenading my grandmother with a Sinatra song at her birthday party or something (as she was so moved when I sang to the butter pecan Puerto Rican in the Bahamas and also loved Sinatra). But now she’s gone and I won’t be able to sing "Witchcraft" for her. But, to paraphrase Ol’ Blue Eyes himself, that’s life I guess.
The point: I dare you to listen to any of Sinatra’s songs while hungover and NOT feel better. It’s impossible.
("It’s Impossible" is also the title of a lovely Perry Como song. I really think I should quit my job and cut a record of American classics, like my idol Sir Rod Stewart. Would you guys buy this? Can someone get on this for me? Please?)
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Remember when I said that I’d gain back all the weight I lost? Well, we’re on our way.
My knee is fucked up. I hurt it last Sunday when I (and I know I wrote about this many times) ran for over 6 miles, far and away the greatest athletic achievement of my life. It bothered me as soon as I stopped running, but I continued to work out and run every day, as the diet was winding down and I was trying to get below 200.
I have not been running since Friday. I assumed that if I took a few days off, the knee would heal itself. Almost a week later, I’m still walking around with a limp.
I asked my guru, the Bouncer (who, by the way, is a weightlifting visionary and now has a vested interest in turning me from "Jason Mulgrew, Slob" to "Jason Mulgrew, Animal and Inflictor of Pain") about this pain and his response was "Don’t be a pussy – and welcome to the world of working out as an adult." I understand that one should expect a certain amount of pain with working out and yes, I am more than likely a pussy, but when I still can’t walk properly after a week, well, something’s not right.
(Rob said he was going to "kill" me for not doing squats on Monday when I explained to him that because of my knee I can’t get in a crouching position without any weight. He said he still was going to kill me. And I think I believe him. So I’m kind of avoiding him for a little while.)
Meanwhile, I have spiraled into a downward depression since I haven’t been running. I feel worthless and like a failure. But the simple fact is that I can’t run – I can’t even really walk. So what can I do? Feel sorry for myself, apparently.
I called my doctor to make an appointment to get this sorted out, but his next available opening is in late September (apparently "my knee hurts" doesn’t get you to the front of the line at the doctor’s office; I should have said, "My penis is on fire" or "I’m bleeding from my eyes"). So to hell with that. Instead, I’ve given myself an ultimatum: I am running on Tuesday. This knee is going to either magically heal at this time, mostly out of respect for me and my tenacity, or it will blow itself out. At least if the latter happens I get crutches (I look good on crutches) and I’ll have an excuse when I gain all the weight I’ve lost back ("You think I wanted this? I blew out my knee! How about a little compassion, asshole!").
Anyway, since I know you jagoffs just love it when I fail, I wanted to pass on the news. I should be hovering around 250 by Halloween. I’ll keep you posted.
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I had my main fantasy football draft. I had fourth overall pick in a league with 12 teams. We must start two QBs. Below is my team, with the round in which I selected the player in parentheses (I had the 4th overall pick, then 21, 28, 45, etc).
QB: D. McNabb (3)
QB: J. Plummer (5)
RB: T. Barber (1)
RB: K. Jones (2)
WR: Santana Moss (4)
WR: J. Horn (7)
WR: T. Glenn (8)
TE: K. Winslow (14)
WR/RB: J. Lewis (6)
K: D. Akers (15)
DEF: Philadelphia (16)
Bench: D. Rhodes (9)
Bench: B. Johnson (10)
Bench: W. Lundy (11)
Bench: T. Williamson (12)
Bench: J. Stevens (13)
Bench: V. Morency (17)
I don’t know about you guys, but I’m impressed. I have never felt more in control of a draft than I did last night: no surprises, no freak outs, no guys before me stealing people from my queue just before I wanted to pick them. Everything was controlled, calm, and measured. I had to take Tiki 4th and I’m a little bummed I didn’t get Jacobs as a handcuff, but he went too high. I told you I was serious about Detroit – I like Kevin Jones this year and stand by that pick (besides, 16 of the first 20 picks were running backs, and with guys like Julius Jones (14), Willie Parker (15), and Corey Dillon (20) going before him, I was happy that Kevin Jones was still available at 21).
I like my QBs…yes, McNabb was a bit of a homer pick, but I think he’ll do well this year. Likewise with Jake the Snake, who was ranked as the 16th overall player last year (not bad for a 5th round pick and second QB). My WRs, which I usually neglect, are pretty strong. I don’t think Santana Moss will have as big a year, but I like Joe Horn, Terry Glenn, and everything I’ve read about Troy Williamson makes him a nice pick in the 12th.
As I said, I don’t pay much attention to TE, K, or Defense. I accidentally picked Jerramy Stevens when I really wanted Kellen Winslow, so I grabbed Winslow in the next round, so confident was I in my team up to that point. And Akers in the third to last round and the Philly defense in the second to last, well, I think those will be bargains and will at least give me something to root for (in Barber, Moss, and Glenn, I have too many NFC East adversaries).
I like my bench. Brad Johnson, I think, is better than a majority of second QBs on the other teams in my league and I have (right now) three other starting RBs: Jamal Lewis (he’s still only 28), Domenic Rhodes (a rough preseason, but the opening day starting halfback on the best offense in the NFL – in the 9th round), and the combination of Lundy and Morency in Houston, with Davis really banged up. I think at least one of those RBs, if not two, should work out pretty well.
But as I wrote before, the blessing and the curse of football is that since it’s once a week, anything can happen. Unlike baseball or basketball where you can survive if on of your marquee guys misses four or six weeks, if Tiki goes down, I’m in trouble. Let’s hope those 30 year old knees hold up.
But I feel good. Not physically, of course, but fantasy-wise. So that’s nice.
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While getting a haircut this week, I had a laughing attack like I haven’t had since high school.
Remember in school when something stupidly funny would happen while the teacher was talking, and you and your friend would start laughing? And then for whatever reason, you’d keep laughing? The teacher would continue talking and before you know it you and your friend would devolve into shaking heaps of flesh, your laughter completely out of control, tears coming from your eyes?
Well, that happened to me at Super Cuts this week. I was getting another terrible haircut when I thought of a funny, Jackass-type idea. You know how there’s a big flourish when the hairdresser puts the apron on you - it’s the first thing they do when you sit and then they whisk it off you after the haircut, as a way of saying "ta da!" to the new and improved you? Well, might it be kinda funny if during the time the apron is on you, you piss yourself, so that when she finally takes it off you have a huge piss stain in your pants?
…
…
…
No? Well, it was funny at the time.
And more importantly, it caused me to absolutely lose my shit, right there in the chair. At first it started with a mild chuckle. Then I thought to myself, "Dude, stop laughing." Of course, that only made it worse. Before I knew it I was shaking in the chair and the hairdresser had pulled away, asking, slightly pissed off, what was so funny. Since this was a very large black woman who said "MmmmHmm" and "Girlfriend!" several times while talking to her co-worker (I think she even once threw in a random "Chaka Khan!"), I didn’t think she’d get my lame-ass white boy joke if I said, "I was just thinking about pissing my pants," not to mention that she had scissors inches from my eyes, head, and neck. So I said "Nothing, nothing" eventually lamely offering, "I’m a comedian and I just thought of a funny bit." The rest of the haircut was, believe it or not, very awkward.
…
You know what? I just read that over. It’s terrible. Let’s just get moving.
(It was funny at the time - you just had to be there.)
(Dicks.)
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I need some restaurant suggestions from my NYC foodie readers.
First, I’m looking to find the best macaroni and cheese in New York City. If you have a favorite place, please email it to me, including "mac and cheese" in the subject line.
Second, I’ve mentioned that my friend Nicole and I have this thing wherein we go to a nice dinner once a month. One month, she picks and I pay, the next, I pick and she pays.
September is my month and I need your help. I want a nice Mexican place, but I’ve already been to Dos Caminos and Rosa Mexicano and don’t want to go to either one again (though I will if I have to). So tell me one. Note that the place should be "upscale"; one of my favorite Mexican place is Festival Mexicano, where the bean quesadilla is $4, but the point of mine and Nicole’s exercise is that we treat ourselves a little bit, so it can be a bit expensive. If you have a suggestion, please email me with "Mexican" in the subject line.
One last note: though the Mexican restaurant place should be limited to Manhattan, I am willing to travel to the outer boroughs for the best mac and cheese.
Thank you very much for your cooperation. I love you. I really fucking do.
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Six Songs
"Tart" Elvis Costello
A gorgeous and haunting later Elvis Costello song. What I like about him is that he’s matured over the years, adapting his style to his age, not pushing out the same pseudo-punk that he did early in his career (which would just be embarrassing). Also, I kind of look like him.
"Second Hand News" Fleetwood Mac
God I fucking love Fleetwood Mac, even if this song has the dumbest chorus of all time, which goes:
Bam bam bam bam bam-bam
Bam bam bam bam bam-bam
Bam bam bam bam bam-bam
Bam bam bam – Do it!
I’m not embarrassed to say that that moves me.
"The Wonder of You" Elvis Presley
My favorite song by the other Elvis. It reminds me of the wedding of my friends Christine and Louie, where, at 1am, the staff brought out a buffet-style breakfast for the guests. I mean, wow.
(Also, the band sang this song during the breakfast while I stuffed my face with eggs. It was a real moment.)
"Pledging My Love" Marvin Gaye and Diana Ross
Back in the days of BMG, I ripped them off for a number of box sets, including "Marvin Gaye: The Master." Highly, highly recommended. I don’t know what I’d like to do with this song, but it’s so overly sappy that it can’t be taken seriously. So perhaps it should play over a masturbation scene in my future award-winning screenplay. That might work, but I think I need to think about this a little more.
"Denise, Denise" Blondie
Deborah Harry speaking French? Um, yes please! It’s funny, Deborah Harry (really hard for me not to call her "Blondie") was my first love growing up (actually, it was either her or Sandy from Grease) and now I have my choice of hundreds of girls who look and dress like Deborah Harry any night of the week in the Lower East Side. Well, I don’t have my choice exactly, because that would imply that they would like to or at least consent to sleeping with me, but you know what I mean.
"All My Little Words" and "Busby Berkeley Dreams" The Magnetic Fields
All of 69 Love Songs is incredible. Literally, every song is good. These, in my opinion, are the two best. I wish I could tell you how, but I’m getting tired. But I can tell you that I have been listening to them several times a day for over a week now. Great stuff.
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Going to Maine this weekend to drink beer and eat lobster (after tonight’s BC thing, hopefully). Have a happy and safe Labor Day weekend.
On another sports-related note that should only be of interest to Boston College alumni in the NYC area: BC’s first football game is tomorrow (Thursday). I have never been one to give a crap about BC sports, but I do give a crap about running into people I went to college with and telling them about how great I’m doing when in college I was voted "Most Likely to Die In Murder-Suicide Involving a Stolen Bus." To this end, many BC alumni will be gathering tomorrow at 6pm at Society Bar & Restaurant on Laguardia between Bleecker & W 3rd. As of right now, I am planning to be there, but may be whisked away on an impromptu Labor Day weekend trip. At any rate, I thought I’d pass this along to any BC alumni interested in watching the game with other nerds who care way too much about BC sports while I say things like, "Yeah, I mean, fame is pretty cool, but sometimes I wish I just had a normal life, you know?" and "The worst thing about being popular is all the women who want to sleep with you – sometimes I’m like, ‘Let’s just get to know each other before you blow me in the Burger King.’ I mean, I love blowjobs and Burger King and all, but I love love, too." Or something like that.
(Told you I was focused on fantasy football.)
Also, I’ve been listening to a lot of Otis Redding all day and it’s making me want to smoke cigarettes. So there’s that, too.
But anyway, I’ll be back tomorrow. Happy Wednesday. Here’s hoping Brandon Jacobs doesn’t vulture too many of Tiki’s touchdowns, because I’m taking him at #4 (Tiki, not Jacobs).
I can’t really explain what happened this weekend, but it got a little wild. I could write about both nights, but I’m a little tired. Since Saturday night was one of the Top 20 drunkest of my life, why don’t we focus on that one?
(Hey – those first two lines rhyme!)
My buddy Joe was in town from Boston this weekend. Joe lives with his fiancée, so from the moment he arrived at my place (at 11:45 on Friday night), we started the boozing. You know, because once you live with your fiancée, you can’t drink so much.
After waking up around 2pm on Saturday with hangovers (that’s what happens when you stay at a bar until 5:30am because you’re throwing your money at the cute Asian bartender), Joe and I saw “Talladega Nights” (funny, but uneven), grabbed dinner (fried calamari and burgers are becoming my favorite one-two punch), and then started pre-gaming at my place. I was hitting the bourbon pretty hard, helping myself to healthy pint glasses of Maker’s Mark and (diet) ginger ale (after the requisite two Red Bull and vodka’s).
Then my buddy Jeremy came over. Then friends Corinne and Brian. Then Tom, Brendan, Nicole, and Stephanie. Magically, there was a small party in my apartment. Yay.
Unmagically, I was not prepared for this and so our booze ran out very quickly. I suggested that we head to what we now call The James Fucking Iha bar, which is actually called Tile Bar. We were off.
By this time, I was feeling pretty good. Joe and I were drinking at dinner and had a number of drinks prior to heading out. Things were going as planned.
We settled in at the bar and more friends arrived, including my friend Maryanne and some of her co-workers (“Maryanne” is not her name; I’ve changed it because I’m not sure she’d want to be associated with this post, for reasons that will become apparent shortly). Maryanne was with two co-workers and promptly introduced me. The first I had never met, but I did not need an introduction to the second, for I knew her.
Indeed, she was The Challenger.
(Story time!)
A few years ago, I was dating a girl who abruptly dumped me. This made me sad and I responded in the way that men respond to such things: by becoming a whore. For some reason, whenever I come out of a relationship, my ”game” naturally elevates itself. I go from being about as smooth as your average bowling alley employee to just above the level of Antonio Banderas.
[Note that this applies only to relationships in which I've been dumped or otherwise felt wronged or unappreciated. If the relationship ends amicably or by my accord, I do not get my magic powers. Which sucks, because if this wasn't the case, I would probably start dating a series of girls in wheelchairs and then immediately breaking up with them, just to get my sexual powers. But alas, it's not to be.]
It was under these circumstances that I first met The Challenger, who we will call Rebecca. A bunch of my friends and I were out and Maryanne brought Rebecca to the bar we were at. Rebecca and I were introduced and I felt it immediately – we were going to make out.
I descended upon Rebecca like a hawk from hell. I’ve written before that my idea of foreplay goes 1) Start making out; 2) Count to 100; and 3) Stick it in. My process of seduction is similarly rushed and just as brutally effective.
I started talking to Rebecca, buying us drinks, laughing it up. As I did so, I began to isolate us from the rest of the group. Not that we were on the other side of the bar or anything, but so that we were far enough from our friends not to be distracted. I need to do this because I can’t have my friends coming up to me when I’m talking to a woman and saying things like, “You know – I was thinking about that time junior year when you ate your own semen and in retrospect I don’t think it was that big a deal.” Alternatively, I can’t have her friends pulling her aside to warn her about me or whispering things to her, like, “Maryanne just told me that this guy tried to rob a bank last week. Run away.”
(I would like to say something semi-smooth like “By pulling her away from the others, I’m trying to create a date-like environment,” but that’s just not the truth. If anything, I’m trying to trap her so that she’s forced to talk to me. She could be a woman or a bear – it doesn’t really matter.
Rebecca and I were hitting it off. She was an aspiring actress and, more importantly, a redhead (I had never been with a redhead – and still haven’t, I don’t think). Things were progressing smoothly as I kept getting both she and I vodka tonics.
[Also, actresses are sexy to me, if for no other reason that if they start acting crazy, you can qualify it by saying, "Well, she is an actress." I used to sort of see an actress who fascinated me and also gave the most incredible blowjobs in the history of mankind. Of course, I fucked it up, in part because my old roommate Ben nicknamed her Big Hair. Giving nicknames to girls I hook up with is typical of Ben - I've been with Big Hair, Man Hands, Man Shoes, John Wayne/The Mitt (who was so "rugged" that she could allegedly light matches off her face) and For Real (who was so talkative and annoying that Ben couldn't believe that I too didn't find her annoying, saying, "For real? She doesn't annoy you? For real?" She actually did annoy the shit out of me but she was pretty hot, so I put up with it for as long as I could before dropping out.) Anyway, the kicker with Big Hair was that she later got her hair cut and it wasn't so big anymore and it looked great. And, of course, the blowjobs. How it ends: I lose. But back to Rebecca and I...]
Soon enough, sure enough, by the grace of God and the good people at Ketel One, Rebecca and I were making out. I am an unabashed bar maker outter (I hope spellcheck later changes this word to otter, because that would be awesome). I know that making out with a stranger at a bar in front of your friends is not really the classy thing to do, but really, when a woman wants to kiss me, that feeling usually lasts for only a brief moment in time. Meaning, my window of opportunity is short so I must take advantage right away, whether in a bar or at a party or on public transportation. Also, it’s fun to kiss a girl with your eyes open while looking at your friends across the room who are looking at you. It really creeps them out. Like, big time.
One thing I’m not touching on is that by this point Rebecca and I were both pretty drunk. I mean, there is a requisite level of intoxication that one must reach – even someone as shameless as I – before it’s acceptable to be groping another person in a bar. The good news is that Rebecca and I had reached this level a good half hour before we even started making out. So we were simply now two drunks all over each other in a corner.
Eventually, when I realized that we might soon be asked to leave the bar because of the way we were carrying on, I started plying Rebecca with requests to come home with me. She protested, saying again and again that she wasn’t that type of girl, that we had just met, etc. She said that she wanted to see me again and to prove this gave me her number, then and there. We kept making out.
I don’t remember how she made her exit (again, very drunk), but we pried ourselves off each other and she left the bar. I walked over to my friends to hear things like, “Dude, that was the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen” and “The image of you holding that girl’s face in your creepy hands while you kissed her – I mean, I won’t sleep for weeks.” They were obviously jealous.
About fifteen minutes later, I looked outside the bar to see Rebecca standing there with my friends smoking cigarettes, among them coincidentally my buddy Joe (the same guy who visited me this weekend), when I thought she had left. Once she and I parted, my testosterone and boner had cooled off quite a bit, resulting me in realizing how drunk I actually was. I stumbled out to say hello to Rebecca and maybe get some more make out time in. Drunk Jason likes to make out.
I don’t remember much of us standing outside, but there was no making out or touching between Rebecca and I. We just all stood around in a circle, talking.
And then disaster struck.
Seemingly out of nowhere, a guy came over to Rebecca, grabbed her by the hand, and indifferently, casually, led her away. There were romantic overtones in these actions. As he led her away, Rebecca looked back at me with this look. I can’t explain it, but I don’t know if she was trying to exude sexiness or if it was a cocky “fuck you.” Any way you cut it, the girl I had just spent all night making out with had left with another guy.
Fuck.
At that moment, Rebecca became The Challenger. Why? Because, according to Joe, who was an eyewitness as all this transpired, I made the face that every American made on the fateful day of January 28, 1986 when the Space Shuttle Challenger exploded in the skies above Florida. I went through the same sequence of emotions: confusion about what was going on; shock when I realized what was actually happening; horror when I thought of its implications; and finally, deep and lasting sadness when I was left with its memory. Not my finest moment.
Of course, I was duly ragged on by my buddies for what had transpired. I called my friend Maryanne the next afternoon to chastise her for hanging out with such strumpets when she said, “Yeah, I forgot to mention that she has a boyfriend.”
Thanks, Mare – INFORMATION THAT WOULD HAVE BEEN USEFUL YESTERDAY. Apparently, Rebecca was out separately from her boyfriend, but they met up at the end of the night to go home together.
As you might imagine, I was confused by the whole situation. We made out all night long, she gave me her number, told me she wanted to see me again – was I played? Was I the naive victim of a conniving temptress who nearly gave me blue balls? Or was there something more here that required explanation?
I never found out. I never spoke to Maryanne again about The Challenger and though the story would occasionally be brought up by my buddies (“Remember when you made out with that girl all night and then she left with her boyfriend and you almost cried?”), it was generally forgotten about, another horror story relegated to the annals of the miserable sex life of Jason Michael Joseph Patrick Aloysius Elizabeth Mulgrew.
NOW – back to this weekend. The Challenger was now standing right in front of me. Maryanne had long-forgotten the story and off-handedly introduced me to The Challenger before realizing her mistake as the awkwardness unfolded:
Maryanne: “Jason, this is my friend Rebecca. Rebecca, this is Jason.”
Rebecca: [glint of recognition not so well-hidden] ”Uh, yeah…hi.”
Me: [sweating, clenching teeth] “Um, hi as well. To you. Hello.”
Maryanne: [realizing mistake, pooping self] ”Uh…uh…”
I pride myself on my ability to not be awkward in any situation, but when an embarrassing story I hadn’t thought about in years came to life before my eyes – after a half a bottle of whiskey, no less - well, this was a little much.
At least the place was loud and crowded with my friends, so I was able to casually slip away after making the introduction so that I could run up to my buddy Joe and tug at him like a child trying to wake his parents on Christmas morning, screaming, “The Challenger is here! The Challenger has landed! The Challenger is actually in this fucking bar!”
Within approximately eight seconds, all of my friends who didn’t know the story had been surreptitiously apprised and the stage was set for an evening of awkwardness, pregnant with the possibility of drunken histrionics.
But Dear Reader, I fear I will only let you down, like I let down my friends that night. I wish I could report that I walked up to her and confronted her, possibly calling her an antiquated slur for prostitute like tart or harlot or even trollop; or that I shit in a bag in the bathroom, walked out of the bathroom, dumped the shit out in front of her, and said, “This is how you made me feel”; or that I start making out with my buddy Joe, groping him like I had once groped her, before finally saying to her, “I found kissing you so objectionable that I became a homosexual – how does that suit you? And tell me: as you watch my boyfriend and I kiss, you wish you were him, don’t you?”
Yet I did none of these things. Instead, I did what has since become natural to me: I retreated to the ever-loving arms of my true mistress, Whiskey. Over the course of the next few hours, I did two things very well: 1) completely ignored The Challenger (who, it is worth noting, was wearing an engagement ring with a diamond smaller than most of the diamonds I find in my stool); 2) got completely fucking annihilated. I don’t claim to be a serious whiskey drinker (despite my best efforts) but I have learned to tame it over the last few months, so I know how much I can drink and what state I’ll be in if I surpass this amount.
But for whatever reason, on Saturday night, things fell apart. I can’t give you an account of the night, but as I watched The Challenger from afar, stewing in my own rage and perspiration, I got very, very intoxicated. I don’t remember the night, I don’t remember how I got home, I don’t remember anything. I remember seeing The Challenger, vaguely recall being at the bar, and then waking up. That’s all I’ve got from about 1am until 12pm Saturday night/Sunday morning.
[A story to prove this point: my buddy Terry came over my place at 5am to hang out with Joe and I. I was already passed out by that point. But apparently they woke me up and I got up and smoked cigarettes with them until 7am. I have absolutely no recollection of this. Also, I don't smoke cigarettes. But, you know, whatever.]
[Further, Joe, who's been one of my best friends for 13 years and who I lived with all through college, said the only time he's ever seen me so drunk is at the Mummers Parade, which regular readers know is a booze orgy Philly tradition. So there's that too.]
There is no resolution to this story, no great ending. I met The Challenger, I balked, and then I blacked out from alcohol. I made it through the night without confronting The Challenger or doing anything to harm myself or others. I successfully maintained my pride (I think) and self-respect but no vengeance.
I woke up only with a hangover and a story. But really, that’s all I’m looking for on the weekends, so that’s alright with me.
atque in perpetuum, Challenger, ave atque vale
This is how much I weighed when I started my diet, 60 days ago:
With some feet, since they’re probably my best feature
This is how much I weighed when I got on the scale this morning, marking the end of my diet:
Even my feet look thinner!
This is what I have to say to all the people who said I couldn’t do it:
Looking like a crazy person early in the mornin’
For 60 days, I dieted. The goal was to lose 20 pounds in those 60 days. I cut my calories dramatically. Prior to dieting, I was consuming about 3000 calories a day during the week and upwards of 5000 on the weekends. I shrank this to 1200 on weekdays and probably around 3500 on the weekends. This was, believe it or not, surprisingly easy - in part because I compensated for lack of calories with more masturbation. Which was nice.
For 60 days, I dieted. The goal was to lose 20 pounds in those 60 days. I cut my calories dramatically. Prior to dieting, I was consuming about 3000 calories a day during the week and upwards of 5000 on the weekends. I shrank this to 1200 on weekdays and probably around 3500 on the weekends. This was, believe it or not, surprisingly easy - in part because I compensated for lack of calories with more masturbation. Which was nice.
I also began “running.” For my first “running” exercise, I decided to run as long as I could without stopping from being short of breath. I lasted two and a half blocks and had to be carried back to my apartment by a Chinese family who I later learned were itinerant (the Hans – lovely people, except that little cocksucker Huan). Slowly but surely, I progressed. This past Sunday, I ran for 6.1 miles straight. And I probably could have gone on longer, but after 60 minutes the treadmill goes into a 5 minute “cooling period” and then shuts down. I now try to run at least 3 miles every time I’m at the gym. Otherwise, no masturbating when I get home.
When I started the diet, I was wearing size 38 pants. If you listened closely though, you could hear my button and zipper holding on for dear life, screaming bloody murder (“Can’t…hold it…much…longer! Smell…of semen…too strong!”). So really, my waist was at least size 39, possibly 40. As I type this, I am wearing size 36 pants and I feel comfortable and look fashionable (I also had to buy a new belt, as I ran out of notches on my old one and thought it wouldn’t be very professional to use a dart or kitchen knife to make another hole)
I have lost 33 pounds in 60 days (I had lost 20 by Day 38). I am noticeably thinner, faster, more fit. Most of my clothes fit me better; some don’t fit at all, since they’re too big. I no longer suffer from heartburn, (most) poo problems, nor do I have trouble sleeping. Even though I have yet to begin weightlifting, I’ve noticed muscles appearing in my arms, legs, and shoulders that were not there previously. If I were to make love, I imagine I could do so for a longer amount of time (because, of course, I’m usually incapable of having an orgasm when I’m making love, as I’m so drunk I might as well be having sex with an empty trash bag, so how long I last depends entirely on physical rather than genital stamina).
Most importantly, for me at least, it that for the first time in a very long time, I am under 200 pounds. Sure, it’s only 199.5, but I’m kind of a lawyer and I can tell you that 199.5 is legally below 200. All my life I’ve been 6′1″ and floating around 235. Now I am 6′1″ and under 200 pounds. This blows my fucking mind.
[I mentioned before that my junior year of high school ('95-'96) I ran for Student Council under the slogan "239 lbs of Vice President." So I'm guessing the last time I was around 200 pounds was my freshman year of high school, 13 years ago.]
But aside from the physical benefits, I feel great across the board. I feel smarter. I’ve never read books at such a feverish pace. I’ve taken to going back to my old Russian books and cds and am brushing up on the language. My bed is surrounded by books of poetry, partially to impress any women that lie there with me but also because when I read them they make me cry a little bit. And all this calorie counting has made me a human calculator. (310 + 440 = 750. I didn’t even have to look that up.)
I feel more driven. I’ve set up a number of goals for myself – physically, mentally, professionally – for the next few months and intend to meet – nay, destroy – them. I won’t get into mental or professional goals because some are gay and some are surprises, but the physical goals I can talk about. When I started this diet, I intended these last 60 days to be only Phase I of the Jason Mulgrew Reclamation Project (Phase I was also known as ”Let’s Move It, Fat Chops”). I had no specific goals aside to move more, eat less, and lose weight. Phase II (“Now We Have Something To Work With”) will last through September and October and will involve circuit training with weights and more high level cardio activity, namely running 15-20 miles per week. Phase III (“One of My Balls Could Beat Your Ass”), in November and December, will be the most intense yet. During this phase I hope to be running 25+ miles per week and, after getting my muscles under control in Phase II, getting involved in some serious weightlifting. The goal is that by January 1, 2007 I will be able to kill a man with one punch AND fuck his girlfriend AND climb a mountain to escape the police. You know, pretty much what every guy wants.
I feel more creative. Maybe it hasn’t come across here in the blog, but in terms of my projects, I feel alight with inspiration and couldn’t be happier with how things are going. Additionally, for the first time in four years, I’ve started writing music again. I know that sounds precocious and I realize that creating songs that rhyme “You hit on my dad/I attract fags” does not warrant such a pompous declaration, but it’s true.
[Also, "dad" and "fag" really do rhyme. Bet you didn't realize that before you read this post.]
This is a very good time in my life. A most excellent time, even.
But there is one problem. As you read this, I’m guessing that you’re having either one of two reactions. I hope that you are saying, “Good for Jason. I’m happy for him. And I’ll probably fuck him now.” Or you could be thinking, “Dude, stick to eating mozzarella sticks in the tub. I don’t want to hear about this shit.”
For those in the latter camp, I want to assure you that I will ALWAYS enjoy eating mozzarella sticks in the tub. I’m not just saying this either; I love mozzarella sticks and am eating one now. But I wanted to point out that this diet has strictly been limited to my personal time. The diet has manifested itself when I’m alone: eating breakfast and lunch in my office or heating up a dinner at my apartment or going to the gym after work. Never have I let it affect my social life. I get really fucked up on the weekends (and some weekdays) and drink whatever I want (I’ve mentioned many times that my tolerance has been lowered because of this diet, which is great). I have plowed through many a slice of pizza at 4am. And I’ve gorged myself on all sorts of fat-full dinners out over the past few weeks. Socially, I’m the same consumer that I’ve always been.
(If you don’t believe me, bring some mozzarella sticks to my place tonight. I’ll sit in the tub and eat them and you can sit on the toilet and watch. But keep your eyes above sea level, if you know what I mean.)
And now I promise that I will stop writing about the diet, since it is, effectively, over. Of course, I may talk about going to the gym, but that’s because it’s an endless source of material (also, I am falling desperately in love with a girl there; it’s only a matter of time before we are husband and wife so you should get to know her now, as I’ll need your approval of course). You won’t be hearing anything more about how much weight I’ve lost (especially since as I’m shifting now to a protein-based diet and will begin lifting I expect to gain 10 pounds back and don’t want to brag about that), or how much weight I’m lifting or any of that. So don’t worry. Uncle Jason is here. So is Larry. So is normal Jason. Everything’s gonna be alright.
But for now, it is a time to celebrate. My old roommate Brian and I have recently invented a new level of drunkenness: impotent drunk. As the name implies, it is getting so drunk that you are unable to get and maintain an erection. Well, I’m getting impotent drunk this weekend – all weekend. I’ve got a buddy in town from Boston and another coming from Philly this Saturday and the situation should be fully out of control by about tonight at 10pm. I may even poop myself – who knows? I’m going to play it by ear. All I know is that I’ve worked pretty hard and things are probably going to get a little crazy over the next 48 hours.
In closing, thank you for tolerating my talk of dieting. While I am apologetic about how much space I’ve used on the blog to discuss the diet, it doesn’t change the fact that I think what I’ve done is pretty fucking awesome – no apologies for that. But in the future, I look forward to talking less about it (or not at all). Except of course when I gain 45 pounds over the next two weeks. I’ll be sure to chronicle that.
[Have a good weekend.]
I was going through emails this morning and found this lovely lil’ one. Melissa from (I presume) NYC writes:
Were you walking on 1st Avenue near 12th [Monday] night? Wearing an orange shirt? I saw a guy that looks like you. If that WAS you - you have skinny legs.
Well, hello Melissa! Nice to meet you too! Yes, that probably was me, as I was walking down 1st on Monday night and rocking my orange t-shirt (one of my favorites). But I have to take umbrage with the "skinny legs" remark. While my legs may appear skinny, I assure you they are not. I have great legs. Actually, an ex of mine said that the sexiest thing about me was my legs and often remarked how "powerful" they were. So maybe you had a little too much to drink and couldn’t tell from your brief glance, but my legs are great. Of course, the ex that said that about my legs is now in prison. Which I feel kinda bad about, since I should have noticed the warning signs - what with her directing the word "sexy" at me and all. But the psychologist said that some people are just born arsonists. So that offers me some comfort. That and my powerful legs.
[On second thought, is it kind of sad that the thing my ex found most sexy about me was my legs? Not my eyes, shoulders, or bird, but my legs? Not even, like, my presence or charisma? My legs?]
[...]
[This has been one painful trip down memory lane. Thanks, Melissa. Thanks a lot. You know what - I didn't see you, but you have fat legs. How does that taste? Bittersweet, I bet. Bittersweet.]
I am the commissioner of a series of fantasy leagues called "Iron Sheik" (named after the one and only Iron Sheik, also coincidentally the name of our college softball team, the same one on which I batted .800 senior year, all the while maintaining a blood-alcohol level of at least .12). Roughly the same group of guys have been doing this since 2000, with one league per year for baseball, football, and basketball. This year’s football league is Iron Sheik XX. Of the 18 titles so far won (as IS XIX – baseball – is still in progress), I have won 4 of them. And this is a very competitive league. Translation: I am fucking awesome at fantasy sports.
But before I get into my fantasy primer, I have to admit that football was not kind to me last year. I failed to even make the playoffs, a decidedly not awesome move. But at least I have an excuse: I took Daunte Culpepper in the first round and Ahman Green in the second. Ouch. Injuries destroyed these two players and ultimately my season. That’s the joy and pain of football: because it’s only once a week, anything can happen. Which is great, except when I get fucked.
[I should note that in my leagues, we start two QBs, which makes things immensely more difficult. There are only 30 starting QBs in all the NFL and twelve teams in my fantasy league. Do the math. QBs are very important to us. However, this has no bearing on the rankings below, since I've broken them up by position.]
Iron Sheik tradition is that draft order is determined one week before the draft. On this day, a female co-worker – one who I hopefully have no made out with, but few are available - will come into my office and randomly pick out of a hat (or folder) the names of each of the league participants. To ensure validity and that I’m not rigging this, she does this while at least two other members of the league are on speakerphone.
We determined our draft order yesterday, as the draft is next Wednesday. And I got the 4th pick.
Yes, the dreaded 4th pick. It is widely accepted that 1-2-3 in pretty much every single fantasy football draft is some variation of Larry Johnson-Shaun Alexander-LaDainian Tomlinson. After that, you’re left with a mish-mash of RBs that are too similar too each other for much of a difference. And I have to pick one of these bums.
[Or maybe I'll take Peyton, but I doubt it - I'll explain below.]
So while I struggle with what I’m going to do with my 4th overall pick, I’ll give you my draft primer. First, I’m repeating the same draft tips I wrote last year, then I’ll get into the individual rankings. Good luck and god speed.
Draft Tips
1) Do your research. This may seem obvious, but if you wing it, you’ll lose. Sure, anyone with a fundamental knowledge of football can navigate through the first few rounds, but what happens in round 8 when you’re looking for a 3rd receiver and are deciding between Braylon Edwards and Donte Stallworth?
At the very least, visit the fantasy sections of ESPN, Yahoo, and CBS Sportsline to get a general idea of two things: what statistics players put up last year and where players are being drafting. Yeah, odds are good that Peyton Manning will have around 30 TDs and he’s a high pick, but what about a guy like Thomas Jones? Where’s he being drafted in relation to Cedric Benson?
Go into the draft with some stuff printed out with last year’s stats. That’ll give you a cheat sheet to look over during the draft. Additionally, I like to highlight certain guys I like, making notes on the side. Do whatever makes you comfortable, but you should have a little bit of paperwork to refer to during the draft.
2) Lie and manipulate. If you are in a league with friends, constantly engage them in conversations before the draft. Feel them out about their battle plans, who they like, etc and reciprocate with information that is entirely false. The important thing is to be sincere and seem honest. A good way to do this is by saying stuff like, "You know, I don’t even know if I should tell you this, but I think John Kitna is going to blow up this year" when you secretly think his shoulders going to detach from his body in Week 3.
Say you have the 6th pick in the first round, and you’re buddy has the 5th. You really, really want Edgerrin James, but think your buddy at 5 is going to take him. The solution: talk up another player. "Dude, I love Portis. Did you see how sick he was at the end of last year? But c’mon – don’t take him, dude. I’m calling dibbs on him." More than likely, your buddy at 5 will take Portis, in the hopes of screwing you over, and you’ll get Edge. Remember, the other owners in your league are just as soulless as you are, just much, much dumber. The point is, NEVER show your true hand. Flaunt your fake hand constantly.
3) Don’t panic, and start or stay off the waves. Countless mistakes are made during the draft because the manager was panicking. Don’t be like this. As your pick comes back to you, be sure to have at least two choices ready. This way, if the guy ahead of you takes the player you wanted, you don’t make a rash decision and end up taking a kicker in the 5th round.
A good deal of draft panic derives from position runs. This happens when a number of players of the same position are selected in a row, causing owners to think, "Holy crap! All the [QBs, WRs, TEs, etc] are going! I have to get one now!" The result is that they wind up with a not-as-good player, because they jumped on the wave too late.
My advice is to either stay off these or start them. I usually stay off rather than start them, just because it’s easier. But say you’re in the third round, and the guy a few picks before you takes Daunte Culpepper. Then the next guy takes Donovan McNabb. Then the next guy takes Jake Delhomme or Matt Hasselbeck or someone. Then it’s on. You’ll see a flurry of managers selecting QBs that shouldn’t be selected. In this situation, I would back off, take a RB or star WR, and wait a few rounds before taking a serviceable QB (Warner, Bulger, etc).
Runs or waves most often happen late in the draft when people pick kickers or defenses. I usually completely ignore these, preferring instead to take a third RB or another QB. Which brings us to…
4) Fuck tight ends, kickers, and defenses. Simply put, these don’t matter very much. There’s something to be said for having Tony Gonzalez or Antonio Gates, but if you don’t get them in round 4 or 5, forget it. In a 16 round draft, I won’t take these three positions until rounds 12-16. And even then I don’t put much thought into it. I’d rather pick up a different defense every week and draft a young WR with a lot of upside than take the Pittsburgh defense in the 8th.
5) Know your enemy. When you’re picking, it’s important to know who the managers around you already have on their teams. For example, say you have the 8th pick in a 10 person league. It’s the 3rd round, and you’re really looking for a QB, but you see that a nice WR has fallen to you. Check to see who the 9th and 10th owners have. If they already have a QB, take the WR with your 3rd round choice and then get the QB on the wrap in the 4th round, following the logic that if the guys picking after you already have a QB, they’re not going to take another one. This knowledge is key.
6) Think "best available." I’m all for filling out your roster positions, but at the same time I adhere to the principle of "best available," meaning take the best available player, regardless of position. For example, say by the 3rd round I’ve drafted two quality RBs and a decent QB. In round 4, if I see another very good RB who I think has lasted too long, I will take him over a WR that I have less confidence in. Sure, it means that I have one RB too many, but it also means that my competitor won’t have this RB on his team. It’s a wise decision to draft best available because it means a) you’ll have trade bait and b) it’s offensive by being defensive.
7) Handcuff, handcuff, handcuff. Spend the last few rounds making sure you draft the backups of your marquee players. Players get hurt and their backups step up and often times play well (especially in the case of RBs and, to a less extent, QBs). For a lesson, look at the sorry losers who drafted Priest Holmes last year but didn’t also take Larry Johnson. Um, opps.
So there are your tips. Now onto the positions.
[Note: We will assume that this is a standard scoring league with ten teams playing head-to-head, the position break-down being: QB, RB, RB, WR, WR, WR, TE, K, DEF. "Sleepers" and "busts" mean that I think relative to where these players are being drafted, they will perform better or worse. If I say that Peyton Manning is a potential bust, I don’t mean that I think he’s going to throw for 6 TDs and 20 INTs. I mean that he ain’t gonna perform like a #4 overall pick. Dig?]
QUARTERBACK
1 Peyton Manning, Ind
2 Tom Brady, NE
3 Donovan McNabb, Phi
4 Carson Palmer, Cin
5 Matt Hasselbeck, Sea
6 Daunte Culpepper, Mia
7 Eli Manning, NYG
8 Jake Delhomme, Car
9 Drew Brees, NO
10 Kurt Warner, Ari
11 Trent Green, KC
12 Jake Plummer, Den
13 Marc Bulger, StL
14 Ben Roethlisberger, Pit
15 Michael Vick, Atl
16 Brett Favre, GB
17 Byron Leftwich, Jac
18 Jon Kitna, Det
19 Brad Johnson, Min
20 Philip Rivers, SD
Peyton at 1, Brady at 2, and – McNabb at 3? Call me a homer, but he looks terrific in camp. Yeah, yeah – he’s got no one to throw to, but he didn’t for 90% of his career and had some fine years. Carson Palmer has the biggest question mark of any player in the league. Yes, he threw for 32 TDs last year, but his knee got really fucked up. As my buddy Joe and I were recently discussing, he doesn’t seem like what the announcers call "a player" – everything I’m reading is talking about how tentative he’s being. I’m not exactly saying he’s a pussy, but I am saying I hope that I don’t have to make a call on draft day on whether or not to take him.
[And I stress this every year (well, last year and this year): do not overvalue Peyton. Yes, he threw an unbelievable 49 TDs two years ago. But in the past five years he's thrown 26-27-29-49-28 TDs - which of these things is not like the others? Fine numbers and all, but expect 28, not 38.]
Potential Sleepers: Three jump out - Culpepper, Kitna, and Rivers. Culpepper burned me (and many others) very badly last year, but when he’s healthy, he’s an incredible talent. As I said yesterday, I’m a big believer in Mike Martz’s offensive system and John Kitna (I never thought I’d say this) is a good QB. As for Rivers, remember: many had him higher than Eli on their draft boards. He’ll take his lumps, but he’s got a 6′6" target who just so happens to be the best TE in the league within ten yards of him and one of the top RBs in the league lining up behind him (and a great pass catcher). I can’t think of a better set-up for a young QB than that.
Potential Busts: Culpepper. Just too damn intriguing to let slip too far, but such a painful history (so, so much pain). I only have a hunch about this, but I feel like Eli is very overrated (especially if you have Giants fans in your league) and people are a little high on Delhomme (even though I think the Panthers will win the Super Bowl).
Guys Who Might Kill Me Because I Hate Them: Drew Bledsoe, who isn’t even on this list. Fuck you, Drew. Also, fuck you, Chris Simms. You and your dad both suck.
RUNNING BACK
1 LaDainian Tomlinson, SD
2 Shaun Alexander, Sea
3 Larry Johnson, KC
4 Tiki Barber, NYG
5 Clinton Portis, Was
6 Edgerrin James, Ari
7 Steven Jackson, StL
8 Rudi Johnson, Cin
9 LaMont Jordan, Oak
10 Carnell Williams, TB
11 Ronnie Brown, Mia
12 Kevin Jones, Det
13 Domanick Davis, Hou
14 Willis McGahee, Buf
15 Corey Dillon, NE
16 Reggie Bush, NO
17 Brian Westbrook, Phi
18 Julius Jones, Dal
19 Chester Taylor, Min
20 DeShaun Foster, Car
21 Joseph Addai, Ind
22 Mike Bell, Den
23 Warrick Dunn, Atl
24 Reuben Droughns, Cle
25 Willie Parker, Pit
You really can’t go wrong with any of the top three in any order. I choose LT because he’s done it for awhile now, while LJ has less than a full season of dominance (serious fucking dominance, but still) and Shaun Alexander is a) no longer in a contract year; b) lost star o-lineman Steve Hutchinson; and most importantly c) is on the cover of "Madden 07" and thus susceptible to the Madden cover jinx. Tiki is a natural at 4 (no, I don’t believe that Brandon Jacobs will vulture too many of his TDs AND look at Tiki’s yards receiving the past few years). Portis and his shoulder scares the hell out of me, especially since the Skins traded for Duckett (who WILL vulture goal-line touches), but no one puts the fear of God in me like Edge. Yes, Kurt Warner quietly had a great year throwing to two of the best WRs in the league (Fitzgerald and Boldin), but that o-line is terrible, absolutely terrible. Edge could have an MVP-type year or, um, not so much.
Potential Sleepers: Why is everyone down on Corey Dillon? Have I missed something here? Maybe I have, but he had like a dozen TDs last year but isn’t cracking many top 20 lists. I think Kevin Jones could have a nice year for the same reason I believe in John Kitna – the RB in a Martz system is the recipient of a lot of scores (yes, I realize that Kevin Jones is no Marshall Faulk, but if he’s half that, that’s cool with me). Watch out for Chestor Taylor and DeShaun Foster as well.
Potential Busts: I think Reggie Bush is very overrated at the moment. I think I have him too high in my list, but there is always a chance that Deuce gets hurt and Reggie runs for 1400 yards, so I want to cover my ass. But I wouldn’t take him too high. I mentioned Edge’s and Portis’s potential as busts above
Guys Who Might Kill Me Because I Hate Them: Take your pick – Cedric Benson, Thomas Jones, Deuce McAllister, Reggie Bush. I have little to no idea what’s going on in these situations, so fuck ‘em all. Fuck ‘em all to hell.
WIDE RECEIVER
1 Steve Smith, Car
2 Marvin Harrison, Ind
3 Chad Johnson, Cin
4 Terrell Owens, Dal
5 Torry Holt, StL
6 Randy Moss, Oak
7 Larry Fitzgerald, Ari
8 Anquan Boldin, Ari
9 Hines Ward, Pit
10 Santana Moss, Was
11 Chris Chambers, Mia
12 Roy Williams, Det
13 Plaxico Burress, NYG
14 Reggie Wayne, Ind
15 T.J. Houshmandzadeh, Cin
16 Javon Walker, Den
17 Joe Horn, NO
18 Lee Evans, Buf
19 David Givens, Ten
20 Derrick Mason, Bal
21 Donald Driver, GB
22 Andre Johnson, Hou
23 Darrell Jackson, Sea
24 Keenan McCardell, SD
25 Joey Galloway, TB
26 Matt Jones, Jac
27 Brandon Lloyd, Was
28 Drew Bennett, Ten
29 Rod Smith, Den
30 Troy Williamson, Min
Admittedly, WR is the weakest part of my game, in part because I just can’t be bothered as much as with the other positions. A good QB will get 20 TDs and 2500 yards, a good RB 10 TDs and 1200 yards, a good WR 7 TDs and 1000 yards. So naturally I spend more time on the money positions. And it kills me almost every year.
But this year I’ve been researching a bit more on the WR position and feel pretty confident. The top 10 here and the same top 10 you’ll see on almost every list, but two things to note: 1) If Terrell Owens is healthy (and I don’t know how big that "if" is), he is going to have a very big year. Or I will assassinate him. 2) Did you ever think you’d see the day when Randy Moss is out of the top five? I had trouble doing it myself, but I had a lot more faith in Kerry Collins (and we all know how that worked out) than I do in Aaron Fucking Brooks. Poor guy. Randy, why don’t you come to Philly? Please?
Potential Sleepers: Roy Williams (see Jones, K; Kitna, J), Javon Walker (if he regains his speed, Plummer likes the bomb – could be a nice match); Joe Horn (yeah, he doesn’t score, but who else is Brees going to pass to?), Matt Jones (gotta love a white guy who learned to play WR just last year and had a good season).
Potential Busts: Depending on the fate of Carson Palmer, I’m a little concerned with the Cincy guys; I don’t even know if I truly feel Johnson should be #3, but his potential and gold teeth lure me to him like a siren song. And Hines Ward can’t possibly have a better year than he did last year. Other than that, since WR is a difficult position to predict, no one really jumps out as a potential bust.
Guys Who Might Kill Me Because I Hate Them: Because I’m not so hot on Eli, Plaxico might give me fits this season. Keyshawn gets a big fuck you, and while we’re at it, so does Jerry Porter (nicknamed by former coach John Gruden "The Rainbow" – pretty when he’s around, but barely so) and Laveranues Coles (just because I had to look at the ESPN.com site five times before I spelled his name correctly).
TIGHT END
1 Antonio Gates, SD
2 Tony Gonzalez, KC
3 Alge Crumpler, Atl
4 Jeremy Shockey, NYG
5 Todd Heap, Bal
6 Jason Witten, Dal
7 Randy McMichael, Mia
8 L.J. Smith, Phi
9 Kellen Winslow, Cle
10 Ben Watson, NE
11 Vernon Davis, SF
12 Chris Cooley, Was
13 Dallas Clark, Ind
14 Heath Miller, Pit
15 Jerramy Stevens, Sea
There is actually some pretty nice depth in the position this year; no need to fret if you miss out on Gates and Gonzalez early on. Though they still are the best of the group, if you’re in a 10 person league, I think these top, say, 12 guys are all capable of at least 6 TDs, in some case many more. I’ve been doing fantasy football for six years and I can’t recall and deeper class of TEs (translation: don’t waste an early pick on Gates or Gonzo).
Potential Sleepers: I am loving three guys later on – LJ Smith, Kellen Winslow, and Ben Watson. I think LJ finally stops dropping passes and pulls it together – reports from camp have been good. Kellen Winslow is a complete asshole, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he has a very big year – he’s been drafted rather low among TEs, so don’t forget him. And Ben Watson, well, I just feel it. I’m thinking he could pull something like 8 TDs this year.
Potential Busts: Jeremy Shockey’s 900 yards last year were nice, but when is he going to establish himself as a big-time red zone target? I have him listed 4th here and I believe that he is, but I wouldn’t draft him before round 8 or 9. Yes, everyone knows Vernon Davis is big, but don’t bite too early on him.
Guys Who Might Kill Me Because I Hate Them: None come immediately come to mind. I mean, I hate Shockey and Winslow, but I guarantee I won’t have Shockey on any teams (other assholes will take him higher than I would) and Winslow is just a dick but kinda sexy, so there’s that.
KICKER
1 Adam Vinatieri, Ind
2 Neil Rackers, Ari
3 Jason Elam, Den
4 David Akers, Phi
5 Mike Vanderjagt, Dal
6 Shayne Graham, Cin
7 Jay Feely, NYG
8 Josh Brown, Sea
9 Jeff Wilkins, StL
10 John Kasay, Car
I’m not going to do sleepers/busts for kickers and defenses because I don’t care, I don’t know enough to, and this is already really, really long. I have two rules when it comes to selecting kickers: 1) Take a kicker on an offense that scores a lot; 2) Take a kicker than plays in nice weather. I have no idea how many field goals any of these guys will kick, but I know Indy will score points and they play inside. There are exceptions (Elam, though the thin Colorado air makes the ball fly) and ol’ Ryan Longwell back in the GB days, but a kicker is not going to make or break your season so don’t take any of these guys too high.
DEFENSE
1 Bears
2 Steelers
3 Panthers
4 Colts
5 Seahawks
6 Giants
7 Ravens
8 Jaguars
9 Broncos
10 Eagles
11 Buccaneers
12 Cowboys
13 Redskins
14 Patriots
15 Bengals
More important than kickers but more difficult to predict are defenses. Unless you use some crazy scoring systems, the most important indicator of a good fantasy defense is how many TDs it scores (whereas in the NFL defenses are ranked on yards allowed). How the hell can you guess how many TDs a defense will score? Frustrating owners further is that statistically, there is only a slight (or at least erratic) correlation between the NFL’s best defenses and fantasy’s. Fuck. So use this list, use another list, or just make it the fuck up: as long as you don’t take a defense too early, we can still be friends.
***************
There’s your 2006 fantasy football primer. Wow – almost 4000 words. Do you see what happens when I’m allowed to write about sports? Thank you for indulging me over the past two days and tomorrow we return to our regularly scheduled programming. Good luck on your fantasy football drafts and I look forward to the 200 or so emails I’m going to get calling me an asshole who doesn’t know shit about football. Don’t expect a response.
I know, I know – it’s not fall yet, but it’s coming. The oppressive heat and nasty smells of the summer will soon be gone, leaving behind cool nighttime breezes, sleeping with the windows open, finally having an excuse to cover up any exposed parts of my body, and of course, football.
I love football. I love both the game itself and the experience; there is nothing like waking up at noon on Sunday with a hangover, kicking whatever random girl you’re with out of your bed, ordering a pizza and 50 wings, and spending the next ten hours watching football. A better way to spend a day, I can think of none.
What follows is my 2006 NFL preview. Many of you know that my favorite team is my hometown Philadelphia Eagles, who had a bad season last year. However, what’s past is past and we must look forward to the future. And now let’s never talk about the 2005 Eagles again. Thank you for your support.
[Note about the preview that I give every year: I have neither the time nor the mathematical prowess to count every team's projected record to make sure the league's cumulative record is even at .500. So just give me a break on that, ok?]
NFC EAST
New York Giants 10-6
Philadelphia Eagles 9-7
Washington Redskins 8-8
Dallas Cowboys 7-9
Why do I have to start with this division, which, I believe, is the best in football (not that I’m biased or anything)? I think the Giants are the best in the division but are a bit over-hyped (I don’t think this is the year Eli makes "the leap" and yes, I realize how many Giants fans are going to email me after his first 4 TD game). I like the Eagles, I truly do. I think they could even make a potential run at the playoffs if only because they solved a major dilemma from last year: the shitty d-line. When you blitz, if your front four can’t get pressure, the whole thing is fucked. This is what happened last year (oh yeah, and some injuries and something with one of their receivers). They are now DEEP at d-line but I have no idea who’s playing outside linebacker and I will never feel happy with Westbrook as a feature back and let’s not get started on the receivers and those last few games in this year’s schedule . So I’ll put them at 9-7. Washington seems mediocre and much depends on how tender Portis’ shoulder is. And finally…Dallas. Though I put a futures bet on them to win the Super Bowl, it already seems like it’ll be tough: weak O-line, Romo breathing down Bledsoe’s neck, and, oh yeah, T.O. I think it’s only about three games before Parcells and T.O. are fighting. Three weeks tops.
NFC NORTH
Detroit Lions 10-6
Chicago Bears 10-6
Minnesota Vikings 7-9
Green Bay Packers 4-12
I’m a big believer in Mike Martz’s system (please, at least try to conceal your laughter). I know it’s a little crazy, but I think Detroit has a lot of weapons. Maybe they turn it around this year. The debate now in Chicago is Grossman or Greise and my suggestion is: who gives a shit? Let’s get Cedric Benson 400 carries and ride that defense out. The Vikings, well, I don’t think they’ll be any boat cruises, but Brad Johnson just lost his #1 WR to a DWI and Chestor Taylor as your main guy? Much has been said of Favre’s comment that this is the most talented team he’s played with…let’s just make sure we all start our fantasy defenses when he’s playing.
NFC SOUTH
Carolina Panthers 11-5
New Orleans Saints 9-7
Tampa Bay Buccaneers 8-8
Atlanta Falcons 5-11
Carolina is freak nasty as long as nothing major happens to Steve Smith; by Week Six it should be obvious that they have the division wrapped up. I think New Orleans will surprise many people this year and yes, Reggie Bush will be starting by midseason at the latest. Tampa could make some noise but I just can’t bring myself to believe in them with Chris Simms at the helm. I can not say this enough, even though I’ve been saying it for years: Michael Vick will never be truly successful as an NFL quarterback. Yes, he scrambles, but so did Randall Cunningham. Both guys are the same: all tools, no brains. And no, I’m not being racist, even though Steve Young, a nice white boy, scrambled and was successful.
NFC WEST
Seattle 12-4
Arizona 10-6
St. Louis 6-10
San Francisco 3-13
If Seattle doesn’t win this division, someone needs to be fired. Arizona, with Matt Leinart at the helm, will make the playoffs (even though the o-line is highly suspect). And really, what can anyone say about St. Louis and San Fran other than, "Eh?"
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AFC EAST
New England Patriots 10-6
Miami Dolphins 10-6
Buffalo Bills 6-10
NY Jets 4-12
Though they win the division, this is the first year that the New England dynasty takes a serious hit. I see a couple of failures where failures previously did not arise. Just an instinct. Everyone is all over Miami. I like Saban and his system, I like Ronnie Brown. Daunte Culpepper, after what he did to my fantasy team last year, will never be the beneficiary of my love or trust. Also, their uniforms are still teal and orange. Buffalo, sadly, will remained mired in its horrid post-90’s quagmire and it’s going to be a looooooonnnnnggggg year for Gang Green. Ouch, baby.
AFC NORTH
Cincinnati Bengals 11-5
Pittsburgh Steelers 9-7
Cleveland Browns 8-8
Baltimore Ravens 5-11
Yeah, I know the Bengals love getting arrested and I know that Carson is still tentative about his knee, but I think he’s going to be nasty this year. They have a stud QB, a very good RB, a great WR, a solid defense, and a very good coach. You know how one Super Bowl team misses the playoffs the next year? Say hello to Pittsburgh. I’m not feeling you, Ben. Sorry. Cleveland is my version of New Orleans…I still don’t know who Charlie Frye is and I’m listed as their second-string center and Kellen Winslow is just such a fucking cocksucker, but I really think I’d like the city of Cleveland, so let’s let them at least be .500. And Baltimore…this is Brian Billick’s last year there. Mark it down.
AFC SOUTH
Indianapolis Colts 12-4
Tennessee Titans 9-7
Jacksonville Jaguars 8-8
Houston Texans 5-11
No surprise: the Colts win a lot of games. I think the Titans make a little noise and sneak into the playoffs – remember, Vince Young is NOT Michael Vick (Vick never passed for 3000+ yards in a college season; Vick never passed for over 2000). Jacksonville doesn’t continue on the momentum of their 12-4 season last year and Houston fucking stinks (I understand that they needed help on their d-line more than in the backfield, but really?).
AFC WEST
Denver Broncos 11-5
San Diego Chargers 8-8
Kansas City Chiefs 8-8
Oakland Raiders 6-10
Denver has another solid, spectacular season (no, Jay Cutler will not start). San Diego falters but Rivers shows flashes of brilliance. KC under Herm is inconsistent, winning or losing by a lot, giving gamblers fits. Oakland – do you really think Aaron Fucking Brooks is the answer? Man, I feel bad for you.
[Notice though, that even if I seem to have taken some risks (i.e. Detroit, Arizona, Miami, etc), they're really not that risky at all since they're the "hot" NFL picks. But I'm a wuss. I applaud any man who can pick the Titans to win the AFC South or the Rams to win the NFC. 'Cause I ain't doing it.]
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PLAYOFFS
NFC
1) Seattle Seahawks
2) Carolina Panthers
3) Detroit Lions
4) NY Giants
5) Arizona
6) Chicago
Wild Card
#3 Detroit over #6 Chicago
#5 Arizona over #4 New York
Inspired by their first playoffs games, um, almost ever, Detroit and ‘Zona overtake the Bears and G-Men with their gumption. John Kitna turns in a Christ-like performance as the Lions win 10-0 while Leinart proves he’s much better-looking and better-playing than Eli on this day: Cards 24, Giants 16.
Divisional
#1 Seattle over #5 Arizona
#2 Carolina over #3 Detroit
Though they had a nice run and made for a heart-warming story, both Arizona and Detroit are crushed by the two teams that have been the cream of the crop in the NFC all season long. Both teams cover the spreads: I buy a boat.
Conference
#2 Carolina over #1 Seattle
Carolina continues its nasty season and dispatches Seattle at home - without even shoddy officiating.
AFC
1) Indianapolis Colts
2) Denver Broncos
3) Cincinnati Bengals
4) New England Patriots
5) Miami Dolphins
6) Tennessee Titans
Wild Card
#6 Tennessee over #3 Cincinnati
#5 Miami over #4 New England
6′6" 320 pounds Albert Haynesworth falls on Carson "Pretty Boy" Palmer’s knee: Titans 23, Cincy 17. Miami shuts up 60,000 Massholes by stunning the Pats at home (told you it was the beginning of the end for New England).
Divisional
#1 Indy over #6 Tennessee
#5 Miami over #2 Denver
While Vince Young may be a stud, the uber-nerd Manning wins the day as the Colts rout the Titans. Miami, led by the nasty Ronnie Brown, runs all over Denver and – shockingly – Mike Shanahan chokes in the playoffs.
Conference
#1 Indy over #5 Miami
Finally, Indy gets to the Super Bowl in a boring game in which Miami never challenges. Also, at halftime, I get a blowjob. Just a hunch.
SUPER BOWL
Carolina over Indy
I’ve gone on record to say that Peyton Manning will never win a championship, so I can’t go back on that now. Carolina is going to be champs: a B+ defense, depth at RB, one playmaking receiver and another who’s just a dickhead enough to cause some problems, a QB with experience, and solid special teams. Carolina, Carolina, Carolina. Mark it down.
[Tomorrow, tune in for our annual fantasy football preview.]
So I did what they did before television and went for a walk, enjoying the beautiful Manhattan night.
The point: maybe I should focus on paying my cable bill instead of getting a car. I mean, I’m not a financial planner or anything, but that seems like the smart play. A car, I can live without. But if I can’t watch my BBC World News, my murder shows, and Tivo’d episodes of my favorites sitcoms, well, that’s not going to be good for anyone.
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Re: my bachelor party post yesterday. Those present, after reading my post, reminded me that I forgot two very important elements to the party. Of course, now out of the context of the post, they aren’t going to sound very funny. But in the interests of journalistic integrity (to really "surround the story"), I offer them to you now.
1) Dave & Buster’s, the place where most of the bachelor party took place, is an arcade-type place. Like most arcade-type places, they award tickets for high scores (like my high scores in ski-ball and foul shooting) that can be redeemed for prizes: anything from junk like plastic toys to fo’ real shit like microwaves and televisions.
One of the guys in the bachelor party is currently seeing a girl with a kid, a daughter who’s a toddler. He’s ok with this, but we sometimes "have fun" with him about it. The daughter’s name is Hannah.
All night it became a running joke that we were trying to achieve (in Lebowski parlance) in the various video games in order to win tickets to turn in for presents for Hannah. My buddy Ryan started this, screaming, "Hannah’s gettin’ a bracelet!" after he scored high in foul shooting. As each person kept playing and winning more tickets, we kept upping the prize for Hannah. Finally, when I blew everyone away with a 71 in foul shooting, I screamed, "Fuck it – Hannah’s gettin’ a pony!" After that, the joke sort of hit its ceiling. But, um, it was fun.
[See, I told you it wouldn't be funny a day later.]
[Or maybe, ever.]
[But conversely, there was a running joke on me. I've told you that no one can really tell that I've lost weight, and after a few drinks, barbs starting flying about this. Stuff like, "Dude, it was a really good idea for you to go on that strict diet, because I can totally tell that you've lost weight" and "So now are you shopping at Gap Kids or what?" Again not funny, but painful. Very painful.]
2) I have a disease. I would make up a cute name for it like textmessagitis, but I’d just as soon make out with a cousin. Basically, I text message EVERYONE when I’m drunk (or even getting drunk). If I have your number, odds are 99% that you’ve gotten a text message from me in the last two or so weeks (especially with last week’s weeknight drunkenness).
Generally this is not a problem. Most of the people I text I know pretty well (I mean, I have their numbers) and they know to take it as a joke or brush it off. And I’m not texting anything weird; my favorite last week was a quote from The Royal Tenenbaums: "Did you tell Margot about the letter I wrote to you?" (Richie asks Eli this). But I sent this to people who only knew the joke – the rest got something random and harmless.
But sometimes it is a problem. I’m hiding the fact that, in keeping with my creepy style, I’m a number collector. If we made out three years ago and you gave me your number, I still have it (even if we had never spoken again). I have numbers from people from college I haven’t spoken to since. Worse yet, I have numbers of girls I made out with either in college or post-college that I have not spoken to for a very long time.
And, as you might guess, these people get texts too. Again, stupid harmless stuff that can be as simple as "Hi" or "Do you smell that?" But sometimes I get a little faux-randy and send out a "Seriously, what are you wearing?" This is all fine to friends that I speak to regularly, but if I last spoke to you in a bar in November of 2003, well, it’s not so good.
My buddy Kyle is aware of this and always jokes with me about it. In the incipient stages of the night, he saw me reaching for my phone and texting away. He offered to take the phone from me so that I couldn’t text, watching it in case anyone called or texted me. I agreed. I realized I needed help.
I was ok with it during the night. I only missed my phone as a watch (since I don’t wear one, it tells me what time it is). But then there was a problem.
Kyle was supposed to be checking my phone for incoming calls or messages. But, being drunk, he kinda forgot. Finally, when we were leaving the strip club (at about 3:30), he gave me my phone back. Much to my chagrin, I had missed some texts – Kyle didn’t do a very good job of checking at all. Most of them weren’t important (like my old roommate Brian asking me where I was even though I had told him several times during the week and even the night before that I was in Philly – I guess he was, shockingly, pretty banged up).
But then I got an unsolicited message from a girl that in a previous life I used to make out with. She was in Philly. She knew I was in Philly. She wanted to see what was up. She had messaged me three hours earlier. I was unhappy.
Since Kyle failed to achieve, even in the modest task that was his charge, it cost me a potential make-out session. Desperate loser that I am, I immediately fired back a text to the girl. However, since bars close in Philly at 2 and it was now almost 3:30, I did not get a response. Fuck.
I suppose it’s for the best – I was probably too drunk/tired to get an erection anyway (assuming that an erection would even have been called for) and at least I got my broccoli cheese puffs. But I learned an important lesson: it’s better to be addicted to text messaging than to miss out on (potentially) making out. So fuck that. For those of you whose number I have, expect some texts this weekend.
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Finally, some extracurricular reading courtesy of Misha in Baltimore. This is an article from a Washington Post from last week, listing the smelliest places in NYC. I would like to point out that the first location they mention is literally two blocks away from my apartment. And I don’t mean to spoil anything, but I’m actually kinda pissed that they found that it wasn’t the stinkiest place in Manhattan. I mean, wtf? I’ll have to check out the winner and report back.
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And really finally: you’re going to get a lot of football over the next few days. You have been warned. If you want to just come back Friday, I’ll understand. See you then.
I left NYC on Friday night for a bachelor party in Philly on Saturday. I could have stayed in NYC on Friday night and left the following "morning," but that would not have been a good idea. We were to meet at a buddy’s house on Saturday at 4pm to start the festivities. If I had stayed in NYC on Friday night, I would have gone out, gotten bombed, woken up at 1pm, then would have had to rush home with a hangover. Not a good idea.
(To give you an idea, NYC to Philly via Amtrak takes about 1.5 hours, but costs $70. NYC to Philly via local trains – NJ Transit and Septa – takes almost three hours, but costs $20.)
Since I was planning on getting a train at 10pm, I opted for Amtrak, since I did not want to be riding the rails (with a 30 minute layover in Trenton) too late at night. You know, because I’m a pussy. So I shelled out the $70 so that I could get home to Philly sooner.
Bad idea. My train was delayed an hour and then was slow moving, for a total delay of over an hour and a half. I didn’t get into Philly until about 1am. Which sucked.
But then it got better once I got home. I was a real party boy last week, going out pretty hard several nights, and when I finally got to my dad’s place I just wanted to crash. Add to that that I always sleep like a bear in the other bedroom of my dad’s place, and I was in for a good night. Add to that that when I got to my dad’s I took two Xanax, and we were in Awesometown.
I slept from 1:30am until 12:30pm. It was wonderful, just wonderful. Even though prior to last week I had been sleeping pretty well (with my new pillows and all), you just can’t beat 11 hours of solid sleep. And to be honest I think I could have slept longer if my phone didn’t wake me up.
There’s a barroom debate that my friends and I have gotten into in the past which goes, "Rank the following in order of importance to you: food, sex, sleep." For me, without a doubt, it goes sleep, food, sex. Don’t get me wrong – I love the other two. Food is a passion of mine, but every giant piece of chicken parm comes with the guilt of overeating. And I really, really love sex, but I’m so bad at it that I wind up feeling ashamed and having to go to the bathroom. Sleep is the only unconditional of the three. Blast the AC, pop a Xanax or two, read a little, and then pass the fuck out. That’s what I’m talkin’ about.
(And God – that’s more than a little sad.)
So when I woke up on Saturday I was completely refreshed and ready for the bachelor party.
2) A bachelor party in an arcade is not that bad of an idea.
This bachelor party was a little different than most that I’ve been to. In this case, the best man, the person in charge of organizing the shindig, was the groom’s brother (my buddy Greg is the groom). And he happens to be 17 years old (the best man, not Greg). So it was safe to assume that there would be no tittie bars (or any bars) during the evening.
But I think we did pretty well, all things considered. Most of the guys spent the morning/afternoon golfing, but since I grew up poor, I don’t do that shit. I met them at a buddy’s house after that for some beers. Then we headed to Dave & Buster’s. Yes, that Dave & Buster’s, the restaurant/arcade. This was our happy medium; the groom’s brother would be able to attend, while at the same time we’d be able to get drunk.
Admittedly I was a little reluctant about the whole thing (a bachelor party in an arcade?), but I had a total fucking blast. I’ve never done anything like that before; after dinner, we loaded up on drinks and hit the gameroom, where we spent the next two or three hours fucking around and getting drunk. It was kinda fun to sit in one of those race car games with a drink in your hand, racing against your buddies. And yes, I’m 27. Hi.
But also there was an element of competitiveness. Put a dozen drunk guys in a room with flashing lights and noises and things are going to get a little crazy. And by "get a little crazy" I mean "play a lot of ski-ball." At this time, I’d like to point out that yours truly had high scores in both ski-ball (260) and the foul shout game (71). So, suck on that.
After a while, we left Dave & Buster’s and went to a nearby bar (sans best man) but we were all itching for a little something extra: unattractive naked girls.
3) I hate strippers.
Since it was almost 2am, any strip clubs that serve booze were about to close. Instead, we went to BYOB place (though we didn’t BOOB – get it?) in my neighborhood. And, well…not so good.
Maybe I’m getting soft in my old age, but something about drunk, sweaty men throwing quarters and other change into a woman’s vagina, well, it really doesn’t do it for me anymore – especially when the vagina belongs to a woman that I wouldn’t make out with sober (and I’d make out with just about anyone).
So after watching this and being approached by several unattractive strippers (who were on me like a moth to a flame – fat guy with beard! fat guy with beard!), I fell out of the mood. I was getting sober, since we weren’t drinking, but there was absolute chaos around us. I guess the transition for ski-ball to vaginal quarters was a little too much for me.
But the good news – in order to salvage the end of the night I took a cab to my local 24 hour diner to get an order of broccoli cheese puffs, which I ate while walking from the diner to my dad’s place, so burning my mouth that I can still feel it. But it was entirely worth it.
4) Hungover, I am indestructible.
The next day, after sleeping for only five hours, I woke up, showered, and had a bowl of Honey Smacks (a very underrated cereal). Then I got dressed, walked 3 miles to the gym, ran for over 6 miles (!) on the treadmill, and walked 3 miles home.
Running for 6 miles – without stopping – on a treadmill while hungover and with a belly full of broccoli cheese puffs is easily the greatest athletic feat I’ve ever accomplished (even better than my graceful drink-save in The Bahamas). I mean, over 6 miles! That’s more than a hour of running, straight through, no stopping. My previous record for non-stop running was 3.33 miles. And now 6. Thank you, Hangover. I couldn’t have done it without you.
(Of course, today I can barely walk and there’s an 85% chance that I blow out at least one knee in the next four days, but whatever. Oh, and I no longer have nipples, but rather two holes in my chest.)
(And there’s no way I’m putting either Band-Aids or Vaseline on my nips. That Bodyglide stuff, maybe. But as of now I’m hoping that the nips toughen up.)
(And thank you for the computer suggestions – running AdAware improved performance and I’m working on the pictures.)
5) I might get a ride. For real.
After getting home from the gym it was time to head back to NYC. Since I dropped $70 on an Amtrak train that was verily delayed, I decided to take the local trains.
As I was bemoaning my forthcoming journey to my dad as he drove to the train station (Philly to Trenton, layover, Trenton to NYC – both trains making all local stops), I blurted out something without thinking: "I should just get a car."
My dad said, "Hey, if you can do it, why not?" There was silence and I moved on to thinking about other things (most notably who I’m going to bring to Greg’s wedding, since I responded +1 but don’t have a date), when I realized, "You know what? I can get a car."
And so from that fateful moment, I’ve been consumed with the thought of owning a car. I travel at least one weekend a month. The Philly traveling cost me $100. I’m going to Boston for a long weekend after Labor Day – that’s a $200 round trip. At the end of the month I have Greg’s wedding – another $100 for a rental car (unless my date has one – if you own a car and are free at the end of September, please email pics and resume immediately – caveat: overnight stay required). The following weekend, back in Philly for a party. You see what I’m getting at.
My dad is a mechanic. He would love nothing more than to buy a piece of shit and fix it up. Since all I’m looking for is something that runs on itself, my upfront cost would be no more than $3000 (or a little more, but still). I can swing that – provided I ever get paid for my projects.
Insurance wouldn’t be more than $100 a month. That’s 75% of one night of drinking. So if I go out less, that’s not a problem. (Not as I write this, at least.)
The problem lies in parking. There is very little and limited street parking in Manhattan, and certainly this is so in my neighborhood of Chilita. For my own sanity, I’d have to put it in a garage where I’d pay a monthly rate. Not a big deal, I thought, as my dad and I talked it out. I mean, how much could monthly parking be – $150 a month, tops?
This morning I called the garage nearest to my apartment, asking about monthly parking rates. I stumbled when they asked what kind of car I had, saying that I was still shopping for one but it would be "normal." The guy asked me to hold on and then came back to the receiver to tell me it would cost $500 a month to part there.
$500. In parking. Fuck.
As you might imagine, my dreams of owning a car have taken a major hit. Although I haven’t given up hope yet. I looked into other garages and will continue to look at places in Brooklyn (which is only a short subway ride away) and if I can get it down to $200 a month, it may still be worth it. But this is going to be much harder than I thought. And, like I said, I’d actually have to get paid for my projects.
[Notice how that here I qualify Brooklyn as "only a short subway ride away" when in previous posts or when asked to go there to meet friends I act as though it's 200 miles west of Milwaukee.]
Owning a car would be a real dream though…part of the reason I want to move out of NYC is so that I can own a car. The freedom to be able to drive wherever I want, whenever I want, excites me, as it’s not just the costs of the trains that bother me, but their rigid time schedule. Instead of leaving Philly thinking, "Ok, well, the 6:09 gets into Trenton at 6:51; then, the 7:14 will get me into NYC at 8:41", I could just come and go as I pleased.
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At any rate, a very good overall weekend. And now I have something new to obsess about: car ownership. I can’t wait to do something completely financially irresponsible.
Some shout-outs that are ever so deserved of shout-outing:
1) If you are not checking Cracked, you are missing out. Among other things, the article a few days ago on Kimmie Gibler is brilliant. Great site and time-killer.
AND you should go out right now and buy Cracked – the actual, real-live in-print magazine – because it’s funny but also because, well, guess who contributed to it? That’s right. In addition to being a blogger, soon-to-be memoirist, kind of sitcom writer, and bearer of tiny testes, we can now add "freelance writer" to my list of titles (and it’s paid!).
(You can find Cracked wherever magazines are sold.)
2) While I’m congratulating myself, I’m on the cover of a paper in Philly called the Irish Edition, which, not surprisingly, offers news and information to Irish Americans. The article is very nice (and the cover picture ain’t that bad) and will be posted here, along with my appearance in NYC’s Irish Examiner from last month, under the "Press" section on the right once I get in touch with Site Guy Brendan. Finally, this Irish American stuff is working out for me. Whew.
(It’s a monthly publication so get out and get the August issue, Philly peeps.)
3) If you enjoy this site – which might be a big presumption on my part – you are doing a disservice to yourself if you are not watching the Comedy Central show "Dog Bites Man." I’ve pimped this before, but I just got reacquainted with my Tivo and watched a few episodes last night and this is the funniest show since "Ali G." There were actual tears coming out of my eyes watching it – and those who know me know that I don’t laugh at very much. The dream dinner with Kevin Beekin bit was incredible. Check it out.
4) This blog is fucking terrific. So is this one. And of course, the only blog I check 20 times a day (though I know most of these guys, so that might be cheating). Spread the word, treat them like you have treated me, and tell them I sent you (in case they have any female friends they can introduce me to).
5) Blue Diamond "Smokehouse" Almonds are possibly the greatest things I’ve ever tasted. I could eat these all day long – and I do.
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I don’t want to give an update on the diet this week. The final weigh-in is next Friday (8/25) and I want to surprise you then. Also in a moment of weakness I had a donut this morning. Fuck.
Two things to discuss though:
1) Guys, I’ve done a lot of field research on this and have made an important discovery that should be immediately instituted into the Rules of Gym Etiquette:
There is no reason to be balls-naked in a locker room for longer than seven seconds.
There are two types of guys in the gym locker room: those who change at a normal speed and those who act as though they are in their own bathrooms, traipsing around completely naked, twig and berries flopping in the breeze.
I’ve timed it and seven seconds is a perfectly reasonable amount of time for a man to switch from a towel to a pair of underwear. Seriously, next time you do this, count it off in your head. Seven seconds is more than enough time to make the switch.
[Go ahead, count in your head right now. I'll wait.]
[...]
[Told you, right? Seven is fine.]
Yet that doesn’t prevent many gym goers for walking around with the gennies out for every man to see. Yesterday, I got to the gym pretty late, which meant that as I was changing to begin working out many were coming out of the showers and dressing to go home. It was crowded so I couldn’t get a locker in my normal place and had to settle in in a unfamiliar territory. Next to me, not three feet away, was a jacked black dude getting changed. Not a big deal. But then the dude took off his towel, put it on the bench that my bag was on, and sat down balls naked on the bench. I don’t know what he was doing during this time, as my back was turned to him, but he sat there naked the entire time I got ready (we’re talking three or four minutes of completely unnecessary nudity).
I mean, what the fuck? I get it, dude – you’re jacked and your bird is probably bigger than my forearm, but I’m not interested in what you’re selling. Well, not totally uninterested, but not at that time.
Then there’s the 40-something Asian guy who sits on a bench in a locker room stark naked leisurely reading the paper. You have to remember, this is the NYC Sports Club in Soho after work. It is NOT empty. While getting dressed or undressed, you are within two or three lockers of someone else. It’s packed in there.
I have no idea what compels a man to do these things. I’m not a prude by any stretch (well, actually I kind of am) but even if I were buff and well-endowed, I still wouldn’t flash my shit to 50 other guys in a sweaty locker room. The word that keeps coming to mind is "unnecessary."
So let’s try to get that time down to seven seconds, gentlemen.
[Note: the only exception to the seven second rule would be guys who are getting weighed. As someone who is now obsessed with his weight, I realize the importance of being nekkid when getting weighed. These guys get a pass.]
2) I don’t think it’s too much to ask for my nipples to stop bleeding. Really, really not cool. I remember in college at BC watching the Boston Marathon and seeing runners trudging along with blood dripping from their nips down their shirts. I thought this was horrible. And now it’s happening to me.
My point is that I look bad enough at the gym – I don’t need to be running, red-faced, sweating, panting AND holding my moobs (man-boobs) so that my nips stop brushing up against my shirt. It’s not so bad that they bleed then and there like the guys’ nips in the Marathon, but they bleed a little bit and get cuts on them and they hurt. Fuck, man. It’s my nipples. I’m willing to go pretty far for this diet, but running until my nipples fall off, well, I can’t do that.
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We have two problems that, while not potentially fatal to the health of this blog, are at the very least highly detrimental. And so, as in many moments of weakness, I turn to you, dear readers, for help.
Problem #1: My laptop is dying a slow and miserable death.
In August of 2004, I bought a laptop. As someone who doesn’t know anything about computers, I turned to Site Guy Brendan and said, "Dude, pick me out a laptop. All I need it for is for writing, music, internet and porn. That’s all."
So Brendan went on over to the Dell website and put together a $2600 (!) monstrosity that weighs about 75 pounds (I read a review for it – after I had purchased it – and it said, "For the user for wants a desktop laptop," which is good because it’s not like I travel one weekend a month).
Now, after years of stealing music and porn, it’s starting to get slow. I have about two hours with it before its performance starts lagging: it takes forever to open new programs (Firefox, Word, iTunes, etc), when I type there is a delay with each letter (typing the word "transubstantiation" would take at least a full minute), and it just generally sucks.
Please tell me how to fix this. I know nothing about computers but it seems like it needs a tune up or something. But if it means deleting my porn or music, we gonna have a problem.
Problem #2: I am a complete fucking retard when it comes to posting pictures.
I like putting pictures up on here. Judging by the emails that I get, you guys do too.
But the post earlier this week, between my slow computer and my inability to properly manipulate the pictures, took me about four hours to write. Four hours! I don’t spend that much time on this blog all week.
And of course, like last time, after I posted the pictures I got a number of emails from people with dial-up or slow computers or whatever saying they are too big and taking forever to download (seriously people, shell out for some high speed internet).
So can someone tell me a) how to resize the pictures properly without compromising the integrity of the photos? and b) get them properly loaded in Wordpress?
Just remember that you are dealing with someone who is very, very bad at technology, so if you do venture to help me on this, you’re going to have to make it very simple, like:
1) Download this
2) Open this
3) Take your dick out of your hand, etc.
I’m heading to Philly this weekend for a bachelor party so I won’t be able to check email much this weekend, but in order to prevent a deluge (because you guys are the greatest!), let’s make the cut-off for this Saturday at noon (so if you are reading this after Saturday at noon, please don’t email me). If when I get connected again on Sunday evening I haven’t gotten any help, I’ll readdress then.
Thank you in advance for your cooperation. Please don’t make me stop downloading porn. Thanks again.
*****************
I received a goodly bit of emails about yesterday’s post, but it’ll take me a while to get through all of them. The consensus is that yes, being a dickhead works and for further information I should read "The Game" by Neil Strauss. Although I did receive a nice email from a female reader saying, "I’m sorry, Jason, but you would have to be much, much better-looking for your plan to work." I would say "Ouch" but hey – she’s just looking out for me.
*****************
This isn’t going to be funny, but since it’s something that’s made a big difference in my life, I wanted to share.
Over the weekend I finally got my shit together and bought some new pillows. Since I sleep on my back or my side, I like firm or extra firm pillows. The pillows I had been using had been reduced to the size of a short stack of pancakes.
So I went to Bed, Bath & Beyond and got my firm pillows and – WOW. I’m not even sleeping anymore – it’s beyond that. I think I actually partially die between the hours of 1am and 8am. It is wonderful.
Add to that that yesterday I washed my sheets (for the second time this month!) and this morning when I woke up I was in such a deep sleep that I contemplated calling out of work for a month or two just to lay in bed. I love my bed and it’s (clean!) 800 thread count sheets, I love my firm pillows, and I love my air conditioner, which is back working without a problem again.
…
I’m sorry – I told you it wasn’t funny, but since I’m in shout-out mood today, I needed to mention my bed. Fucking A, it’s great.
*****************
Six Songs
Taking a cue (queue?) from my dear friend Ace over at Slack, I’m going to start linking to the Six Songs when possible. We’ll see how this works out.
"Time Bomb" The Format
STOP WHAT YOU ARE DOING RIGHT NOW AND DOWNLOAD THIS SONG. Katie from Florida, who coincidentally is smoking hot, recommended this song to me last week and it immediately rocked my balls off. It (the song, not the band) sounds kinda like The Darkness if they had stronger pop tendencies. Well, not really – I don’t know what the hell it sounds like, aside from "awesome." Very, very, very, very catchy. Do it. Do it. Do it.
"Down to the River" Ray Lamontagne
If all spirituals kicked this much ass, maybe God and I would not be feuding. Alas, they don’t, and last week I left a flaming bag on shit on His porch. God 184, Mulgrew 3.
"Book of Love" The Magnetic Fields (free sample here)
I thought for sure I had recommend this song, but according to the archives I have not. Beautiful song, I think.
"Don’t Stop" Fleetwood Mac
Speaking of rocking my balls off, the live version of this song from "The Dance" really gets me going. I’m not ashamed to admit that I like Fleetwood Mac, but should I really be saying that I rock out to them? Let’s just move on…
"Waste" Phish
Continuing with the shame, it’s very lame for me to admit this, but this song reminds me so vividly of college make-out sessions that it will forever hold a special place in my heart. I miss those days of being underage in a bar, meeting a girl, bringing her back to my dorm and putting on songs like this – songs that I naively believed set the mood – and enjoying a good old fashioned consequence-free hook up. Some sweet, sweet (and rare, rare) times. That autumn New England breeze coming in through the open window, mingling with the scents of her perfume, my Abercrombie & Fitch "Woods", our Miller Lite, and the acrid smell of Nonoxynol 9 from my seven year old Trojan, blending over the sounds of students coming home from the bars and parties, the yelling, the crashing, the laughter, the roommates outside the door saying, "Mulgrew’s actually with a girl? Are you sure it’s not Barry? Did anyone get a look at ‘her’?". Those were some blissfully easy times.
…
Wow – I should really be a poet. It’s good to know I have a back-up in case this whole "blog" thing doesn’t pan out.
[Speaking of poems, "Waste" has always reminded me of one of my favorite poems, "Bei Hennef" by D.H. Lawrence - except Lawrence has a twist at the end that Tom and Trey do not. I'm saying this for no other reason than I'm trying to get you people more poetry literate because every once in a while I'll lift a line from one of my favorite poems and pass it off as my own and no one calls me out on it. I particularly do this when signing off on "letters" like this one. The last three lines of the adieu are from Sonnet XVII of Neruda's 100 Love Sonnets, which can be read in it's entirety here. 100 Love Sonnets is good but I prefer The Captain's Verses, which should either be re-titled or at least subtitled Don't Read This While Drinking Alone in the Shower or You Will Try to Drown Yourself Out of Sadness and Love. Try reading "The Potter" ("Your whole body has/a fullness, a gentleness destined for me") without peeing yourself a little. I dare you.]
"Crazy For You" Madonna
If "Waste" makes me nostalgic for college sex, "Crazy For You" brings me back to childhood sex. Not that I was having sex in my childhood (for the most part), but this song represented to me as a kid everything that was sexy about sex. Even now, when I hear it, I can see myself as an eight year old, wondering why this song makes my bird get big.
[I swear, next time I find someone to have regular sex with me, she and I are going to do it to this song. Like, all serious and slow-like, sensually but not dirty, making love equally with our souls and our genitals. If any women in the Philly area this weekend are interested, drop me a line. I'll bring the vanilla-scented candles and various sexy red things. All you have to do is show up really, really drunk. We'll make an afternoon of it.]
*****************
Off to Philly either tonight or early tomorrow for a bachelor party. Have a good weekend.
But today, with this hangover, I feel invigorated, alive. I woke up on my own 45 minutes before I normally do and took my time getting ready for work. I didn’t feel at all tired and was even moonwalking to "Thriller" as I got dressed in my bedroom. I continued the Michael Jackson lovefest on the subway platform when, thinking I was alone, I pulled one of MJ’s moves while listening to "The Way You Make Me Feel" - the left hand on belt buckle-right leg kick-full body spin – but was caught in the act by a little Indian woman aways down the platform. It could have gotten awkward but fortunately a homeless man entered our line of vision and began carrying on about something (probably not having a home or whatever it is homeless people carry on about).
And I’ll tell you something: I am learning a lot about women this summer. The summation which is: they’re tough to operate.
Previously, my approach to women was simple and straightforward.
[approaching Girl at bar ordering drink]
Me: "Hi."
Girl: "Hi."
Me: "What’s going on?"
Girl: "Um, noth -
Me: [sweating, speedtalking] "I don’t really know how to tell you this but I’m kinda famous and a comedy writer with a book coming out and possibly a show and last year I was one of People’s 50 hottest bachelors!"
Girl: "Ok, I – "
Me: [having mild panic attack] "You know what? Just take my wallet!"
[relaxes slightly, looks Girl up and down]
Me: "Our children are going to be beautiful. And hopefully lithe."
[Girl walks away]
Sadly, this approach rarely worked (the exception being those girls that were so drunk that one needs only the ability to call a cab and tie a simple bowline knot to get laid).
But now, everything is changing. Like I said previously, Larry Awesome is running the show now and Jason is pretty much dead, his role reduced to cashing checks, speaking to/dealing with family members, and occasionally going to church and begging for God’s forgiveness.
Since I’ve changed my appearance (kinda) by losing the weight, I’ve begun a series of other changes. For example, I decided that since I’m 27 years old and a future writer with his own two bedroom apartment in Manhattan, I should probably have some sense of style. Or rather, I should at least put some thought into buying clothes aside from going to Banana Republic every three months and buying every XL shirt in the sale rack. Larry, in connection with most of the girls I know and male friends with some semblance of fashion sense, is working on this but results are not to be expected for another six to eight weeks (although the groundwork was laid this weekend with a few purchases). I feel like much progress will be made once I get to my friend Corinne, a pseudo-but-not-really-hipster who constantly criticizes my taste in clothes. I need a little more constructive feedback from her other than "Oh wow – another Gap polo shirt! Cool!" and "Are you going to wear the blue striped shirt, the not-as-blue striped shirt or the dark blue striped shirt tonight?" But again, this will take some time.
[And fear not: I will have limits. If any of you ever see me in a bar wearing a blazer, I invite - nay, implore - you to come up to me and punch me in the throat. And to quote my friend Meg, "Nothing says 'I'm gay' like a guy wearing a $150 pair of jeans" so we don't have to worry about that either.]
Yet more immediate progress can be made in the realm of intersexual relations. See, for years, I have had a fatal flaw in my game: I actually believed women wanted what they said they wanted (here’s where I sound bitter, when I’m not – I’m more grateful than anything else).
For example, let’s look at the following syllogism that, on the surface, seems correct:
Women desire a man who is funny. I am a man who is funny. Therefore, women desire me.
Wrong. This syllogism is imperfect because one of its premises is flawed – at least when it comes to the social situations in which I usually find myself (think: $6 Bud Lights, dim lights, pool table).
Women say that they want a guy who’s funny. And I’m not doubting this. I think that sure, they do. I mean, hey – everybody gets fat and bald and wrinkly and impotent in the end, so you might as well be with a man who’s going to give you a naked picture of himself for your birthday every year you’re together, even long after it stops being funny, but because he continues to do it year after year after year it kinda gets funny again.
It seems to me that women’s wants, in order to be fully understood, must be divided into two categories: elementary and ephemeral.
The desire for a mate with a sense of humor is an elementary want. As the name implies, it is basic, inherent, practically indisputable. Other elementary wants is a man who is capable of providing stability, a comfortable life, and non-retarded children; who is physically attractive; and who is respectful and caring.
But when you meet a woman, elementary wants are difficult to manipulate to your advantage because it can be hard to appeal to those elementary wants in such a short time (literally a matter of seconds as she decides whether or not she’ll continue talking to you, provided you stop spitting on her of course). And more importantly, I’m usually so drunk that it’s a fucking miracle I can even get out the words "Maker’s Mark and ginger," let alone convince a woman that I have virtually no history of heart disease, cancer, or retardation in my family. So while it can be done, I ain’t the one to do it.
Instead, it’s better to focus on a woman’s ephemeral wants. What does she want from her night? Is she looking to get laid? Does she want to get tanked? Is it a girls’ night out? By assessing where she’s coming from, it might make approaching her easier.
But there is one want that is both elementary and ephemeral at all times: the want to be wanted. That’s what it’s all about, baby.
In high school I was head over heels "in love" with one of my female friends. But it was doomed from the start; she happened to be one of the most beautiful girls in neighborhood while everyone in the neighborhood thought that I was gay (or at least bi-curious and VERY experimental), so I never told her about my feelings (at least not until much later). Once, in maybe sophomore year, she and I were on the phone late at night and the Lenny Kravitz song "Believe" came on the radio (she was on the other end of the phone listening to the same station). Overcome with a sense of teenage desperation over unrequited love, I repeated the lines, "Because it’s all just a game/We just want to be loved" after Lenny sang them and added a maudlin, "Man, that’s so true." There was a slight moment of silence before she broke into hysterical laughter, leaving me with the most profound sense of embarrassment I have felt to this day.
But wasn’t Lenny, in his infinite wisdom and leather pants, onto something there? From the moment we arrive on earth, we are looking for love, searching for something to project our feelings onto but at the same time gives us that warm and fuzzy feeling inside (that I haven’t had in a long time but fortunately have discovered that whiskey provides something similar). I say yes, he was. Whether it’s as a baby or as a 20-something sucking down mojitos in an Upper East Side bar, we just want to be loved.
Now, armed with the knowledge that all anyone – man or woman – wants is to be wanted, what should you do? Larry says: Completely fucking ignore that desire.
From this point forward, Larry Awesome is changing the way that I (we?) meet women. Instead of being the "trying to hard funny guy who desperately trying to work into the conversation his stupid fucking website," we’re rocking more this style:
[going up to bar to order drink next to Girl]
Me: [surly] "What’s up?"
Girl: "Hi."
Me: [rolling eyes] "Whatever." [walks to other side of bar to order drink]
I’m pretty certain that if I actually got the balls to pull this off, said Girl and I would be making out in the coatroom in under forty minutes.
In an environment in which people are drinking, being agreeable elicits no reaction. Being a dick elicits an often visceral reaction. Perhaps this is an incorrect extrapolation and sure, I’m probably still a bit drunk as I write this, but is this the same kind of thing as "there’s no such thing as bad press?" Meaning, isn’t any sort of gut reaction better than indifference?
I don’t think that I could ever pull this off because I’m too soft (although we shan’t underestimate Larry) but there has to be something here, I think. Forget all the mumbo jumbo when you’re at a bar. Everyone wants to be wanted. By showing disinterest you only pique interest which can then be used to your advantage. I’m not claiming this is groundbreaking here – it’s pretty much textbook manipulation. But I’m wondering if it actually could work in a real life setting.
Here is where I begin to stumble – and not just because on second thought I’m not still drunk but rather my hangover is starting to kick in and its making me unhappy. I asked Site Guy Brendan if there was any way to turn the comments on for one post because I wanted to see what you guys thought about this issue, but apparently it’s not possible (and by "apparently it’s not possible" I mean "Brendan hasn’t returned my calls"). So I guess I’ll have to read whatever emails this inspires and perhaps put the new strategy into practice tonight or this weekend (though I don’t think I could go out again tonight for fear of death).
So I’m sorry to disappoint you with this ending. Much like the way I make love, I got you involved, got you all riled up, and then suddenly finished and am now going to heat up some pizza. But this post was born out of a discussion which was born just after Drink #7 last night and I wanted to at least flesh out what I thought about the issue and see if y’all could provide any insights. It’s an interesting topic, no? Additionally, everybody is slow at work in August, so in keeping with the recent motto here at jm.com, "Hey, at least it’s long."
And now I’m seriously going to heat up some pizza. Fuck this diet. I’m getting a wicked hangover.
On Sunday, I did what I normally do on Sundays: walk aimlessly around New York City trying to get over a monster hangover. But since the weather was so nice and my hangover wasn’t too bad, I decided to bring my camera along. I’ve long been wanting to give you a better idea of ChiLita (Chinatown + Little Italy, where I live) and generally what I’m all about and decided there was no better time than the present (or the past, as it were). Also, my camera was on my desk because I had taken some naked pictures of my friends during the night. So there’s that, too.
I live on a street that runs perpendicular to Mulberry Street and Mott Street. Mulberry Street is Little Italy. While Little Italy was once much larger in area, the ability of the Italians to procreate was far surpassed by the ability of the Chinese to bring in relatives from Beijing and hide them in their closets. More and more Chinese started coming into the area and now Little Italy is reduced to one street (Mulberry) stretching from Canal up to Kenmare. Only a few short blocks.
Mott Street, on the other hand, is full of Chinese and one of the main thoroughfares for markets in Chinatown. I joke with visitors that I live on a street between a touristy area of Florence (Mulberry Street) and a fucking Beijing street fair (Mott Street), as the contrast between the two is so stark.
On this particular Sunday, I made a left out of my apartment to walk up Mott, deep in Chinese territory. I’ve been trying to think of ways to convey this gently without offending either my neighbors or the Chinese-American community (and more importantly, readership) but facts are facts. Chinatown stinks.
Welcome to Chinatown, Lady on the Right Clutching Her Face and Wretching!
This does not mean that the Chinese people themselves smell; on the contrary, they smell lovely (I made out once with a Chinese girl and she was at once one of the loveliest and best-smelling girls I’ve ever smooched). But this is an offshoot of the fact that Mott Street is filled with these open-air markets where all matters of nasty fish and shit are sold.
Mmm…fish.
I like fish as much as the next guy, but I’m not sure that it’s such a good idea to leave fish laying out all day in the hot August New York City sun. And by the way, there are about 500,000 per square mile. Dead fish + heat + thousands of people = it stinks.
In addition to fish, you can find other nasty things in these markets around the corner from my apartment. For example, if you’re looking for innards, you can get them for only $4.39/pound in Chinatown!
Mmm…whatever the fuck this is (guts? mussels?)
But maybe fish and fish innards aren’t your thing. Well, you’re in luck. In keeping with Chinatown’s unofficial motto ("If you want it, we sell it"), you can also buy yourself some frogs on a Sunday afternoon.
I don’t think they sell these for pets.
The frogs, even moreso than the fish, fish guts, and vegetables that I had only previously read about in the stories of C.S. Lewis, are the most difficult thing for my friends visiting me to understand. But that’s just how they roll in Chinatown. If it lives, it can be eaten. I’m certain if you knew the right codes words, one of these Chinese vendors would take you to the back of his store where you could buy your very own unicorn (at the negotiable price of $8.99/pound).
After Chinatown, I headed north. Typically, my walk is about the same: I walk from my apartment up to Central Park and back. It’s a good walk – about 11 miles in total – and takes a few hours. It’s a tremendous way to waste time.
I’ll pick different avenues each way though, so that I don’t get tired of the scenery. For example, I might take 1st Ave up to 59th Street, walk over across the park, and then take 8th Avenue down. And yes, I really am this lonely.
I took Madison Avenue up to Central Park, stopping and enjoying various tree-lined streets and a NYC street fair on Madison in midtown. I also took the time to taunt an old enemy.
These mother fuckers have been after me for years.
But soon I was at Central Park. It’s a cliche, but I love Central Park. I’m a city boy for sure, but maybe it’s because growing up I didn’t have a yard and the first time I saw a horse I thought it was a really big dog that I appreciate (or at least enjoy) nature so much. And Central Park is pretty much all the nature we have in NYC.
But that’s what makes it so special - it’s an oasis in the middle of a metropolis. The contrast between scenes like this and towering buildings nearby and masses of humanity around it only adds to the beauty of the park. It’s fucking awesome.
And then there’s this:
Mmm…junky hair.
This is a lock of human hair I found on the street not 25 feet from where the previous picture was taken. I am certain that this hair once belonged to a junkie who, in the middle of the night Saturday night, ripped it out of her head in a meth-induced mania. (I’m certain of this because I actually sold said junkie the meth and watched the whole thing – it was totally fucking awesome.) God I love New York City.
I walked away from Central Park, ready to return home to ChiLiTa, via 8th Avenue. There, I spied my favorite building in NYC: the Hearst Building.
Fucking sweet.
Rising like the cock of the walk just 8th Avenue, you can’t beat the Hearst Building. It’s got it all: size, class, and cool hard angles. Kinda like me.
At this point I was getting pretty tired and was thus unable to operate my camera, needing to conserve my energy for the five mile walk that stood between my location in midtown and my apartment. So I hunkered down, drank six Diet Cokes, had a minor heart attack, and was soon back in Little Italy.
Little Italy: Always Something Fucking Going On.
Oh, good ol’ Lil’ Italy. There are times when I hate living there – like when I’m coming from the gym, covered in sweat, and I have to walk through two blocks of tourists gorging themselves on nine kinds of sausages when I have Lean Cuisine baked chicken waiting for me at home – but then there are other times when I love it. Sure it’s crowded and loud and the food is overpriced and really not that good, but when I see the joy that brings that couple from Kansas or that family of guido assholes from Long Island, well, that makes me happy. For a while at least.
This sign also makes me happy.
"Eh – whaddya want from me? I’m eating my spaghetti and meatballs!"
This sign sits outside a restaurant near by apartment. I’ve written about this restaurant before (though I can’t find where in the archives), saying that it was the first to employ attractive women as hosts/employees who run up to you on the street sticking menus in your face, whereas all the other restaurants use pushy guido/Eastern European/Costa Rican men for this purpose. Though the talent has fallen off considerably this summer (I can only assume that last year’s super-hot hostesses were "discovered" and are now living with divorced stockbrokers in their late 40’s in New Jersey, exchanging affection and semi-violent blowjobs for ice and Lexuses), this restaurant is still always packed.
But back to the sign: my friends and I have taken this sign and run with it. This is going to lose something here because it’s a private, "you had to be there"-type joke, but needless to say, whenever we pass it we immediately play off the look on the guy’s face and put on our best Italian-American accents and go off, ranting about "Eh – what do you want from me? I’m eating my meatballs!" and "My wife says, "Whaddya want for dinner?’ I said, ’Marie, we been married twenty-eight years and every night I eat the same thing – my meatballs and my pasta! So that’s ‘a what I want!"
…
I told you you have to be there.
At the end of a long day, I wanted to crash in my apartment. But as I approached the place, I noticed it was louder than normal. The reason? The radio station Mix 102.7 was broadcasting live from the restaurant I live above. Of course. How could I have not expected that?
The view from my window.
So I had to sit in my apartment, watching morons congregate outside, masturbating to said mornons, and listening to dance music.
So yes, it was the perfect Sunday. I love New York.
Down 25 pounds in 47 days. I’m running three miles a day. I am an animal. The Spaniards at the gym having taken to calling me "La Machina de Fuck," which I think means "The Chubby White Boy Who Sweats and Pants A Lot and One Time Threw Up on the Treadmill."
There is a possibility that, maybe not by the end of this diet (final weigh-in is Friday, August 25) but by the end of August, that I will be under 200 pounds. Good lord. My junior year of high school I ran for Student Council under the slogan "239 lbs. of Vice President" (I won). Now, ten years later, I might be 40 pounds thinner. Wow. And 6′1" and under 200 is really not fat. Goddamn.
But we’re facing a tough stretch. I don’t diet on Fridays, Saturdays, or Sundays. That doesn’t mean that I’ll pig out on these days, but rather that I’ll entertain any reasonable request (Jersey Sloppy Joe for lunch – absolutely; 12 beers and 2 two slices of pizza after midnight – I’m listening; pint of Haagen Dazs at 4am – I’m sorry, but you’ll have to try back in a few weeks). This weekend will be especially difficult though because I have three buddies coming up from Philly for the weekend and a Yankee game on Saturday (I’m dreading this), so there will be no time for eating even close to reasonably. Then I have hot dates on Tuesday and Wednesday of next week, which means real actual meals that don’t require microwaving or George Foremaning and some beers. And then next weekend I’m heading to Philly – the place where diets go to die – for a bachelor party. So in reality I’ll only be dieting for two of the next ten days. So forget about that under 200 thing.
But otherwise it’s going well. I’m noticeably smaller and though I have not been lifting weights, I’m starting to notice muscles in my arms which had previously been covered by a good-sized layer of mashed potatoes. So I’m kinda able to tell the difference now, and not only because my clothes are so much looser (my friend Annie told me last weekend that I was "swimming" in my shirts – and I’m pretty sure she didn’t mean anything about sweating).
Yet there’s still one problem that will keep me shirted at the beach: my back hair. The good news is that this is much more easily resolved than 25 pounds of spare flesh. I’ve been thinking about getting it waxed but I haven’t been able to pull the trigger. I mean, I’m a man’s man – I like titties and beer and sports – I don’t know if I can get a waxing. More importantly, I’m scared shitless, not so much for the pain but for the potential embarrassment.
But there is hope. A buddy of mine, who shall remain nameless at his request, has upped the ante and is getting his back hair LASERED at a place appropriately named Silk Skin. This sounds more appealing to me then waxing because when you get your hair removed via laser it is gone permanently. You have to get in done in sessions though, going once a month for six months. My buddy, who may or may not have the initials C.G., is in his fourth session and raves about it when drunk (as though he’s putting it in my face that he’s moving from the community of the hairy to the community of the hairless).
And to be honest, I’m considering it. He says that the place is very man-friendly, that’s it’s not a big deal, and that it really fucking works. And I’m much rather get lasered once a month for six months by a professional – and never have to do it again - than waxed once a month for the rest of my life by some Russian broad whose cigarette is ashing onto my back. And at the very least, it’d make a great post.
But if I were to lose this weight AND the back hair, well, I just don’t know what would happen. And I’m afraid. But like I said, all it takes is one solid binge and I can gain ten or so pounds. So pray for me.
(And I know I said last week that I wouldn’t write as much about the diet, but give me a break – sometimes it’s hard to come up with six things to write for these posts and I’m a little hard up for material this week.)
***************
Over the weekend I was walking around in midtown and I stopped in a Starbucks for a water and to take a whiz. I got in the bathroom line, which was three people deep, despite the fact that there were only about five people in the Starbucks in total. And I waited with the three other people. And waited. And waited.
Suddenly, a kid who was about 17 or so, kinda hipsterish, complete with bad tattoos and earrings, came up and started banging on the door. He then put his face in the doorjamb and started speaking into the bathroom. I couldn’t really hear what he was saying, but caught stuff like "People are waiting" and "Let’s go" and the like.
He walked away and a few seconds later the bathroom door opened and out came two of his friends, young hipsters his age, and boy and a girl, looking all disheveled and sweaty. It was obvious to everyone in line that they were totally fucking each other in the bathroom. They made no attempt to hide this when they walked out, aside from lowering their flushed faces and walking from the bathroom straight out of the Starbucks.
I had never seen anything like this before. Prior to actually witnessing it, I would have guessed that my reaction would be something along the lines of "Oh – awesome! Those two just had sex in the bathroom! God that’s hot! Wow. I mean, wow. Christ, I would really pay like $200 right now to be able to make out. Fuck."
Instead, I was completely and utterly disgusted – so much so that I wanted to chase the couple out of the Starbucks and say something like, "I just wanted to tell you that that was a really classy move in there." I was repulsed and pissed off, surprising myself with the depth of my anger.
I don’t really know why. Was it because I was mad that I then had to take a piss among their fluids and body heat? Or because they were too young to be involved in such behavior? Or maybe it was because the chick was busted?
I don’t know, but I know it’s not a good sign. Maybe I’m getting mature. Maybe I realize that it’s inappropriate to be doing each other in public coffeehouse bathrooms.
Or maybe I’m just jealous. Yup, that’s probably it. All over New York City people are having sex in public bathrooms and last night I hooked up my ancient VCR to watch the porn tapes that I enjoyed so much in college.
…
This "internet quasi-celebrity" stuff is a crock of shit.
***************
I get about five spam emails a day to my work address. There is something I could do about this (I can’t explain the technology behind it, because I’m not tech savvy), but it would risk spamming and thus not receiving personal emails. What, then, would I do all day at work, if I could not email my buddy John about the fate of Derrick Lee or my old roommate Brian on the sex crimes I nearly committed the previous weekend? So I simply get the spam and delete it.
Earlier this week, I got a spam email from a "person" that has the same first name as one of my ex-girlfriends (and she doesn’t have a very common name). However, all I saw was the first name and immediately thought, "Holy shit – why the hell is my ex-girlfriend writing me?" I quickly grabbed the mouse to pop open the email but then realized it was spam. My heart rate returned to normal.
But then they kept coming. But they weren’t from the same full name. By that I mean, let’s say my ex is named Cindy. The first spam email was from Cindy Walker. Then the second spam email was from Cynthia Hoyt. The third from Cindy Gorman. Three spams, all in one day, with the first name of my ex. Coincidence? I think not.
I don’t know exactly why Fate has intervened like this, but I’m going to assume that this is a green light for me to leave a very long voicemail for my ex this weekend around 4am. I mean, that seems like the logical thing to do, right? We haven’t spoken in a long, long time, so there’s no better reason to break our silence than because I got a few spam emails from someone with her first name. I’ll have to remind myself to bring this up in the message, slipping it in somewhere between "So I’ve lost a bunch of weight" and "I’ve slept with, like, eight girls since we’ve broken up." It’s going to be magic. Or magical. Whatever.
***************
Someone is impersonating me by leaving comments on random blogs. I know this because I’ve gotten several emails from blog proprietors responding to my comments. For example, I did not leave the comment attributed to me on this blog post.
I don’t really care about this, but if you’re impersonating me, you really need to reassess your life. Because the only thing sadder than being me is pretending to be me. I mean, wow.
(Well, I guess making love to me is saddest of all, but I don’t want to get too down on myself right at the start of the weekend. I need good self-esteem if I’m going to try to make out. I’ve been reading a lot and apparently girls like confidence. But it also says that they like a sense of humor, and, well, we all know how far that’s gotten me. I’m the funniest person I know and last Friday night I would have made out with a man to conquer my loneliness. So I don’t even know what to think anymore.)
***************
This morning on the ride into work, I noticed an interesting 311 subway ad. For non-New Yorkers, 311 is a number to call for just about everything that isn’t an emergency, from reporting potholes to asking for help with your alcoholism to finding out when your trash will be picked up.
Anyway, this ad had a picture of a woman’s face, which was black and blue. Underneath the picture, the ad, whose purpose was to encourage abused women to call 311 for help, said, "38% of battered women will be victimized again within six months."
Is it wrong that the first thing I thought of after reading this was, "38%? That’s really not a high percentage."
I’m not trying to make a cheap joke here – I’m being serious. Beating women, which is not funny at all, seems like one of those things that once you break the seal or cross that line, you say, "Well, fuck it. I did it once – I might as well do it again." It’s like how serial killers always say that the hardest victim was the first one, but after that, it was pretty easy.
…
You know what? I don’t like where this is going, so let’s just stop here and get on with the fucking music.
***************
Six Songs
Some really good ones this week, so be sure to get them all.
"Torn & Frayed" Rolling Stones
Sing it with me – "Heeeyyyyy, let him follow you down…" This is another random/awesome Stones song, again from Exile on Main Street, an incredible album. Also, this is the flagship song of a new playlist I created, "Whiskey, You Son of a Bitch." More will be added later – probably when I’m drunk. God I fucking love the Rolling Stones and so wish they weren’t a complete travesty now.
"Death Letter" White Stripes
I mentioned "You’re Pretty Good Looking (For A Girl)" in a post earlier this week. Great song. Well, the whole album, De Stijl, is terrific. I’ve been enjoying the White Stripes for years but only downloaded this album a few weeks ago and am kicking myself for not doing it sooner. This is just a total fucking badass song, which immediately grabs you by the balls and shakes you around. And you’re all like, "Whoa – let go of my balls!" and it’s all like "Fuck you, bitch! Shut up!" and you’re like "Um, ok." That’s how badass it is. Please download it.
"It Ain’t Easy Being Me" Chris Knight
I’m still liking the country very much. Something about the simplicity of the lyrics really gets me. Don’t get me wrong - I’ll always love the witty wordplay of Elvis Costello, but when it comes right down to it, can you really beat:
I shoot the lights and I curse the dark
I need your love but I break your heart
And I know the words that’ll bring you back but
But I don’t say nothing as I watch you pack
I don’t think you can, sir. I don’t think you can.
"She Moves in Her Own Way" The Kooks
Recommended by Erika in Boston, a tremendously catchy little ditty, even if the lead singer’s accent is so thick I can’t really understand what the fuck he’s saying. Of course, that hasn’t stopped me from playing and singing along, speaking total gibberish. Great stuff.
"Fill My Little World" The Feeling
Also from Erika, making her the first reader ever to get two songs into a single Six Songs suggestion. Good ol’ fashioned Brit power-pop at its finest.
"To Be the One" Ryan Adams
"The empty bottle, it misses you/But I’m the one it’s talking to." Yup, it’s official – after my spectacular death in a hotel fire nine weeks from now (a hotel fire I started, mind you), someone should immediately contact Ryan Adams to start composing the music for the film about my life. Not that it will take him awhile to do the music, but we’ll want him to get it all down before he also dies in a hotel fire, seven weeks after I do.
[Have a good weekend.]
Last Friday, I wrote this about my diet:
But there is one thing I have not yet received: compliments or recognition. It’s not that I’m seeking them out and I’m not fishing for them here (from friends who read the site), but I’m being honest when I say that I really can’t tell too much of difference when I look at myself. I’m still fat and hairy. My clothes are a little looser, but I’m still a monstrosity when I’m naked. I feel better and have more energy, but I still can’t masturbate completely nude, as my body turns me off. So while numerically I’m making progress, it hasn’t made an effect on my appearance. No one has ever said, "Dude, you look different." It’s been more like me saying, "Dude, I’ve lost 16 pounds" and a friend saying, "Yeah, well, you’re still fat." And they’re right.
Apparently, several members of you read this:
I’m really depressed that no one is giving me credit for my weight loss. So why don’t you have a few glasses of wine tonight, take off all or part of your clothes, and a take a couple of pictures to send me? They can be tasteful, playful and not trashy OR they can be so trashy that they make me blush (some so, so trashy that they need to be immediately deleted). Whatever works for you. Just send me some nudie pictures. Please. As soon as possible. Like, do it now.
The point: lots of naked pictures sent to me by y’all this weekend (I’m not sure if this is entirely appropriate to talk about, but hang on). It’s weird – sometimes I won’t get any for two months and then whammo! Smiling, happy boobies waiting for me. There was even one pic of one of you this weekend that was so awesome that I actually said "Wow" out loud and offered air- and cabfare to the girl who sent it, provided she could make it to NYC in under four hours (as after that time I would have masturbated myself to death). Sadly, she didn’t respond. I’m guessing because she was drunk when she sent the pic and sober when she got my email. The circle of life is a thing of beauty, isn’t it?
But since we’re talking openly about naked pictures, I’d like to institute a New Naked Pictures Policy here at jasonmulgrew.com. I realize that this may prevent me from getting as many naked pics of you in the future, but I feel that it must be adhered to.
From this point forward, when you send me a naked picture of yourself, could you not black out or otherwise hide your face? To a lesser extent, if you’re sending a picture of just your boobies, it’d be nice to see a face as well, as headless boobies can only be so appealing.
The problem is, ladies, that you’re making me look like a goddamn serial killer. If someone were to stumble upon my "Naked Pictures of Fans" folder on my computer – even though it is very hidden – I would immediately be reported to the authorities. I can’t say with 100% certainty, but I’m pretty sure that I have the world’s largest collection of amateur boobies-without-faces pictures. Just two boobs. No face. Maybe some chin and a little bit of belly, but mostly just boobies.
And there’s nothing wrong with this – too much. I understand your need to protect your anonymity and respect that. And hell, we all know it’s the boobies I’m after, so I appreciate you getting right to the point. But now, after years of being totally fucking dominant on the internet, I’m developing quite a collection and it’s weirding me out a little bit.
[Hold on, what's weirder: that I have received too many pictures of boobies without heads or that I'm collecting these pictures? I think we should retitle this post "why no one will ever marry me." Wow.]
[And yes, I sound like an asshole. But really, when don't I? If I can talk about jerking off in a Pepsi can or eating pizza in the tub, I don't think this subject is beyond the pale.]
But the faceless boobie shots, I really don’t mind as much (what’s weirder are the faceless cleavage shots – when one of you sends me a picture of yourself clothed but in something low-cut and/or pushing her boobies together – because then it looks like I’ve been hanging out in malls or dorms taking those pictures myself of unsuspecting busty females).
It’s the modified face pictures that really make me look like a serial killer. For example: you send me a picture of yourself in the shower that your boyfriend took (she’s a keeper, boyfriend). Then after taking the picture, the two of you decide to photoshop it so that your face is either a) completely blacked out; b) scribbled over; or c) fuzzed by some sort of translucent circle. Then it’s sent to me.
Pictures like these make me feel both happy and icky. Sure, it’s totally sweet that I’m able to see a naked or half-naked girl. That rules and will always rule. But something about the blocked out face…well, makes me feel kinda like a pervert, when in reality I just like naked women.
(A lot. A whole lot.)
So it’d be nice if I could see a face. I don’t mean to be creepy by asking you to not block out your face. It’s not like I’m going to use the IP address from your email address to find out where you live, then maybe take a week off from work to hang out in your town in the hope of finding you (though that could be easy – after all, Mission, British Columbia is not a large town), then when I find you I’ll watch you for a few days – maybe from a tree on your street or from my rental car, slowly building up the confidence to approach you, finally doing so in the supermarket, at which point I’ll ask if you if you’d like to have a drink at a local bar near the Red Roof Inn where I’m staying, and you’ll be so surprised to see me you won’t be able to say anything but yes, then we’ll head to that bar, have some gin-based drinks, and wind up doing it in my rental car (as the Red Roof Inn will have burned down while we were at the bar).
It’s just that I’ve watched enough Law & Order: SVU to know that it’s not psychologically healthy to block out or scribble over anyone’s face in a picture. Of course, I realize that I’m not the one doing it – you’re doing it to a picture of yourself, for a very different reason than a desire to inflict harm. But by possessing these pictures with blocked out faces (possession is nine-tenths the law, right?), I cross the line over to completely deranged serial murdered when I’m really just a fan of amateur porn and a man enjoying the fruits of what little power he has.
So please, include a face or don’t send a picture. Or maybe find some other way to conceal your identity without making me feel so creepy. For example, maybe you can send me a fully nude picture of yourself but instead of your face, use Santa’s face? I mean, who doesn’t get happy when they see Santa? Just a suggestion.
At any rate, a heartfelt thank you for these pictures. Just when I’m feeling down about having to come up with something to make y’all laugh, I get a nice pair of boobies and I’m reminded of why I started doing this in the first place: breasts. God bless ‘em. And god bless you.
Looking forward to your naked Santa pics,
Yours eternally, meaning now, then, and forever,
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride,
so I love you because I know no other way,
- Jason ("Tu Chuleta")
Here’s the intro:
Here’s the intro:COLUMBUS, Ohio — Maurice Clarett was charged with carrying a concealed weapon after a highway chase early Wednesday that ended with police using Mace on the former Ohio State running back and finding four loaded guns in his sport utility vehicle, police said.Officers used Mace to subdue Clarett after a stun gun was ineffective because the former Fiesta Bowl star was wearing a bullet-resistant vest, Sgt. Michael Woods said.
There is no doubt in my mind that Maurice Clarett was going to murder someone. You don’t go for a casual drive with four loaded guns while wearing a bullet-proof vest. Trust me. My dad used to do shit like this all the time growing up. And it never ended well.
I wish I could offer some additional commentary but I’m too shocked to be funny. Also, I was up all night having nightmares that I was the main character in a novel I’m reading. Strange, especially since the character is a Montanan real estate speculator in his early 50’s going through a divorce. So we don’t have much in common, aside from the divorce.
Anyway, kudos to you, Maurice Clarett. It’s crazies like you that make me feel less bad about my own actions. Just when I think I should take a break from drinking, I learn that you were impervious to a tazer. What a great country we live in.
******
ADDENDUM
After I put up this post, I received this email from my friend Corinne:
"A half-full bottle of vodka was found in the SUV, but no breath test was administered because police had no indication that Clarett was intoxicated.”
Really? No indication that he’d been drinking? Driving around ignoring any and all traffic laws with a bullet proof vest and loaded guns laying about? Hmm…
Excellent points by Corinne. I get pulled over all the time and I’m a harmless-looking white guy with a beard. Clarett is a giant black man, resisting arrest and tazers, with a half-full bottle of vodka and four loaded guns in his car. Oh yeah – and he’s wearing a bullet-proof vest. I guess that’s normal behavior in Ohio. Which means, of course, I’m moving there.
Any readers out there want to show me around? I’ll bring the Kevlar vests.
Two very large and delicious dinners this weekend with mixed results. Let’s get right into it, shall we?
Dinner 1: Saturday NightI woke up on Saturday with a hangover (nothing goes better with Shark Week than vodka) but went to the gym and ran for 2.5 miles. 2.5 miles! With a hangover! Six weeks ago I couldn’t run three blocks without collapsing into the arms of some unsuspecting tourist, panting and sweating and ranting about the forthcoming Race War and Armageddon and would you like to get a drink with me. But I ran 2.5 miles Saturday. It’s a start. And if it keeps up, I may actually have to buy condoms - and not just for decoration or for putting on and dancing around when I’m alone and feeling silly. I mean, groundbreaking stuff here.
But I paid a price for this running. While running, I thought, "This is awesome." Afterwards, I thought, "What the fuck did I just do to my body?" My legs were sore in a way that they had never been before (as I probably ripped apart every tendon in them). It wasn’t just my legs – my back was killing me. Sweet. My hangover was gone, but I was overcome by a feeling of the worst kind of exhaustion: when you feel tired and just want to sleep but you’re body is too awake and won’t let you. No good.
It was under these circumstances that I met my editor Brian for an early dinner at Angelo & Maxie’s, a steakhouse here in the city. This was our long awaited celebratory dinner, a "Congratulations - you wrote a book" meal, even if it was qualified with "Maybe not a great book, but at least it’s pretty long and there are only a few spelling errors. Also, you use N-word way too many times, but we’ll talk about that some other time."I may have been physically out of sorts, but that didn’t stop me from eliminating all the food put before me (and a few napkins and my half of the table cloth). Remember, I’m used to Lean Cuisine baked chicken and Slim Fast shakes. Brian and I had fried calamari, proscuitto with mozzarella and tomatoes, 15 oz steaks, and piles of creamed spinach and mashed potatoes. It was so good that as I write this tears are falling off my cheeks onto my keyboard. Because it smells in my office. Kinda like throw up.
But just as I paid a price for my overexertion, so I did for my gluttony. Halfway through the meal, I could practically hear my body saying, "Dude, what the fuck are you doing? Is this some kind of fucking joke? Do you want the puking to come before the heart attack or vice-versa? Maybe both at once?"Brian noticed how slowly I was drinking my beer, so to step it up instead of desserts we got spirits. I had myself a nice aged Bourbon and that gave me some legs for a while. After dinner, we met with some other book-related people, two guys who drank Guinness faster than their pints could be poured. In order to keep up, Brian and I kicked back our drinks, both whiskeys by this point, with the same speed.
We all went to a bar after that to meet some friends and by then I was bombed, tired, and feeling a little sick. Around 2am I pulled an Irish Exit, saying that I was going to the ATM but then taking off (and despite that I was feeling ill, this didn’t stop me from breaking a cardinal rule and getting two slices of pizza, which I inhaled in the short cab ride back to my place). For the second night in a row, and the only weekend that I can remember, I was in bed before the bars closed on both Friday and Saturday nights. Unprecedented and pathetic.Performance: D+
Total bitch moves on my part. Inexcusable.
Had some serious potential if not for my cop out. Good food, good company, good drinks, lame Jason.
Dinner #2: Sunday night
My friend Annie was in town from Seattle this weekend. Sunday was her last night, so my friend Nicole and I had dinner with her at Pastis.
I discovered the Sazerac, a whiskey drink, a few weeks ago after having dinner on my birthday. It was the closest I’ve come to love at first sight in my life. It’s a little sweet, but it’s got some real kick to it and, most importantly, gets you very, very drunk.
The Sazerac is one of the specialty cocktails at Pastis. When I saw this on the menu, my eyes lit up. Then when the drink came, my belly got warm. Then when the waiter returned, I ordered another. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Though I wasn’t drunk after dinner, I was certainly on a roll. Nicole, Annie and I headed across the street to the rooftop of the Hotel Gansevoort.I have to take a minute here to explain to non-New Yorkers why I love having Nicole back (and Annie this weekend) in the city as my go-to classy female friend (background: Nicole and Annie lived in NYC for two years two years ago, both moved away, Nicole just moved back). I do not belong at a restaurant like Pastis or on the rooftop bar of the Hotel Gansevoort. For example, one of the last times I was at Pastis was for an "entertainment industry meeting" and Ben Stiller and his wife were eating not ten feet away from me. I have been on the roof of the Gansevoort before for similar "entertainment industry" stuff and did not have to pay. This time, when the waitress brought our three drinks and I offered to get the first round, it cost me $50 (including tip). $50 for three drinks. Yikes. But I paid and smiled, knowing that this was only a temporary thing and that soon I would return to my roots (i.e. Wendy’s and any bar with the word "Pub" in the title). Besides, Nicole (and Annie) is teaching me to be versatile. I have mastered the art of drinking in the pub. Now, I must move on to Drinking in the Lounge (notice the caps) if I ever want to fuck some seriously hot chicks. I mean, if I ever want to court a classy lady.
We did not stay long at the Gansevoort, not only because of the cost but also because Nicole was babysitting her family’s seventeen year-old cat (!) at her apartment on the Upper East Side and had to return there to administer the cat’s medicine. It was still early, so we agreed to go give the cat its medicine (sadly, not a sexual expression) and then head to a neighborhood bar around Nicole’s place.
At that neighborhood bar, whose name escapes me because I was pretty drunk by that point (somewhere in the 80’s), the three of us set up shop. Nicole left after a few drinks, having work the next day, but Annie, who kept guilting me about how she won’t get to see me anymore once she’s back in Seattle, and I stayed, drinking very quickly, almost violently. I started with what I had been drinking at the Gansevoort – Maker’s Mark and ginger ale. But after a few of those I realized that the ginger ale was not really serving any purpose so I went with only the Maker’s Mark and some ice.I’m learning a few things as I continue my journey with whiskey. First and foremost among them is that whiskey drunk sneaks up on you. Because it tastes so good and goes down so easy, you don’t realize that you’re poisoning yourself at an alarming rate. And it’s a different drunk than a beer buzz, which leaves me bloated and irritable. Whiskey drunk is a nice warm feeling. It’s as though the whiskey fills the control room of your brain that’s supposed to warn you to slow down the drinking with the soothing sounds of Sade and maybe there are some massages involved.
Near the end of the night, I got up to go to the bathroom. I suppose you’re waiting for me to say that the whiskey hit me as soon as I stood up, but sneaky devil that it is, it didn’t. I walked seemingly soberly to the bathroom and took a whiz. Everything was fine. But it was when I started to wash my hands that I felt a sudden surge of drunkenness. It was almost supernatural; like I was either possessed or there was a poltergeist in the room that suddenly pushed me. I stumbled a bit, laughed it off, finished washing my hands, and returned to Annie, thinking only, "That was a little weird. And man I have to do something about my pubes."It was getting near 3am and I had to work the next day, so Annie and I called it a night. Outside the bar she finished off her cigarette and hailed a cab, offering to share it with me. She was surprised when I brushed her off, telling her I was going to walk. But it was a beautiful New York City night and I wanted to enjoy it.
There are nights in the summer, though they are rare, that are prefect. After sitting in the stuffy bar for several hours, the air was almost cool. And it was quiet. There is a strange beauty to walking the streets of New York, the greatest city in the world, with a solid buzz on while everyone else is asleep.I finally reached my building and walked in. I passed the doorman and went straight to the elevator, which was open and waiting for me. In good spirits, I started singing The White Stripes’ "You’re Pretty Good Looking (For a Girl)" to myself after I pushed the button for my floor and leaned against the elevator, looking forward to being home. After a good meal and a long night of whiskey, I was going to enjoy the cold comfort of my bed.
And then I realized something: I don’t have an elevator in my building.I don’t have a doorman, either.
Hmm…I figured out that in a bourbon-induced haze I walked not to my current apartment - in Little Italy, 90 blocks south of the bar - but to my old apartment in the Upper East Side, only ten or so blocks from the bar. You know, the apartment I moved out of in May 2005. I was so wrapped up in the beauty of the night that I didn’t realize this until I was in the elevator of my old building. Also, I was really fucked up.
Oops.So when the elevator stopped at the 21st floor, I didn’t get out. I sheepishly pushed the "L" and snuck passed the doorman on my out to the street and hopped in a cab.
But no, I was not finished. The cab took 2nd Ave all the way down to my neighborhood. I’ve mentioned before the Chinatown/Little Italy is downright scary at night, easily the most terrifying neighborhood I’ve lived in in NYC. It’s so full of life during the day but eerily dead at night.The cab pulled onto my block and soon stopped in front of my apartment. When I leaned up in my seat to pay the cabbie his fare, for some unknown reason I said: "Excuse me, sir, but would you mind waiting until I get into my building before driving away? I was shot a few months ago outside of my apartment."
???The cabbie looked at me, half-frightened, half-quizzically. I think he nodded, but I hopped out the cab and go into my building. When the door closed behind me, he beeped. Then he pulled away.
???To be honest, I have no idea why I told the cabbie that I had been shot outside of my apartment. I don’t know if I said it to be funny (which I’m not sure it is – it might be very funny but it also might be too fucking weird), I don’t think I said it out of fear (though the neighborhood is scary, there was no one there except me and I had to walk eight feet to my building), and I don’t think I said it to be a dick (I’m usually not that much of an asshole to fuck with the Pakstani cab driver).
[Seriously, to paraphrase Karen's mother in "Goodfellas," what kind of person tells a cabbie he was shot outside of his apartment for fun? I mean, what the fuck?]But I do know one thing: I don’t think I would have said that if I had been drinking beer all night.
Longtime reader and emailer Nate from Texas emailed me a few weeks ago after I announced my new love affair with whiskey. He said something to the effect of, "Whiskey will only destroy you in the end. Beer is the one true answer." I replied, "Well, I guess that’s something every man has to learn on his own." And while I’m not beating my wife or robbing banks, I think I may be starting to learn this.The question is, then, do I keep going? I truly believe that, on the night I stayed in my apartment drinking whiskey and listening to George Jones, I would have continued drinking forever had I not run out of bourbon. I would have continued to drink and drink and drink with a smile on my face, singing my George Jones, not having a care in the world. Like my comment to the cabbie, I’m not sure if this is awesome or scary.
But I think I’ve figured this much out.Beer, for me, is my girlfriend. She’s safe. She takes care of you – fixes you dinner, is pleasant company in your free time, gives you regular sex. And you take care of her - take her to dinner, buy her presents, spend your money on her. Sure, once in a while things might get a little crazy and you’ll fuck on the kitchen floor or in a stairwell, but for the most part you know what you’re going to get: a nice, even time. You love her because you need her. That may not have always been the case, but it is now.
Whiskey, for me, is my whore. She’s nuts, and it’s precisely her insanity that drives you crazy. She’ll toy with your emotions, lulling you into a sense of security, before she’ll pull away from you entirely, make you look like a jerk in front of your friends, leave you lonely and confused. But you put up with her because when you have sex her body because a piston (a piston that spews forth the dirtiest words in the English language – or any other language, for that language). And because nothing cures boredom quite like danger.Doug Fieger, lead singer of the band The Knack, said he wrote the song "My Sharona" about a girlfriend he once had. He said, "I had never met a girl like her – ever. She induced madness. She was a very powerful presence. She had an insouciance that wouldn’t quit. She was very self-assured…She also had an overpowering scent, and it drove my crazy." Doug nailed it. The uniqueness, the madness, the presence, the insouciance, the self-assuredness, the scent, and back to the madness. A crazy woman and a bottle of whiskey.
…But I think I miss my girlfriend.
(I actually first hit 20 pounds lost on the 38th Day, but 40 is much more theatrical. So just fucking play along.)
In sooth, I never thought this diet would actually work, so I don’t really have anything prepared to say. I don’t want to gloat, because I’m afraid that if I keep talking about all the weight I’m losing I will lose the "fatty" portion of my readership (just as I have lost the gay portion after yesterday’s post). Then I will only be left with the college students (of which there are not many), the stoners (lots) and the criminals (tons). However, all three of these groups don’t buy books and I have a career to think about ("Hitting Shelves in April 2007, The Long-Awaited, Much-Anticipated Memoirs of Jason Mulgrew – Everything Is Wrong With Me: An American Childhood Gone Wrong! Free Handjob From the Author With the First 5000 Books Sold (Limit Three Per Customer)! Start Saving Your Change Now!").
But yet I would be remiss if I didn’t say how I did this or the effects it has had on me. Also, I’ve been kinda hard up for material this week, so if you want a post today, this is what you’re going to have to read. At least it’ll probably be pretty long.
To be honest, the whole diet thing has been very easy and has worked because of five things:
1) My love of music
2) My obsession with numbers
3) My significant anger issues
4) My taste for booze and intoxication
5) My stubbornness
My love of music
First and foremost, none of this would have been possible if I didn’t have an iPod and the most excellent taste in music of anyone I know. If you’ve read even a little bit of this website, you know that I’m obsessed with music; I listen to it when I wake up, listen to it all day at work, listen to it while falling asleep, listen to it when I shower, masturbate, clean – all the fucking time (and no, I’m joking about the masturbate thing – I dare you to masturbate to a Sigur Ros song while jerking and tell me your orgasm is not heightened).
So when I joined the gym and started this diet, half of the "adventure" was the working out itself, but the other half was creating the greatest work-out mix in the history of mankind. I had had two very old workout mixes from my old gym days almost two years ago ("Hype" for cardio work and "Punch Your Goddamn Balls" for weightlifting) but they had grown stale.
My first order of business was creating a "Balls Out Workout" mix, combining the best elements of the previous two, as well as a number of new songs. For hours I poured over the 7000 songs in my iTunes, looking for a select few for the playlist. And since we’re not doing a Six Songs this week and because many people have asked, here’s a sampling of songs from the "Balls Out Workout" mix (10 of the 90 total on the list):
- "Barracuda" Heart
- "Feather Boa" Marah
- "Golddigger" Kanye West
- "Kick in the Door" Notorious B.I.G.
- "Marry Me" Drive-By Truckers
- "Red Morning Light" Kings of Leon
- "Spread Your Love" Black Rebel Motorcycle Club
- "Take the Fifth" Spoon
- "The Blues Are Still Blue" Belle & Sebastian
- "The Girl I Love" Led Zeppelin
It’s a nice mix, with rock and rap intermingled. Many of the other songs I’ve already mentioned on here (some of those listed I’ve mentioned before) or are well-known songs that one would guess would be on this sort of mix, but those are ten random ones that I especially rock out to.
Once I had the music all figured out, I was halfway there.
(Well, not really. But in spirit at least.)
My obsession with numbers
I’m sort of a little crazy when it comes to numbers. For example, I told a girl I met recently that I’m fascinated by her birthday: November 21 (11/21). This is because, as I told her, it "resolves" itself. For example, 1+1=2-1=1. Then if you take that 1 and reintroduce it to dates, it’s 1+1+1=3, 3-2=1, 1-1=0. See? It resolves itself. But sadly, just as you stopped reading after "For example," she too stopped listening and we did not spend the night together. Yet.
Numbers are also why I am excellent at fantasy sports (save for one baseball league this year – thank you Vlad, Jake Peavy, "King" Felix, Cliff Floyd, Aubrey Huff, Zach Duke, JD Drew, and a litany of other losers). I know Chase Utley’s average, on-base percentage, and slugging percentage by heart and I can tell you how many total bases Carlos Beltran has in the last month. Fantasy baseball has more to do with manipulating and projecting data than sports.
I took this approach to dieting. My diet plan was simple: it’s all about calories. Forget carbs, trans fats, South Beach, Atkin’s – all that. Dieting can be deconstructed into one simple condition: If you burn off more calories than you consume, you will lose weight. That’s it.
Over the course of this diet I’ve become so consumed with counting calories that I’m now almost autistic. And the weird thing is, I kind of love it. I think that maybe I love numbers, especially in the case of the diet, because I love control. I like knowing that by the end of the day I have consumed 1000 calories and burned off 800 at the gym. According to this website, I burn about 3000 calories a day just by being myself. That’s a net calorie loss of 2800 calories a day. That number is so big it gives me a boner.
…
Ok, I’m getting a little excited here. Let’s just talk about something else before I start masturbating here at my desk.
…
Actually, no – one last thing because I think it might be useful to others.
I drink at least 2.5 liters of water and poop about twice per day. All told, I go to the bathroom 7 to 9 times a day.
Three weeks ago I came up with an idea. Instead of using the bathroom on my floor, every time I had to pee or poop I’d use the bathroom three floors above me or three floors below, taking the stairs back and forth. In this way, I’d be climbing stairs when I didn’t have to, and by doing it in small intervals, I wouldn’t feel too stressed or sweaty but it would accumulate into something larger by the end of the day.
So I started doing it and keeping track of how many times I went to the can, multiplying the number of trips by the floors walked to get a final number. On my first day, I went 8 times, walking up (or down and back) three flights of stairs each day. So by the end of that day, I’d climbed the equivalent of 24 story building. Not something I’d do in a normal day.
Two weeks ago, I went from three flights to four. This week, it’s up to five. Yesterday, I went to the bathroom nine times, meaning I walked up 45 flights of stairs in a day. Not a bad way to get secret, easy exercise in. However, I don’t think I’ll increase it to six floors next week, because I’m pushing it at five; I’d really rather not shit or piss myself at work, which has come dangerously close to happening.
My significant anger issues
One thing that I hadn’t realized about the gym is that it’s totally ok to go there and be a) sweaty and b) really, really pissed off. The sweat is great for me, since by the time I get to the gym I look like I’ve been swimming with my shirt on again. But the anger is even better.
I’m learning that I may have some anger issues. I know, I know – by day and on here, I’m mostly a mild-mannered chubby kid who jokes about his little penis. But at the gym, I become a fucking maniac.
I’ve never before in my life done anything physically taxing for an extended period of time. While I played Little League growing up, that was more about drinking soda and talking about masturbating than exercise. So for the first time in my life, I’m pushing my body. The result is that all this testosterone is suddenly appearing. And at the gym, I become a spitting, cursing, crazy person, running on the treadmill (yes, actually running), sweating pouring down my face, screaming at myself, "You pussy! C’mon fat chops – let’s get a move on! You think the girl on the treadmill next to you would ever fuck a guy with titties like yours! Faster! Run like it’ll make your dick bigger, cockass! ARRRGGHH!"
After the gym, I return to my normal mild-mannered self. I heat up my Lean Cuisine dinner and watch the BBC World News, which I tivo every night for this reason. Then I’ll have a glass of wine or a Manhattan and either read (I’ve read like six books in the past six or seven weeks – thanks again for all the recommendations) or sit at the computer to type. Then a quick shower and a Xanax and I’m under the covers, strangling my penis, an old pair of boxers in my left hand to receive my "not this time" children. Just a simple man. Content. Happy. But sometimes crazy.
My taste for booze and intoxication
Probably what I’ve written most about the diet is it’s most unintended consequence: I have been getting seriously fucked up lately. I don’t need to get too into this because you’ve already heard about it, but when you eat little and work out a lot, you tolerance decreases dramatically. This is like freshman (well, sophomore for me) year of college drunk. And sure, maybe it has something to do with me drinking whiskey instead of beer before I go out nowadays, but the fact is that these last few week’s have been awesome, thanks mostly to my diet and the booze.
My stubbornness
My worst and best quality is that I am astonishingly stubborn. It either makes me a horrible person or a driven man. I can do anything you tell me I can’t do. I’m a world beater. I just don’t lose. I was on food stamps as a kid, got scholarships to every school I attended, and last year walked out of a meeting in which I made more money in 45 minutes than both of my parents make in a year combined (you know, if I ever actually see that money).
I know I sound like a total dick with a huge ego, but you have to remember – Larry Awesome does NOT fuck around (and he is a total dick with a huge ego). So when I announced this diet to my friends, I was almost glad that it was greeted with universal skepticism, even by my most sensitive and sincere friends. Larry Awesome then went into overdrive mode and has pretty much taken over the show, especially since after I was finished whining about my birthday. It’s been all Larry, all the time. And it scares me a little.
But Larry gets results. The doubt has been a prime motivator throughout this process and will continue to be. It’s a good thing my friends are unencouraging assholes.
[And don't worry, I'm going to share the wealth. Not with you guys, of course, but I already know exactly what I'm getting my mom and dad once that money comes through. For my dad, it's an all-expenses paid trip to Richmond, Virginia to the Phillip Morris factory, so he can actually see his beloved Reds being made. For my mom, I'm going to hire an actress to impersonate her. Then, this actress will go into her second job when she's scheduled to work - I will keep her out by distracting her - and the actress will fuck everything up and get "her" fired. This is the only way I think I can stop my mom from working 70 hours a week.]
**********
Since I committed to 60 days, I will continue to 60 days. I hope that by the end I’ll have lost between 25 and 30 pounds, which is reasonable (although this weekend will be tough because I have dinners on Saturday and Sunday nights, the Saturday one being a FREE dinner at a fancy steak place which will be followed by FREE drinks, so I may gain the whole 20 back just in that night).
But there is one thing I have not yet received: compliments or recognition. It’s not that I’m seeking them out and I’m not fishing for them here (from friends who read the site), but I’m being honest when I say that I really can’t tell too much of difference when I look at myself. I’m still fat and hairy. My clothes are a little looser, but I’m still a monstrosity when I’m naked. I feel better and have more energy, but I still can’t masturbate completely nude, as my body turns me off. So while numerically I’m making progress, it hasn’t made an effect on my appearance. No one has ever said, "Dude, you look different." It’s been more like me saying, "Dude, I’ve lost 16 pounds" and a friend saying, "Yeah, well, you’re still fat." And they’re right.
The good news is that I really don’t care. The ultimate goal of this diet was to get in better shape, which, presumably, would lead to more opportunities for carousal with the opposite sex. And while these opportunities have yet to present themselves, I am able to sustain the vigor for my new lifestyle because of the shrinking number on the scale and such encouraging signs as actually being able to run on the treadmill now (when when I had started the diet, the most exercise I could do was a slow, up-hill walk).
So we (Larry and I, mostly Larry) will continue onward and upward with the diet. I won’t be charting progress as much anymore, since I’ve hit my goal and I’m sure only about 1/3 of the people who started reading this post are still reading it. But hey, I warned you right away. And I was right – at least it’s long. So if you’re reading, at least you’ve killed ten minutes, right?
But now we’re done. Since it’s Friday and I don’t diet on Fridays, I have to get to the cafeteria before they run out of Sloppy Joe’s. Have a good weekend.
On Sunday while in LA, I got a call from my old college roommate Tom, who was in Italy. Tom is very, very dear to me, mostly because he is (or was) an incredible drunk. I won’t get into his stories here (since he might want to write a book about them later), but we rather unoriginally called him Jekyll and Hyde. He’s the only person I’ve ever known in my life whose demeanor, facial expressions, and body language would change after each drink, charting his descent into alcoholic madness. It was incredible. In college, after his first drink, we’d say, "Uh oh – Hyde just left his apartment." The second would find Hyde on the T, the fourth and Hyde would be on campus. By the sixth, Hyde would be in the elevator of our dorm and shortly thereafter Tom would be half-naked throwing towels in the oven. Tremendous, tremendous stuff.
I tried to catch up with Tom before he went to Italy with his family, but was unable to. Still, I was surprised that he’d call from Italy to shoot the shit. But he didn’t want to shoot the shit. He had a favor to ask.
Tom explained that the girl he is seeing, Christine, would be in NYC for a week. Tom had mentioned her before in an email, but I really wasn’t paying attention. Tom asked if I wouldn’t mind showing her around.
My first reaction? Crap.
I love women. Love them more than anything really. Even the gross ones are beautiful in some way. Supposedly.
But the prospect of one-on-one time with a woman I’ve never met – never even spoken to or emailed – is a little scary to me. I have a lot of female friends (or had, until I alienated all of them by trying to make out with them), but again, I had no idea about who Christine was. What if she was crazy? What if she was high maintenance? What if she took offense to me staring at her lustily all night? So many what if’s.
Of course, I couldn’t say no, so I agreed. While Tom was saying that she’s a great girl, I was already thinking about breaking out the ol’ date skills. I thought that maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all. It’d be like a free lesson in dating, just in case I ever again have to spend time with a woman not in a loud bar or on an airplane or in line at the free clinic.
Yesterday, I rushed through the sea of sweaty people after work and went back to my apartment to shower, change, and get ready. By that point, I had already spoken to Christine a few times to both arrange our hanging out and to answer her questions about NYC and she seemed to be a very nice girl. I decided that we’d have dinner at Sea, which is where I take every person who comes to NYC. If you have not already eaten at Sea, stop whatever you’re doing and go there now. Order the tup-tim fritters and chicken pad thai. Eat them. And once you are down cleaning up the shit that has come out of your body due to the extreme goodness of this Thai food, please call me to thank me. My number is 646.388.9280.
I met Christine and right away my fears were allayed. She was not needy, crazy or handicapped in any way. She was actually quite normal and cheerful and there were no lulls in the conversation. As an added bonus, she’s in grad school studying to be a marriage therapist, particularly a sex therapist (or something). Though I was hoping to maintain my perfect gentleman facade, when she first mentioned this, I realized it was only a matter of time before I’d have too much to drink and ask her questions like, "Why don’t women like me? Is it because I steal from them when they’re sleeping? And by ’steal’ I mean ‘touch’ and by ’sleeping’ I mean ‘on the subway.’" and "Right now, my approach to sex is: 1) Start making out; 2) Count to 100; 3) Stick it in. Is this bad?"
After Sea, Christine and I went to d.b.a. which is a favorite nice weather haunt of mine for its outdoor backyard. Of course, since the heat index was still over 100, even at 9pm, we decided to stay instead. Also, d.b.a. has a ton of whiskey, although I haven’t been really drinking whiskey in public (it’s more of a private thing, you know?).
Christine and I sat there for an hour or so, shooting the breeze. She asked me all sorts of things about Tom, and all I could think about was, "Dude, don’t say anything that’s going to get him in trouble." Tom is a rare breed. While he takes Japanese and ballroom dancing lessons, he once wasn’t allowed on a plane because he was so drunk and one night in college I watched him pick up a passed out girl’s vomit and throw it around a stranger’s apartment. I emphasized the first two attributes and was mostly silent about the last two.
After a short stint at Beauty Bar where we met up with my friends Mark and Matt and their friends and later my buddy Jeremy, we walked across the street to the King’s Head Tavern. Then things started getting weird.
First, by this point, all of us were pretty drunk. And by this point, like I had thought, the perfect gentleman façade was dropped, especially when my friends learned that Christine was studying to become a sex therapist. We spent the rest of the night peppering her with questions about weird things that girls we did did, which she answered in turn.
Second, the bar was empty except for us and four musclehead dudes playing beer pong right across from us. But they had that musclehead look that says, “I work on my triceps for my boyfriend.” Since my friend Jeremy and I are bigots, we immediately started calling them funboys (behind their backs, of course – they might have liked men, but their muscles were still pretty big).
We continued drinking and all niceties were dropped. Soon we were discussing The Shocker (“two in the goo, one in the poo” has replaced “two in the stink, one in the pink” when it comes to Shocker slogans) and at one point I demanded that everyone proclaim me King of the Virgins. [One of the things I’m most proud of is that I have many more v-cards than any of my friends, but that’s because I was basically genitally-engineered by the Lord himself to take virginities. After all, you have to start with training wheels before you hop on the Harley. And hey, it can only get better from that point on. Meanwhile, is there any fate worse than having to walk the earth your entire life knowing/admitting/saying “Jason Mulgrew is the first guy I had sex with.” I mean, wow. I’m kinda tearing up just thinking about it.]
The Funboys were getting a little looser too, carrying on and partying and getting touchy-feely. But I have to stress that they weren’t flamingly homosexual; it’s not like they were speaking in lisps and talking about Cher. They were just a couple of party boys in tight shirts getting loose. (By the way, I love gay people. I have many gay friends. I promise.) Jeremy soon left, leaving the four of us. It was a mistake on his part.
Christine and I were sitting with our backs against the wall, facing the four guys playing beer pong. Matt and Mark were sitting opposite us with our backs to them. Suddenly, when Matt was talking about a crazy Philippino girl he was dating, I looked over his shoulder to see two of the guys kissing each other.
Well.
Again, I hope this doesn’t sound homophobic, but you have to understand the circumstances. It’s an empty bar. Four guys are playing beer pong. My friends and I are sitting not six feet anyway from them. I look up and two of them are going at it.
I grabbed Christine’s knee to as if to say, “OHMIGOD TWO DUDES ARE MAKING OUT OVER THERE LOOK RIGHT NOW BUT BE COOL DON’T MAKE IT OBVIOUS” After the initial surprise wore off, I watched (maybe a little lustily) and figured it out their game.
Their rules of beer pong were slightly different from the ones I played in college. The way I remember playing is that when I hit a cup, the opposing team had to pull that cup off the table and drink it. These guys added another level: after a cup was hit, it had to be pulled off the table and drank. Then the guy whose cup was hit had to kiss the guy who threw the ball.
Ladies and gentlemen, Gay Beer Pong (or Gay Beirut, if you prefer).
So I sat there watching this game play out and watching these dudes make out, fascinated, fixated, and maybe even a little turned on. I mean, every time they hit a cup they leave their ends of the table, walk to the middle, and make out. Like, for a while. All four of them – it didn’t matter who. Fascinating.
[Again, I’m concerned about sounding like a homophobe because I’m a big deal in the gay community, but c’mon – this was my first game of Gay Beer Pong.]
[As for Matt and Mark, they were aware of what was going on, but they couldn’t exactly turn around in their seats to watch the dudes make out. I mean, I would have, but they were raised right, I guess.]
Anyway, the night ended anti-climactically (for me at least, maybe not those guys), as we decided to part ways after 1am. When I got home I was starving and sweating. So I stripped down to my boxers and sat in front of the air conditioner in my living room eating salsa with my fingers (Tostito’s were not available and would be too fatty anyway). Aren’t you glad I’m not the first person you’ve had sex with?
So what have we learned?
- I’m a nice guy to women I don’t know
- Sex therapists make interesting conversationalists
- My friends are degenerates
- Gay Beer Pong is real, very real
- Salsa is even more delicious sans shirt and with hands
Yup, pretty typical Wednesday night.
I’ve been very busy at work and socially the past few days. Maybe later, maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow, but I promise I’ll take care of you. Trust me.
If you’re really as bored as you say you are, you can work on my Wikipedia entry recently pointed out to me by Lisa in Philly and my old roommate Ben in Seattle. And no, I didn’t create it. More or less.
(No seriously, I didn’t create it.)
But lay off me. You’ll get something soon. Promise.
Love,
Larry A.
Whenever I go to the airport, I always call work to order a car the day or night before my flight. I don’t charge this to clients or anything and pay for it out of my personal account – it just beats trying to flag down a taxi with my luggage. I call the taxi desk at work, give them my employee ID number, and I’m done. For a few dollars more than a yellow cab, I have a nice luxury sedan pick me up at my door and drive me to JFK or LaGuardia in comfort and style. Because that’s how Larry Awesome rolls.
On Friday night, in preparation for my Saturday flight to Los Angeles (leaving at the reasonable time of 12:25pm), I called the work taxi desk to order my car. But it did not go as smoothly as it normally does. When the operator asked me for my employee ID number, I responded “Um…err…†Despite the fact that my employee ID number is one of four numbers that I know by heart (the others being my phone number, my social security number, and the number of women I’ve slept with – though the last is a little fuzzy, since once you hit triple digits it gets blurry), I was too fucking drunk to remember it. I had been hitting the whiskey pretty hard that evening, and when asked for the number, I completely fucking blanked.
So I did what any reasonable person would do in that situation – I panicked and abruptly hung up on the operator. Then, quick goat thinking, I wrote down the number, fixed myself a drink, called the taxi desk back, blamed our “disconnection†on bad cell phone service, and properly ordered the car. By the way, this was at around 9pm, three hours before I even left my apartment to go out.
This is not what you want to be doing the night before a six hour flight and a very important weekend. But sometimes, well, fuck it.
***
My plan for Friday night was to be in bed by midnight. I’ve documented on here that I don’t fly well. Therefore, I had very little interest in sitting on a plane for six hours for a massive hangover.
But then I started drinking that damn whiskey again.
When the lights came on at the bar at 4am, I was bombed and hadn’t yet packed. My friends Brian and Brendan spent the night trying to convince me to fly to LA with only the clothes I was wearing. While rolling up to the ticket check-in with no luggage or carry-ons or even a plastic bag was certainly appealing, I couldn’t bring myself to pull the trigger. So when I woke up 30 minutes after I was supposed to on Saturday morning (with a brain hemorrhage as well), I threw a bunch of shit in a bag and was off to LA.
Of course, when I arrived at the airport, I learned my flight was delayed 45 minutes. And of course, this only made my hangover worse. I immediately doubled up on the Xanax to ensure that I would sleep through the flight and eventually boarded the plane.
But again, more bad luck. Sometimes, no matter how drugged up I am on a flight, I can’t sleep. No matter how tired or hungover I am, I’ll sit in my too small seat, squirming this way and that, feel groggy and miserable and unable to do a damn thing about it.
Of course (again), this flight was exactly like that. Despite that I was on the aisle and the middle seat was unoccupied, and despite that I was exhausted and in desperate need of sleep, I was unable to fall asleep. And I spent a fitful six hours on a plane, absolutely fucking miserable.
My impromptu LA trip was not going well.
The day before, I had agreed to meet some LA people for drinks at 6pm on Saturday evening. Then I got shithoused on Friday night and had a horrible (and delayed) flight. So I pulled out of the drinks, citing severe ill health. I needed to get to the hotel so crash for a few hours. My friends, God bless ‘em, were understanding.
As I had plans to go out on Saturday night with some other friends, I was convinced that if I took a nap at the hotel I could turn the night around. After all, I had nothing to do now except sleep, several hours to do so (and eat and shower). Plenty of leisure time to relax.
But again – I couldn’t. I tossed and turned in the hotel bed, sweating the Xanax out of my body, trying harder than I’ve ever tried before to JUST FUCKING FALL ASLEEP. I was driving myself crazy. The hangover, the little sleep, the shitty flight, and now this. Throughout my whole horrible experience, I looked forward to the hotel, and the time when I could blast the AC, crawl under the covers, order the all-day porn-pass, and after roughing up the suspect, take a nice, long nap, falling asleep to the blissful sounds of a woman asking to have her face ejaculated upon. And now that this wasn’t happening, I was upset.
But then, Divine Providence, in the form of Taco Bell, wine, and Red Bull, stepped in and made everything right.
After tossing and turning, I hopped out of bed and decided to gather some supplies for the evening. The plan was to meet my friend Allan and some friends at a bar/restaurant called El Carmen for a birthday party. I spoke to Allan and knew I had a few hours to kill. Sleeping wasn’t working, so I decided to fall back on my other two favorite hobbies: drinking and eating. My first stop was at Taco Bell. Since I’m still on this fucking diet, I haven’t been able to enjoy Taco Bell very much recently. But I took a three-day LA hiatus from the diet and went with my standard order: two beef burrito supremes and two soft taco supremes (all with no tomatoes). I threw in one of those crunchwrap supremes for good measure. It was going to be a good night.Next, in keeping with the “two†theme, I stopped at the supermarket and got two bottles of wine and two cans of Red Bull. It was going to be a very good night.
The next three hours I can only describe as a Bacchanalian feast the likes of which (I’m certain) that hotel room had never seen before. Between the sour cream, caffeine, booze, and masturbating, it was a one-man orgy: drinking, eating, and fucking (myself). No longer will I fantasize about Miss America contestants or remember steamy sex with ex’s when I masturbate. I will think only of those three glorious hours.
(Is anyone else grossed out by my comfortable use of “steamy sex with ex’s?†I mean, ewww.)
By now, the night had completely turned around and I was ready to go. (Pretty much) Drunk and full of caffeine and Taco Bell, I headed to the bar to meet Allan and friends.
Well.
…
Let’s just say that I do much better in LA than I do in New York, as the women there are much more receptive to what I have to offer. Let’s do some comparisons, shall we?
In Los Angeles, saying “I have a development deal†to a woman is equivalent to saying “I have a ten inch penis, I love kids and my mom, and I donate half of my income – which is substantial – to help orphaned children with AIDS in Africa. I also spend most of my springs in Africa, killing lions who threaten the AIDS orphans, with my bare hands. Actually, my hands are not bare, but rather wrapped in soft and fluffy pillows. Otherwise, it just wouldn’t be fair to the lions.â€
Saying “I have a development deal†to a woman in NYC does not work nearly as well. When I mention the deal to women in NYC, the response I get is usually, “You have an onion ring in your beard. Or maybe it’s funnel cake. I can’t tell – it’s really mashed in there. Is that your balls that I smell and did you throw up on yourself?â€
In LA, the “I have a deal†line gets something like, “Do you want to see my tits now or later? I know a nice alley close by. Can I buy you a drink? Maybe rub your dick a little? Wanna see me make out with my friend?â€
Why, again, do I not live in LA right now? I am unstoppable out there. Absolutely unstoppable. I thank my LA friends for this, who introduce me to new people by saying, “This is my friend Jason – he is a very talented writer†and then mention the TV show and book. Again by comparison, my New York friends almost never introduce me to new people, and when they do it’s more like, “This is Justin or something. He pays people to watch them jerk off. Also, he’s got the hairiest back I’ve ever seen. He’s like a gorilla, but without all the strength and strange eroticism. Hey, do you have any drugs? I’ve done so much cocaine my dick is buzzing.â€
[But I can’t get too full of myself. Out in LA I met a girl who works at People, a friend of a friend, and when the friend told her that I was in the “Bachelors†issue last year, she said, “Oh, I remember you.†Then I did my standard joke whenever the People thing is brought up, which is to say, “Yeah, well, 2005 was a slow year for bachelors.†Usually the girl laughs at this. This girl didn’t. Instead, she got pensive and said, “Yeah, I was in that meeting and we really didn’t have much.†Ouch baby. Very ouch.]
At the bar, I saw a girl that I went to college with, an attractive Eastern European broad. However I didn’t say hello, even though we made eye contact and we both know each other. Our relationship soured in my junior year when she learned that I wrote (and was frequently performing in post-bar jam sessions in my apartment) a song called, “Elena, I Want Your Slovakian P-ssy.†I personally did not want her Slavic special place, but a buddy of mine did. Generous guy that I am, I wrote the song for him (I was kinda like the Kris Kristofferson of the Boston College class of 2001 – and no, I’m not entirely sure what that means). It was only a small hit though, not nearly approaching the popularity of my other hits “Monkey Man,†“Eviction,†“Masturbation,†“Fucked Up for the Weekend,†and my last hit, “It’s Not My Fault I Like to Drink (It’s Not My Fault I Like to Puke Some),†all of which were co-written with my old college roommate Dan. God I fucking miss college. At any rate, I did not feel like this was the appropriate time for me to try to mend our fences, what with me now reeking of tequila and self-importance and her with some guy in his late-30’s who looked like he owned a Hummer (and possibly several other cars) and had an STD.
At the end of the evening, my friends invited me to an after-party in one of the Canyons or something, but I had to decline. Not just because there was mention of a jacuzzi at this place and I did not want to stand awkwardly in the corner while the dozen or so girls and guys I was with were having half-naked fun, but also because I reminded them that I actually had an important meeting the next day that I could not be (too) hungover for. Well, mostly it was the awkwardness of the Jacuzzi that kept me away and not so much the meeting. Whatever.
The bar was about a fifteen minute walk from my hotel. I turned down a ride and instead chose to walk, taking advantage of the gorgeous Southern California night. If I were sober, I would have enjoyed it more, but instead I sang Hall and Oates’ “I Can’t Go For That†to myself as I zig-zagged down the street, text messaging nearly every girl in my phone book, writing either only “hi!†or “.†hoping to illicit a response (the period worked much better than the “hi!â€, which was generally ignored). Though no one responded that night (since all but maybe three or four of the text messages went to people on the East Coast), I did have a dozen responses the next morning, which required me to apologize for my weird behavior.
I woke up without too much of a hangover, got a grand tour of LA from a friend, and had my meeting, which was excellent and left me convinced that I’m going to make bundles of money (read: I will be eaten alive). An excellent day. The following day after a leisurely brunch I made my way back to NYC, just in time for the 115° heat index.
On the flight home, I watched “V for Vendetta†(sweet movie) and wondered why I don’t live in LA. The weather is great, the people are nice, and I’m pretty sure that I could probably get laid out there, maybe even on a consistent basis, maybe even by a woman who’s not sleeping with me just so she can buy formula for her baby. So what’s the hold up? What’s keeping me in NYC? I have a good job here, but we have an LA office. I have some friends here, but many have moved away. And I have no girlfriend keeping me here, only certain “women†that I have cybersex with (and that chick with the kid). So why don’t I just move to LA?
But then on the cab ride home from JFK, I looked at the skyline of New York City and was nearly moved to tears by its beauty. And I realized I how much I love it here. For better or worse, I am a New Yorker. For all its faults – the high rent, the millions of tourists, the B&T trash from Jersey and Long Island, the alarming rate of HPV, the oppressive summers and frigid winters, the lack of fake breasts, my Chinese neighbors who sell live fish on my street all summer long, the fact that I’ll never have a car or a yard as long as I’m here – this is my home.
And then in a perfect New York moment, the cabbie, in his soft Haitian accent, said, “Hey, hey – fattie, fattie†and angled the rearview mirror slightly, just enough to give me a view of his exposed penis, which he was wiggling in his hand. I smiled, nodded, and gave him $7. And I knew it was true: I loved New York more than ever.
It was good to be home.