I have stated several times, both on here and to anyone who will listen to me in line at the free clinic, that I am a true joy at weddings.  Really, I’m the total package: I dress well (save for my buddy Mike’s wedding two years ago when I wore three types of stripes), look stunningly handsome in a suit, am a good conversationalist, get very drunk but not so drunk that I’m offering handjobs to the groom’s cousins in the bathroom for $6 a pop, impress everyone at the table with my wide range of racist jokes (I can do five minutes each on blacks, Asians, Latins, Jews – even Pacific Islanders), and of course, move pretty well on the dance floor for a big man.  Truly, if there is one thing in life that I excel at, it’s making women cry just after sex.  If there are two things in life that I excel at, it’s making women cry just after sex and masturbating in the morning before work.  But being a great wedding date is probably in the top ten. 

(Probably.)

I was especially looking forward to the wedding of this past weekend for several reasons.  First and foremost because I am good friends with the bride and groom, Lisa and Greg, having gone to high school with Greg and having hung out with both Lisa and Greg many, many times over the years in NYC.  So I was happy to be a witness to their love.  Second, many of my friends were going – two full tables worth of drunks and rabble rousers, many of whom I’ve know since high school.  And third because the wedding was close.  The ceremony took place at the church at Fordham University (where the couple met and went to school) and the reception and hotel were nearby in Long Island.  No flights, no potential travel delays, no big fuss.  I like that.

Because I’m 27 and I think it’s a little strange to go alone to a wedding – even though I’m single and ready to mingle, ladies – I told Greg that I’d be bringing a date (also, everyone else was bringing a date and I didn’t want to be the only lonely one).  For this cause, I enlisted my friend Meg, who I convinced to attend the wedding with me through a series of bribes.  Fortunately Meg, who I’ve known for many years, took pity on me and agreed.  This made me happy, because Meg is also (on paper) a pretty good date: she’s attractive, has her JD from an Ivy League school, and is also a tremendous boozer who is possibly addicted to NyQuil. 

[A quick story to give you an idea of Meg's boozeliciousness: Years ago, she and I were legal assistants at the same firm, the one at which we both now work (she as a lawyer, me as whatever the hell it is I am).  On her last night before leaving the job and going to the law school, she and I decided to have a drinking contest.  So in front of about two dozen of our peers, we went pint for pint.  When it was all over, I won (of course), beating her by TWO pints, despite the fact that she is a girl and I easily had 100 pounds on her.  The final score was something like 19-17.  It was the most terrifying drinking experience of my life, when I realized that I, a drinker of the highest order, might actually get beaten by a girl who I am twice the size of and who when I stand next to her I look as though I might eat her.  Horrifying.  Just horrifying.] 

So after waking up hungover after being up until 4am the previous night, I threw some shit in a bag, got showered and dressed, met up with Meg, and soon we were in a car, heading up toward the Bronx.

It was the start of a long day.

(In a good way.)

Churchy church church, laughy laugh laugh
Called me old-fashioned, but I like it when people get married in a church.  Aside from being pretty (we Irish Catholics like our churches colorful), it makes things feel a lot more…official.  If you’re getting married in a hall it doesn’t feel as big a deal as if there’s a five-foot crucifix staring down on you, you know?

This wedding involved a full mass, which, in my hungover state, was not the best news of the day.  And there was an ever more religious/rigorous twist that was new to me: at one point when the marriage was being blessed, the priest asked everyone to raise their hands in the air (no, he did not add “and wave ’em like you just don’t care”) while he read from the Bible or something.  Fair enough.  So I, like everyone else, complied.  But then he kept reading and blessing.  Reading and blessing.  Reading and blessing.  On and on.  Etc, etc, etc.

I was surprised at how difficult it is to hold your arms in the air for an extended period of time.  I was really, really hurting.  And it wasn’t just me either, which would have been understandable, since I was the only one there that had been out all night the previous night.  Soon my buddies Mark and Dan, who were standing next to me, were making snide remarks about how much their arms were hurting.  And then the three of us nearly lost it, holding back laughter that started with a small chuckle but soon threatened to erupt and alert the whole church.  Tears started coming from my eyes as Meg began hitting me, saying, “Hold it together! Hold it together!” which of course only made it worse.  Things only got better when we lowered our arms and applauded, as the couple was officially married.

But boy that was a good – and dangerous – laugh.  And my arms are still hurting.

Directions…overrated
The wedding was at 2.  The reception started at 7.  We had time to kill after the mass.  So a bunch of us went to the Bronx’s Little Italy and got pastries and sandwiches.  Which was lovely.

After a little over an hour, Meg and I got a ride to the hotel with my friends Bob and Nydia.  They had flown in from Milwaukee and stayed at the hotel the previous night, telling us it was about 40 minutes from the Bronx.  Off we went.

Over two hours later, after seeing more of Long Island than I ever wished to see and saying, “Bob, I swear to God if you don’t find this hotel soon I’m going to throw up/piss myself/shit myself” at least ten times, we finally rolled up to the hotel.  Though we used the directions that were provided us, either they didn’t work or Bob is an idiot (the jury is still out, but I thought Bob followed the directions pretty well). 

My only comfort, all afternoon long, was that there was a nice long break between the wedding and the reception, time that I could use to rest up at the hotel and get over my hangover.  Instead, by the time we got back to the hotel, we had less than an hour before the shuttle buses started leaving for the reception.  Uncle Jason was in much pain at this time.  But…

Sweet suite upgrade
My buddy Mark had booked a room at the hotel weeks prior only to get a call a few days before the wedding saying that they actually didn’t have a room for him.  So when I gave my name at the hotel reception desk and there was a long, drawn-out silence from the employee behind the counter, I was physically preparing myself for a heart attack (“Well, I’ve heard they start slowly, so when I first get that shooting pain down my left arm when she tells me there’s no room I’ll head for that couch over there…”).

Just as I was on the brink of tears, the hotel employee left out a hefty sigh and said one of the finest sentences in the English language: “We’re going to have to upgrade you.”  I immediately got an erection but let out my calmest, “Oh, ok.” 

The hotel room was, simply put, one of the pimpest things I’ve ever seen.  And keep in mind that I’m a bit of a hotel connoisseur – I’ve stayed at some swanky hotels in NYC (the Waldorf Astoria, Soho Grand, and Dream Hotel, to name a few) and always travel in style, because that’s just how Larry Awesome rolls.  But this lovely lil’ hotel in Garden City, Long Island gave me a room with a separate bedroom and living room and a bar area (!), not to mention a bathroom the size of my whole apartment.  Totally fucking awesome. 

Sadly though, I was unable to capitalize on the room, since Meg has about as much romantic interest in me as she does in a glass of tomato juice (can’t say I blame her here).  Now the two smoothest things that have ever befallen me have been while I was with Meg, who has repeatedly stated – three times on the night of the wedding alone – that nothing will ever happen between us, no matter how many hits my blog gets this month.  Such is life.

[The other was a time many years ago when Meg and I went to dinner.  After the meal, I tipped the waiter so well that he came back to our table and said, "Sir, because you have been so generous, I would like to buy you and your lady a drink."  Wow - I felt like Tom Fucking Selleck.  I mean, ladies, can you imagine if that happened when you were on a date with a guy?  Would you not immediately began fellating him or at least maybe start rubbing up on him under the table?  But the bad thing is that since that dinner about four years ago I have been egregiously over-tipping waiters on dates in the hope of recreating that moment.  I've even done so at the same restaurant but never have I and my date been bought back a drink.  So I've been basically throwing hundreds of dollars away in tips since that dinner.  The lesson?  I lose.  Back to the wedding...] 

JFK…
I spent all night - in the hotel lobby, in the shuttle bus, at the cocktail hour, in the reception hall, at the hotel bar - telling everyone within earshot that I looked like a young JFK.  At first, people laughed me off.  But it got old very quickly to them.  This only made it funnier to me, so I continued to ask everyone who they thought was better-looking: me or JFK.  When they said JFK, I’d say – “Wrong – we look exactly the same!”  This delighted me all evening.  All evening long.  And yes, ladies, again, I am single. 

…GOULET!
[It's a real shame that the only Will Ferrell as Robert Goulet clip they have on YouTube is this one, but I'm hoping that most of you people are familiar with the skit.  If not, you might not get this next part of the post.  Sorry.]

[And for those tech-savvy people out there, let's get more Goulet clips up.  Specifically, "Red Ships of Spain" is one of the funniest skits I've ever seen on SNL.  Please help.]

The bride’s sister is a tremendously gifted singer who sang throughout the mass and blew the fucking doors off the church.  She really has a great set of pipes on her and I thought it was a nice touch to the wedding.

At the cocktail hour, the sister and her, um, boyfriend, also a tremendous singer, sang a little song to the bride and groom.  It was an original piece, written about Greg and Lisa (how they met, welcome to the family, etc) and was even accompanied by the piano.  The sister and her (cough!) boyfriend sang it to Greg and Lisa in the reception room in front of all the guests.

And maybe because my friends and I think it’s uncomfortable to watch another man sing show tune-style to anyone, let alone another man, well, maybe my friends and I made jokes all night long that perhaps, maybe, called into question the sexual orientation of the gentleman.  And perhaps we did this by acting like Will Ferrell’s impression of Robert Goulet, singing lines like, “I kissed a maaaaaan in the parking lot two days ago/I believe he was from Afffffffrica!” and “I can never help myselfffff/When a penis is arooooound/I enjoy it like a donkeeeey enjoys the summer breeeeeeze!” and “After the wedddding/I’m meeting a man from the internnnnnet/I hope he has a beard/Nothing like the feeeel of hair on face – haaaaair on faaaaace!” You get the idea.

[I actually have no idea if it was her boyfriend or just a friend.  And I realize that both Greg and Lisa may never talk to me again because of this.  But I'm not saying it happened.  It might have, it might not have.  I was very drunk and preoccupied with looking like JFK.]

Dancing not so much like a machine
I like to dance at weddings - I really do.  The only wedding I did not dance at recently was my buddy Steve’s in June, and that’s because as best man I was dressed like Don Johnson and wearing sandals that I had trouble walking in, let alone dancing in (and yes, I realize how much that statement makes me sound like a woman – screw you for judging me).

But in order to dance, I, like most everyone else, need to get drunk first.  A few beers makes you better just about anything – sex, darts, being able to shit in bar bathrooms, etc.  Dancing is no exception.  There’s no way I can get up and dance sober, when I can still hear people whispering, “Wow – that guy is really sweaty” and “Honey, he’s the guy I told you about – the one who made the bet on the shuttle about sticking his whole hand in his ass.”

From the moment that Meg and I sat down at the table, she started pestering me about dancing (“When are we going to start dancing?”, “Are you ready to start dancing?”, “Stop hiding in the bathroom and let’s dance”, “Please stop telling everyone that we’re dating”, etc).  This constant barrage of questions did not make me want to dance.  In fact, quite the opposite.  Being asked when you’re going to start dancing is much like being asked when you’re going to have an orgasm during sex – it tenses you up, takes you out of the game, and quite possibly ruins the whole experience. 

[Seriously ladies - I know that guys should never ask a woman about when she's about to have an orgasm, and not just because the whole "women having orgasms" thing is more than likely a myth anyway, but it works both ways.  While I respect any lady's effort to porn it up a bit and ask about my forthcoming ejaculation, sometimes Uncle Jason has had a little too much to drink and is just trying to bring it on home so that you and him can both finally go to bed.  So ask, but do so in moderation and don't keep bringing it up (no pun intended).  Or else it'll all go away and then there's me, angrily eating a sandwich half-drunk at 5:30am, watching "Sportscenter" and throwing empty beer cans at my useless, flaccid penis.  Not a good look for me.] 

[...]

[Not really sure how I can segue back into the post after that non-sequiter, but let's just try.]

So the night became a battle of wills between Meg and I: her pestering me about dancing, me not dancing.  However, weak as I am, I finally gave in in the last hour (maybe even the last half hour) and headed out to the dance floor, where I looked like 200 pounds of sex in a suit (read: a 200 pound bag of cement being shot by a bb gun).  And yes, Meg and I were the only people drinking on the dancefloor, further raising our class level.  But no matter.  The lesson here: when filled with alcohol and badgered by the pleas of a woman, I am useless.  If Meg had bothered me enough, I probably would have started a fire in the hotel’s business center after drinking that much. 

[By the way, I'm listening to Mel Torme right now.  Are there any 27 year-olds out there who enjoy The Velvet Fog's rendition of "The Midnight Sun" as much as I do or should I just retire to The Catskills already?]

Drinking hogs
The night ended like so many of my nights have ended recently: at a hotel bar in Long Island buying all the Miller Lites I could afford before the bartender closed down shop.  At the end of the evening if one looked around our table, he or she would have seen ten people forcing down the last sips of their beers, while Meg and I hoarded four full beers each in front of us, gloriously dripping with perspiration.  Eventually, we were guilted into giving some away.  And then I fell asleep at the table.  Actually, I’m not sure which happened first.  Whatever.

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

And so that was the wedding.  A lovely time with good food (by the way, the food was delicious), lots of booze, and great friends - a perfect evening.  It’s getting to the point where I love weddings so much that I might have to have one for myself just to fill the void in my heart when I don’t attend any for some time.  So you ladies keep working out, looking good, and sending those pictures in, and I’ll keep not going to the gym and eating lots of baked ziti.  Because we’ll have to learn early on that marriage is not 50/50.  I mean, c’mon.  Only suckers actually believe that.

I put up the TO post about ten minutes ago and I’ve already gotten four calls from my friends calling me a "pig" and asking me "what kind of person [am I]?"

So in order to stop the deluge of emails that would inevitably follow after I wished death upon TO, I suppose that I don’t want him to die (and by the way, I never said I did).  But I hate him as much as I hate any other living human being, so I wish him maximum harm.  But I’m [said through clenched teeth] not happy that he tried to kill himself.  Suicide and death are very real and very not cool.  I’m happy that he’s alive and didn’t succeed in his suicide attempt.    

Ok?  Are we all clear on this?  I’ll get you a nice, non-vindictive post by the end of the day (barring catastrophe).   

Since I’m going to hell anyway, I’m not ashamed to say that this makes me kinda happy.  Remember, hell hath no fury like a Philly fan scorned.  You think it was bad when we booed Santa and cheered when Michael Irvin went down with a possibly severe spinal injury?  Just wait.

Anyone wanna join me at the game on October 8 game at the Linc with the "You should have finished the job!" signs?  Just like the J.D. Drew/batteries incident, I’ll bring enough Oxycontin for 20,000 people to throw on the field.

(And I’m sure I can think of much more clever signs, but that will have to do for now.)

I can’t wait for the hours and hours of coverage on this.  Later, real sports news. 

(Wow – I really am going to hell for this one.  At least I do well in the heat.) 

Posting may be a little light for the next few days, since I’m doing StreetWars and it has become my life.

I’ll get more into this later, but StreetWars is a water gun assassination game.  Basically, you sign up, get a target, and hunt him/her with a water pistol.  After you make your "kill," you get another target.  At the end of three weeks, whoever gets the most kills is winner.  Also, all the while you’re hunting your target, someone is hunting you.

I saw a feature on CNN about this about a year ago and thought it looked cool, so signed up for a reminder when the games came to NYC.  I got my reminder a few weeks and while getting bombed with my friends, mentioned it to them.  Drunk, we thought it was a cool idea and signed up as a team. 

It was only after signing up that we realized that, well, it might be a little lame.  Brian and Jeremy had to go to Long Island City to pick up our "dossier" (our target, her picture, her home address, and her work address) and were treated to a very lame scene: the head guys dressed up like pimps drinking cognac in a back of a rented U-Haul, complete with a "harem" and fake bodyguard (I know – I also had to swallow deeply to hold back my pity vomit).  This thing is run by people who I have very little doubt were very into theatre in high school and routinely got wedgies.  And, upon Jeremy’s estimation after seeing other people present to pick up dossiers, a solid 75% of the people playing in the game are probably virgins, many of whom were in disguise so as not to be seen my their fellow assassins.  Yeah.  So there’s that.

But then the game started Sunday night at midnight (so Monday, I suppose) and I have to say – it’s pretty interesting.  There’s quite an adrenaline rush when you know that someone is, essentially, stalking you.  Also (and I have some experience with this) stalking others is pretty fucking awesome.  My team and I have spent hours discussing our target and how we are planning to assassinate her.  I’ve already spent three hours outside of her place in the past day, waiting for her to come home so that I can shoot her with a water pistol.  Yes, I’m 27 years old.  And yes, this may go from "water gun assassination game" to "sexual assault" very quickly.  Only time will tell, I suppose.

But in the meantime, I’m expending a lot of time and energy on this – like I said, standing outside, on full alert, waiting to shoot someone and also making sure no one shoots you, can really take a lot out of a person.  But fortunately for you, dear readers, I should be dead sometime within the next 48 hours.  I am taking absolutely no special precautions against the person hunting me, believing that if I were to do so it would be the equivalent of letting the terrorists win (also, a simple google search will tell you much more than you need to know about me for this game – not to mention that this post will probably get back to the head guys who will take umbrage with me calling them out as theatre gays and will then "call down the thunder" on me).  For the person hunting me, if you want a piece of me, come get it.  If that’s going to help you feel as good as you did when you got that standing ovation in 11th grade after playing the finest Willy Loman in North Shore High history, then so be it.  At least I’ve had sex in the past month.  Or few months.  Or ever.  Semantics.         

In the meantime, some random Tuesday thoughts which may or may not be discussed in greater detail later:

- I got bombed on Friday (standard Friday night).

- I got bombed on Saturday (wedding).

- I got bombed on Sunday (football game and Irish music).

- I got a little drunk last night, but that wore off because of all the standing and hunting and hoping the target is hot and is so turned on when I assassinate her that she invites me into her room, which is more or less a sex den, and then fellatio occurs for the next 4-5 days.

- My streak of being the best wedding date in the world continues, regardless of what my date to this past weekend’s wedding might tell you.

- San Gennaro is over, praise be to God.

- If Baltimore had covered on Sunday, I would have won $800, which I could really, really use right now.  So thanks Baltimore.  I appreciate that. (I didn’t lose $800, but had to pick 6 games and went 5-1.)

- Watching the Eagles is damn near excruciating.  I understand the value of subbing in a blowout, but they play some shitty second half football.  Where’s the defensive intensity?  I still think they finish 9-7.  Total paper champions.

- If I were a Giants fan, I’d be very, very concerned right now. 

- New Orleans – didn’t I say they could surprise a lot of people?  Sure, I had Miami winning the AFC East and the Lions in the wild card, but let’s not focus on that.  Also, they’re not as good as they’re playing right now. 

- I have not forgotten you, Phillies.  But the prospect of success for any Philadelphia sports team so terrifies me that I’m afraid to mention anything, lest I jinx said success.  So that’s all I’ll say for now.

- The monthly email did not go out yesterday, is not going out today, but will go out this week. 

- I woke up at 6am on Monday morning, because I was stressed about…sausages. 

- I am taking a Xanax at 9pm tonight and plan to sleep for ten hours. 

More later.

His name is Joseph Arthur.  The album is Nuclear Daydream.  Go buy it right now.

Let me give you a little background about ol’ Joe Arthur and I.  My buddy Jeremy works in the music industry.  I have no idea what he does anymore, because he’s had literally five jobs in the five years that I’ve known him.  The benefit of having a friend in the music industry is that many times you hear of musicians before most everyone else does, even before the damned dirty hipsters do.  For example, Jeremy introduced me to Joss Stone was she was 15 and full o’ soul, Jet before they sold every song they wrote to every company that makes commercials, and of course Ray Lamontagne, who I basically made because I pimped him out so much on this site.

In one of his capacities at one of his old jobs, Jeremy worked with or for people who work with or for Joseph Arthur.  Jeremy became a big fan of his and continually pimped him to me, but I resisted.  I did so because I’m a dick; anytime someone raves about something being awesome, I think, "Well, it can’t be that awesome if I’m only hearing about it right now from you."  The more I resisted, the more persistent Jeremy became about Joseph Arthur, exclaiming that of all the artists he’d recommended to me, he thought JA was the one I’d like most.  Of course, this only made me more intent on not listening to his stuff.

And so not listen I did – for many years.  It wasn’t until about a year or so ago that I randomly heard "In Ohio" on my iPod that I thought, "That’s a pretty cool little song."  Long story short, this lead to a journey of Joseph Arthur discovery and now two of his songs are on my top ten most played on my iPod (#5 is "Echo Park" and #8 is "In Ohio").

I don’t have any problem, conscience-wise, with stealing music.  I justify the fact that I illegally download thousands of songs a year with the argument that if I like the song, I will recommend it to thousands of new listeners on this here site, possibly turning them into fans.  So my karma evens out. 

But the biggest negative of stealing songs – as opposed to buying whole albums – is that by not getting a whole album and listening to it in its entirety, one misses out on an experience; not just because you only get a handful of songs, but you miss out on the nuances and delights of listening to an album from start to finish.  

So recently I have been splurging on iTunes.  A recent example of said splurging is the Magnetic Fields 69 Love Songs, which is a three-disc set containing, um, sixty-nine love songs.  I dropped the $30 for the whole album, even though I had already downloaded fifteen or so songs off it for free, because a) I loved those fifteen songs and felt I was missing out on some other gems and b) I admired the ballsiness of the concept – sixty-nine lil’ love songs, most of them pissed off.  It sounded pretty good to me. 

And it turns out it is pretty good.  Great, even.  I’ve been listening to that gargantuan album daily since I downloaded it, always finding new gems.  Inspired by this success, I started buying whole albums off iTunes - to varying degrees of success.  After falling in love with his song "Parties in the USA," I bought an album of Jonathan Richman’s and was on the whole rather disappointed.  Alternatively, even though I had a number of their songs, I bought some sort of best of the Ronettes and it blew my fucking brains out – even though it was a best of and so unnuanced, there were a ton of songs on there that I didn’t hear yet immediately dug and dug a lot.

Back to Joseph Arthur: a few weeks ago, my buddy Jeremy called me and told me that JA’s new album would rock my world.  He had an advanced copy and was listening to it constantly, etc.  Now warm to Joseph Arthur, I made a mental note to pick up the album when it came out.  It came out this week. I got it.  And, well, holy fucking shit.

This may not make such sense, but there are some artists whose music lends itself to "total" listening.  Artists like these typically don’t write songs for radio-friendly play, and thus often produce whole albums of music that is atmospheric, engaging, and, for lack of a better word, deep.  In order to appreciate what they’ve created, they require their albums to be listened to cover to cover, start to finish. 

Joseph Arthur is one such artist.  While there are certain tracks on this album that stand out and could even be considered radio-friendly, the sum of his music is greater than its parts.  Nowhere does this hold true as it does in Nuclear Daydream, an album that, when I listened to it for the first time straight through last night, has kept me erect ever since (this is where I start to lose any grasp of language or writing I have and start writing "It’s awesome" and the like).

Frankly, the album is awesome – the whole fucking thing.  Like I said, some tracks stand out – my two current favorites are the first song, piano-pumping, foot-tapping "Too Much to Hide" and the last song, the heart-breaking title track ("If there’s a plan then tell me/If you know who you are/A princess or a mummy/A flower or a scar") – but it is the general song after song quality that has truly blown me away (I’d tempted to list more examples, but I can’t, since every song fucking works – every one).  I don’t know – I can’t explain it anymore.  You just have to listen to it.

So do yourself a favor and buy this fucking album.  You can listen to it by going to his website (a pop-up will appear and start playing the album, starting with "Too Much to Hide," and you can listen to the whole thing) and can buy it here.  And of course you can find out all sorts of info on his MySpace page.  

I know I sound like a salesman, but I don’t care.  You all know it’s rare for me to dedicate an entire post to music, but people – specifically, you – need to hear this album.  I can’t recommend it any more highly.  The world and your life will be much better because of it.  Trust me on this.        

Now go get it and have a good weekend.  And remember, I love you.  

(Most of you, at least.)  

I just want to go on record, even though it’s old news now, but Brody Ruckus is a hack.  Not a fake, maybe a scam, but definitely a hack.

"Brody Ruckus" is a college student who started a group on Facebook.com, which apparently is like MySpace for those college kids.  Apparently, he and his girlfriend made a bet: if he could get 100,000 people in his group, she’d have a threesome with him.

If this sounds familiar, it’s because it is.  Earlier this year, there was the Help Win This Bet Guy, who bet his girlfriend he could start a website that would get two million hits.  She didn’t believe he could, so a bet was made: if he started a site and got two million hits within a certain timeframe, she’d (that’s right) have a threesome with him.

I got a ton of emails from y’all forwarding the original site, but I was troubled when I got even more emails a few weeks later about another site – with the same premise.  Apparently, someone had started a knock-off of the original Help With This Bet site.  The proprietor of the later site preyed upon the fact that the internet is a wide and wonderful place (and so many had not heard of the original idea) and was even more successful than the original guy, getting two million hits even more quickly.  I called this guy out as a fake here (for the most part).

But recently Brody ripped off this idea and had even more success.  The college kids, for as much as they know about underage drinking and consequence-free hook-ups, are not as internet savvy as old heads like yours truly.  They were blissfully unaware of the original Help Win This Bet guy and his knock-offs and fell head over heels for Brody and his cause.  However, about a week or so ago it appears that Brody was discovered as a hack, Facebook took down his group, and I imagine that he’s now sucking dick for cheeseburgers, his fifteen minutes of fame cut short by a solid nine minutes.

Brody, it was fun while it lasted.  College kids, why don’t we put down the bong and do a little more research before we dedicate our lives to a cause, ok?  Also, STAY IN COLLEGE FOR AS LONG AS YOU CAN.  Because nothing will ever be as good.

(By the way, I started a Facebook account but have no idea how to use it.  The lovely and talented Amanda has already found me on there, but otherwise I just sent friend requests to everyone named Mulgrew – most of whom I don’t know.  So there’s that.)

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

On Monday night for dinner, I had a Ranch 1 chicken sandwich and fries, an entire strawberry shortcake from Dean & DeLuca (carrot cake was sold out), and washed it all down with six cans of PBR.  When I woke up on Tuesday morning, I knew it was time.  I had to weigh myself.

I had not weighed myself since I ended my diet on August 24.  At that point, I tipped the scales at 199.5 pounds, down 33 pounds in just about two months. 

But since then, I’ve gotten sloppy.  A bum knee, illness, and general apathy have kept me out of the gym almost completely since I ended the diet (I’ve been maybe four times in the past three-plus weeks).  Not only that, I’ve been eating and drinking with near abandon.  I’m still a little mindful about food, but I’ve definitely enjoyed a pint of Haagen Dazs or two and have taken part in several food orgies since (on Sunday during football – pizza with sausage, pepperoni, mushrooms; fried calamari; wings; two Chinese babies; etc).  As for drinking, I’ve gone back to beer, since whiskey recently done me wrong.  Long story short, I was drunk off Maker’s Mark and wound up hooking up with my friend’s wife.  Not a good moment.  I mean, at the time – awesome moment.  Totally and completely awesome moment.  Almost immediately after, not so much.

So on Tuesday morning, after my latest orgy, I needed to get on the scale to scare myself back to the gym.  Like I said, my last weigh-in was 199.5 over three weeks ago.  With my recent indiscretions, I was hoping I’d be around 205, but was prepared for up to 210.  Anything over 210 would make me instantly bulimic.  After my shower, I toweled off my gorgeous naked body and gingerly stepped on the scale and…

196.

Confused, I hopped off, restarted the scale, and got on again.

196.

No, 196 couldn’t be right.  Even though I always weighed myself right away showering, I thought something must have been off.  So I brushed my teeth, did my hair, came back to the scale, dropped the towel, and…

196.

One-fucking-ninety-six?  Really?  I couldn’t believe it and almost immediately started crying.  I guess I shouldn’t have been too surprised – even though I’ve been eating more like my old self, my pants were still loose and I was on the same belt loop as when I stopped the diet.  Also, those few times that I have been to the gym over the past few weeks my performance has been electric.  But 196.  Goddamn.

And more good news: I do not have mono.  I went to the doctor’s office on Wednesday morning after a slew of you emailed me saying, "Um, if you have mono and you drink on it, your liver will explode and you’ll die."  I got the results back from the blood test today and I’m mono-free.  Nice. 

Not only that, my doctor did some tests on my blood, including a cholesterol test.  My total cholesterol?  150.  150!  That’s like really fucking healthy!  I think my dad’s cholesterol level is about 313.  By all accounts, mine should be around 250.  But 150?  What the fuck?

But while I’m happy about these new numbers, I’m also a little insulted.  Just as losing the weight represented a challenge, now my body seems to be challenging me again, as if to say, "What?  You think you can fuck me up?  No way, stink ass.  Give it your best shot."  So the night I tipped in at 196 I bought myself a carrot cake.  Today for lunch I had a chicken salad club and a piece of chocolate cream pie.  Tonight, I see a milkshake in my future.  Because we need to do some work on these 196/150 numbers.  Shit just ain’t right. 

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

Seriously, whose dick do I have to suck to get a harmonica neck holder?  All I want is to be able to play my acoustic guitar AND my harmonica at the same time.  To this end, I have tried to purchase a harmonica neck holder at FOUR music shops in Manhattan and TWO in Boston, and none have had them.  I thought NYC was supposed to be the greatest city in the world, but I can’t find a fucking harmonica neck holder at the two largest music stores in Manhattan (nor at two smaller but respected ones nor two in downtown Boston)?

I suppose I could just order one online, but it’s a matter of principle now.  I’ve given my name to employees of the four NYC music stores and they have promised me that they will call me when the thingees come in, but this is crazy.  I can’t believe that I’m the only aspiring folkie-hobo guitarist in Manhattan.  Maybe I should just buy a synthesizer and focus on prog-rock.  These are how the stories of legends begin ("Well, I wanted to become a folk artist, but couldn’t find a neck thing for my harmonica.  But then while looking one day, I heard the most beautiful noise coming from this synth…").   

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

After the wedding this weekend, I’m shaving my beard.  I am doing this out of fear.  Pure, unadulterated fear.

You see, my plan was actually to grow the beard out for the winter.  Not like ZZ Top, but maybe more like Jesus, as opposed to the George Michael-length I’m rocking now.  But since I’m neither homeless nor a wookie, I can’t simply let the fucking thing grow.  I have to grow it in increments, being sure to trim it so it looks respectable, lest my employer punch me in the face.

Last night I was doing just that when I noticed my one I’ve-had-it-forever gray hair, sticking out just under the right side of my chin.  But upon closer inspection, I found another gray hair nearby.  Then one growing in my ’stache.  Then one on my cheek.  And another on my cheek.  And three (!) on my other cheek.  Gray hairs.  Everywhere.

So in order to stop the tide of grayness, I’m simply shaving the whole thing off.  But I must confess that this idea was also planted in my head by my buddy’s girlfriend, who said I’d look 22 if I shaved my beard.  22 was a very, very good year for me.  So I’m gonna try it out.

And worse comes to worse, it’ll always grow back.  Growing hair rapidly has never been a problem for me, so I’m not too concerned.  However, since I haven’t been clean shaven in a very long time, I’m sure I’m going to cut the shit out of myself.  So I’m looking forward to that.

…

This is gay. 

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

Readers familiar with New England, I need your help.

As of Monday, I was my buddy Joe’s best man and thus responsible for planning his bachelor party.  I say "as of Monday" because after I called him out in Tuesday’s post for being a pussy and not hanging out with the Playmates, he said he is no longer speaking to me.  If he wants to persecute me for calling it like I see it, so be it.  However, I’m a little concerned because I had just convinced Joe that for my best man gift he should pay for the laser removal of my back hair.  I really, really need him to do that.  So I’m sorry, Joe – you’re not a pussy.  If being angry because I wanted you to have dinner with extremely beautiful women makes me a bad friend, then I guess I’m a bad friend.

(Fag.)

At any rate, I’m proceeding as though I am still planning this bachelor party and need some help in this from y’all.  After much deliberation, we have decided that we are going to get a house for a weekend somewhere within two hours of Boston and get completely messed up in this house.  Seems like a good plan.

What I need from you is suggestions on where we can rent this house.  Ideally, we’re looking for a cool little town within two hours of Boston, maybe in New Hampshire or Vermont.  The bachelor party will take place around the end of March.  Just somewhere that has a decent bar scene (or any bar scene) and is cool.  I know, not much to go on, but we’re only starting this now and not even sure ourselves what we want.

If you have any suggestions, email me and put "bachelor party" or something in the subject line.  And as always, thank you for your help.  Because I am too dumb to do this on my own and we’d find up partying at a rest stop on the Mass Pike if I were left to my own devices.     

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

Six Songs

"Doom" Jurassic 5
I swear to God that when this song came on my iPod when I was running at the gym the other day, I broke 70mph.  Seriously, there was a cheetah on the treadmill next to me and everyone gathered around because I was outrunning the cheetah and I didn’t even realize it because I was so into it and the cheetah was sad afterward and then one of the (male, sadly) trainers hit on me.  It was great.  Remember when in the early 90’s the sound of Mary Hart’s voice would give that woman seizures?  Well, the little robotic noise that comes in about 30 seconds into this song doesn’t give me seizures but sends me automatically into overdrive.  If I were having sex with someone when this song came on, I would surely accidentally kill her because of this noise, as I am unable to control my considerable strength and penile ambition when it sounds.  Incredible.  Simply incredible. 

"Crazy Eights"  Tapes n Tapes
I can’t prove this, but I’m pretty sure that everyone who played on this track was either high at the time or thinking about getting high at the time.  That’s just the kind of vibe this song gives off.  Maybe because I put it on when I get high.  Whatever. 

"I’ll Be Your Mirror"  Clem Snide
A tremendous version of the Velvet Underground song that I think is better than Nico’s original version but not as good as the Lou Reed-sung live version on 1969: Velvet Underground Live Vol. 2.  Touching though, and you’d better believe I’ll be playing this to the next lady in my bedroom, lying in my bed, whining and going on and on about "Who’s birth control pills are these?" and the like.  It’ll be a real nice moment.

"Amsterdam"  Peter Bjorn & John
Catchy, but also a little scary.  Maybe not scary, or not even haunting, but a little unsettling.  I’m sure you’re thinking, "That’s the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard in my life,"  but listen to the song and then talk to me.  Who’s right now, bitch?

"Baby, I Love You"  The Ronettes
The Ronettes – really some of the best music I’ve ever heard.  Do yourself a favor and download a handful of their songs or treat yourself to The Best of the Ronettes on iTunes and prepare to be thrilled.  This song is incredible because it’s so simple, so pure ("Have I ever told you/How good it feels to hold you?/It isn’t easy to explain") over Phil Spector’s lavish wall of sound.  Really, really fucking good.  Also, it makes me feel like a school girl because I wish Roni was singing this about me.  God I’m a fucking loser.

"Over Time"  Lucinda Williams
Say hello to the latest entry to three of my very exclusive iPod playlists: "Sad as Fuck," "Whiskey, You Son of a Bitch," and "I Love You Because I’m Drunk."  Really, I just told you all you need to know about this song by the playlists that it is now on.  Moody, sad, drink-inducing.  You know, exactly like me.      

Because I hung out with Site Guy Brendan in Boston two weekends ago and we did more than just throw empty beer cans at each other and make Brendan’s girlfriend even more disappointed in him, I figure it is high time to provide you with a state of the site post.  So indulge me for a moment and let’s talk about all things related to this here website.

1) Projects

i) The book
The book was scheduled for release next April, but it has been pushed back to the fall.  This is a good thing, and not just because now instead of rushing to edit it I can read twenty words a day and call that a good day.  Of course, I want it out as quickly as possible so I can be famous, but I’ll have to wait a few more months.  No big deal.  I like fall better than spring anyway and I’ll be able to guilt y’all into buying multiple copies for Christmas presents.

I’ve mentioned this before, but the book is a memoir, focusing much on my childhood.  Therefore, there will be no overlap of material between the blog and the book.  A lot of bloggers or internet personalities essentially cut and paste from their websites into books.  Not cool, and not the case here.  All new stuff.  So start saving up now. 

Once the book comes out, it will be the real deal, with a publicity/reading tour.  I have not spoken to the publisher about this very much, but I’m guessing I will at least be reading in New York, Boston, Philly, Los Angeles, and Seattle (I pick these cities based solely on the number of emails I get from readers in them), and more than likely reading in DC, Chicago and San Francisco.  If you live in cities other than these, you have just about a year to start making friends in your city so that you can email "my people" a year from now to guarantee a good turn-out should I read in your city.  So get on it.

ii) The show
The TV show is more secret because that’s just the way TV works.  But here’s your (very rudimentary) lesson in how a new TV show happens (and if you’ve seen this portrayed in "Seinfeld," you have an excellent idea of how this works).

A writer will say to his agent, "Hey – I have a good idea for a show" and tell him about it.  An agent will then go around to various executives (at studios, networks, etc) and say, "Hey – my client has a great idea for a show.  Want to hear it?"  Then the writer will go to various meetings and pitch the show: what it’s about, the main characters, what makes it interesting, etc.  If he/she is successful, the studio/network will then pay the writer to write one episode of that show – the first one, or the pilot episode.  Then, the writer has "a deal" with that network/studio.

A network will buy literally dozens of pilot episodes.  The scripts for these pilots will be submitted by the writers to the network just before Christmas.  A few weeks after Christmas, the network will decide which of these pilots to shoot – usually under a dozen.  Those less-than-a-dozen pilots will be casted, filmed, etc over the next few months.  Finally, in May, the networks will decide which of those shot pilots will be picked up to series (usually one or two pilots only).   

Right now, I’m still only writing that first/pilot episode.  It’s been bought by a network and I have "a deal" but that’s all I got right now.  I will of course let you know more about this as the show progresses, but I can’t really talk about it too much, as many of the people involved in the process would rather not be dragged through the mud on here – which is fine with me, because it only means that the tell-all autobiography I write after this is over will only sell more copies because I’ve been so secretive.  See?  Always planning ahead.

2) Readership

There was a time when I would look at traffic for this site and masturbate.  Nothing would get me more aroused than knowing that 50 people clicked on this site between 2pm and 3pm on a Friday afternoon.  But then I got older and more mature and though I still Google myself about once an hour, I haven’t paid much attention to how many hits the site has been getting recently.

(Also, when we switched domains, I couldn’t find the part of the admin database that counted hits, and sort of forgot the whole thing.)

Then I went on my admin page and checked out the numbers for August and was floored.  Even before the lil’ shout-outs in Gawker and Deadspin at the end of the month (which I can’t find right now but am still grateful for), we had broken all previous hit records for a single month.  We (the royal we) have been pretty steady for some time and I thought summer was a slow time, but there were more readers on this site in August than there were when the People thing came out (and September is proving just as strong).

I know that a blogger (hate…that…fucking…word) talking about "hits" is about as appealing as thinking about your parents having sex (well, maybe not that bad), but the point is, y’all are awesome.  Whatever you’re doing as far as spreading the word – passing the site onto your friends, writing about it in messageboards, telling people you’re sleeping with about it – is working, so keep on keepin’ on. 

And most importantly, thank you.  I promise that if I get any measure of real fame I will make you so, so proud of me – and I mean that in the "crashing my car into the Great Wall of China while wearing an American flag speedo and eating a man made of cocaine" way.

3) Emails

i) Monthly emails
I took a summer hiatus from the monthly emails, mostly because I was lazy.  But they are back.  The next will go out on Monday, September 25, so enter your email address in the box on the right.  This one is the Top Five Mistakes Women Make When Giving Blowjobs and is really, really dirty.  Remember: this email post will never appear anywhere on the site, so if you want to read it, you’ll have to sign up.

After that, monthly emails will appear regularly, perhaps monthly.  Your job is to a) read and enjoy the email and b) pass it on to other friends.  I don’t have the password for the email list, but Site Guy Brendan told me there was a "dramatic" uptick in sign-ups after the first one went out.  That means you all passed it on to others who then signed up.  Good job.  And again, thank you.

ii) Responding to emails
But now I have to get all dick on you about your emails to me.  I’m sorry, but I can not respond to every email I receive.  I know this is an inherently douchey statement, but there is no other way to say it.  I would like to respond to more emails – nothing would be a better use of my time than to engage in witty banter with y’all – but I’m a little busy: I’m editing a book, writing a TV show, trying to develop a freelance "career," writing this blog, working fifty hours a week, going to the gym five times a week (lie), and living the life of a socialite, pulling four hangovers a week.  So cut me some slack. 

4) Upcoming

Over the next few months, there will be some exciting changes to this site.  Of course, I use the word "exciting" loosely, but I’m a little hopped up on caffeine right now, so let me be.

I don’t want to reveal too much, as I want these new thingees to be a surprise, but I will say that fundamentally the site will not change, either in form or function.  It will be bettered.  For example, it is a goddamn shame that I can’t talk more about sports on here without alienating many of you.  The emails I get after a sports post make me want to cry (out of joy).  We’re going to address this while leaving everything else intact.  Just hang on and I promise better things in the future.  I actually sat down a few weeks ago and wrote a plan for this site, a real live "we’re not just figuring this out as we go along" plan, which I gave to Brendan.  As you might expect, a solid half of the plan was pure gibberish and most of the other half delineated unattainable goals ("Goal 9: Fuck Janet Jackson", "Goal 15: On the 14th of every month, I’ll drink one beer for every unique visitor", "Goal 20: Bring Jim Morrison back to life to punch him in the face", etc), but those bits that are both intelligible and realistic are actually quite lovely. 

***

So that’s it for the state of the site post.  Again, thank you for your continued cooperation.  One of the downers about the book being pushed back was that I was looking forward to doing a reading tour so that I could meet many of you – and I don’t even mean "meet and sleep with you."  I won’t get mushy, but I will say I am very grateful to you all, but more so to your employers, who apparently give you so little to do at work that you keep coming back.  God bless the malaise of the working man/woman.  God bless it, indeed.

Fame, or whatever the hell it is that I enjoy from this blog, has its privileges. The first that immediately comes to mind is the endless parade of blowjobs that receive on a weekly basis. Blowjobs, blowjobs, blowjobs – all over the place. I must confess, though, that while this may sound great on paper, it gets a little tiresome after awhile. I mean, I get it – you have a mouth, I have a bird, one goes in the other, time passes, I cry, I go to the ATM, we part, hours later I learn my laptop is missing. It actually gets pretty boring, pretty quickly.

Additionally, there is all the money that I’ve made from this site. Donations come in nearly every day, often hitting four figures per day. This doesn’t even take into account all the money I’ve been paid for my two projects, monies that were delivered to me promptly and without threatening any sort of legal action or devolving into a game of “You tell me I won’t be paid until next year-I vandalize your property.” The money keeps me satisfied, not only because it means I will never have $24,000 in credit card debt and allows me to buy fine linens and jewelry for my women, but also because it is concrete proof that you appreciate good entertainment. Any psychologist will tell you that money equals love, so therefore I am very, very loved.*

[*This paragraph is entirely false. Thank you.]

And lastly, there is a great sense of power that comes with fame. I sleep well at night knowing that when I write, no less than three people will read my words and act on them. Of course, I mostly squander this power by writing about masturbating with slightly microwaved chicken breasts, but the point is, the power is there and I could use it, should I so desire.

The story of my life and this site can be measured by certain important events and their dates.

- The site, on the old blogspot address, was started in February of 2004.

- In December of 2004, I was contacted by a big time agent, who, though he intimidated me at first with his flashy jewelry and big words, I have grown to be very good friends with (perhaps too good, as evinced by my telling of one of my grossest stories – involving masturbating into solo cups and covering the ejaculate with chocolate syrup – to both him AND his girlfriend on one of my trips to LA). We also moved to jasonmulgrew.com at this time.

- February 2005, the one-year anniversary of the site was marked by the release of the “Life in Pictures.”

- In April 2005 I got my first piece of real press.

- My gorgeousness was finally validated in June 2005.

- Though both had been in the works for some time, on August 10, 2005, I got both the final offer for the TV show and the final offer for the book deal – on the same day (of course, I had to keep this secret).

- As of October 1, 2005, I began a 4.5 month leave of absence from work to write the book/TV show. It was totally fucking awesome, except I went a little crazy.

- In February 2006, Site Guy Brendan and I released the new design of jm.com, which you are looking at now.

But since then, it’s been pretty quiet. This is deceiving, since I have a lot going on, but the book will not be out until next fall (more on this later) and the TV show, if it makes it to the air, will also not be out until next fall (more on this later, too). In the meantime, I’m just writing/editing away, sitting at my computer, listening to The Ronettes, drinking PBR cans out of my Maine cooley.

But last weekend in Boston, a new development suddenly arrived. Though it was at that moment unforeseen and unexpected, I had known from a young age that it was my destiny. And my years of patience, persistence, and quietly being almost criminally sexually suggestive had finally paid off: I, Jason Mulgrew, hung out with Playboy Playmates last weekend.

I know, I know – it’s awesome. The drama is a little diminished, of course, since I told you guys about this yesterday, but give me a minute to bask in my glory. Me, hanging out with Playmates.

…

[Just another minute...]

…

Ok. Thank you for indulging me.

This requires some explanation, but unfortunately, I can not say too much. Mostly because I don’t want to sound like a goober (in case, you know, I don’t already). I would like in the future to spend my time in the presence of Playmates – indeed, I don’t know of many better ways to spend time. So I apologize if certain details are spotty, but you must realize the importance of me treating this as nonchalantly as possible, when I really want to write, “I CAN’T WRITE RIGHT NOW BECAUSE MY PENIS IS GETTING IN THE WAY OF THE KEYBOARD BECAUSE OH MY GOD THESE GIRLS WERE BEAUTIFUL AND ONE OF THEM ACCIDENTALLY STEPPED ON MY FOOT BUT THEN MY FOOT GOT BEAUTIFUL BECAUSE IT WAS TOUCHED BY SUCH BEAUTY AND I THINK I JUST PEED MY PANTS BUT IT’S NOT QUITE PEE AND I FEEL LIKE AFTER A SNEEZE.”

By the grace of God and this website, I was able to attend, with two friends, a Playboy party in Boston. The invite came at the last minute and left me in a tizzy: I had no idea what to expect, but knew it couldn’t be all bad, since Playmates would certainly be there. I had never been to such an event and had to figure out what to wear and how to do my hair, but then I realized that these were pretty good problems to have. Remember, Playmates.

And my friends and I were not disappointed. There were no celebrities there or anything – it was a promotional event – but that’s a good thing. Because, I imagine, if celebrities had been there, the girls would not have looked at, let alone spoken to, my friends and I. (Actually, I shouldn’t say that, since Alison (Miss May), Monica (Miss March), and Breanna (September Cyber Girl of the Month) were lovely gals.) So on Friday night, my buddies and I spent several hours in the company of Playmates and other employees of Playboy, having a grand old time, having a laugh. Just like old friends. Three ugly old friends, and three extremely and insanely attractive old friends. No big deal.

The next day my buddies (Joe and Bill, for those keeping score at home) got to tell everyone at the BC tailgate that while they had spent the previous night at the Beacon Hill Pub or the Black Rose, we were drinking with some of the most beautiful women in the world. What’s more, there was a chance that we would hang out again that night. Playboy was in Boston not only for the promotional event on Friday night, but also for CollegeFest on Saturday and Sunday afternoons. After CollegeFest, the girls might want to go out. Joy. But later in the evening I got a text message and the friends I had recently made were all staying in for the night, tuckered out from a long day of work. So I just got drunker, moving from a softball field to a bar. Such is life. I also sent such lascivious text messages to a woman I know in Boston that I wouldn’t be surprised if I were to get a subpoena any day now, but that is neither here nor there.

The next day I was slated to return to Boston. I had taken Monday off but wasn’t so sure I wanted to lose the vacation day. On Sunday morning, just before noon, my buddies and I headed to Champion’s, a sports bar in Boston that is a HUGE Philadelphia Eagles fan spot for games. My plan was to watch the 1pm game, then grab a train home to NYC at 5 or 6. Of course, after an Eagles victory, a few plates of nachos, cheese fries, and mozzarella sticks, and ten or so draft Bud Lights, I made the executive decision and decided to spend the night in Boston. So my friends and I really started drinking.

At about 7pm, after drinking pretty hard since about 11am, I got a text message from one of my new friends who works at Playboy. Though I hadn’t expected to hear from her or anyone else at the Playboy camp, the text said that she and the girls felt like going out – was I still in Boston?

…

I immediately put down my beer and screamed, “I need a Red Bull and a water asap!” My buddies Joe, Bill and I spent the next two hours rapidly trying to get sober, as we were to meet the girls for dinner at 9pm. Joe, in one of the all-time greatest pussy moves ever, couldn’t pull it together and so missed the dinner. Or rather, Joe said that he couldn’t afford to be hungover for work on Monday morning and so didn’t go to dinner WITH PLAYBOY PLAYMATES. Yes, he missed dinner with Playmates because he didn’t want to be hungover. I’m hungover at work at least two days a week, both hangovers usually resulting from me drinking too many cans of PBR at my computer alone while downloading porn. The point: dinner with Playmates is a pretty good excuse to be hungover. What a tremendous pussy.

[And you can bet that the above paragraph will appear verbatim in my best man speech at his wedding next April, although if he were my fiancée, I would probably drop him for such lame behavior.]

But Bill and I rallied, got (somewhat) sober, cleaned ourselves up, and spent almost four hours having dinner and drinks with two Playmates and three employees of Playboy (who, dare I say, were extremely lovely in their own right). Just a couple of fat guys, over 400 pounds between them, sitting around, drinking wine, laughing and talking with Playmates and other beautiful, successful women. For four hours. Four magical fucking hours.

…

And now here I am, back in New York, hungover at my desk because I drank too many cans of PBR last night while downloading porn. Also, I might have mono. So there’s that. Which is great.

I leave you now with one of the pictures of us from the weekend, the first picture I took on Friday night (and if you think the following links are safe for work, you are a moron). Left to right, that’s Alison Waite (Miss May 2006), me standing behind my buddy Bill, Breann McGregor (Sept 2006 Cyber Girl of the Month), my buddy Joe, and Monica Leigh (Miss March 2006). Take a good, long look at that smile, dear readers. Because it’s pretty much all downhill for me from this point forward.

Wish me luck, because it’s going to be a bumpy ride down. But at least I can now die in relative peace.*

*”Relative” because I never realized my dream of having sex in a rocking chair. Oh well. Maybe next time.

Because I lack the physical, emotional, and mental strength to do too much right now:

1) That game was terrible.

2) I think I have/had mono.

3) I hung out with Playmates last weekend.

Got it?  Let’s go.

That game was terrible.
I can’t even talk about it.  I really can’t.  I think Eagles fan Brett from Irvine, CA said it best:

I feel like my heart was ripped out of my chest, dipped in tabasco sauce, stuck with 10,000 porcupine quills, put in an auto-smashing assembly & promptly obliterated – then put back in my now lifeless body. Please write some clever verse to make the pain stop — the Eagles are killing me.

I’m sorry brother, but there ain’t no amount of clever verse that is going to make this pain going away.

What’s worse than suffering through such a total collapse is being the target of a string of anonymous emails sent from Giants fans/Philly haters.  Even though I’ve noted that there is nothing quite as manly as anonymously talking shit over email, I’d like to remind said shit-talkers of some facts:

- There is an 85% chance that I could beat you up in real life, which, even in my weakened state due to illness, I will not hesitate to do if you’re up for it and would like a story.  Just as my best “line” to women is “C’mon – make out with me for the story!  You’ll be able to tell all your girlfriends that you made out with one of People’s 50 Hottest Bachelors!  And you get to watch how disappointed they become when you tell them which one!”, I will gladly beat your ass so that you can tell your buddies about it.  Not a problem, really. 

- There is a 94% chance that I am smarter than you.  And not just because most of the emails I’ve received have had gross misspellings or grammatical errors, but also because I’m just really fucking smart.  I’ve read, like, six books this month.  So suck on that. 

- There is a 97% chance that I – in theory – make more money than you.  Just because I waste what I make at my normal job on alcohol and shiny things and just because I don’t think I’ll ever get paid for my projects doesn’t mean that I’m not hypothetically rich.

- There is a 99.99% chance that I am more famous than you.  Dude, I don’t know you – do I email you when your team loses?  No, because I’m famous.  I don’t have time for that shit.  Also, did you hang out with Playmates for two nights last weekend?  Didn’t think so. 

So I’m doing alright, but thanks for taking the time to write me an email.

Giants fans, enjoy the victory.  Eagles fans, yes, that was about the equivalent of your girlfriend telling you she’s cheating on you, but it’s still very early in the season.  Yes, it really hurts.  But all is not lost.  Don’t give up so early.  If we lose next week to the 49ers, maybe, but not right now.   

I think I have/had mono.
This weekend I was essentially under house arrest.  I was in my apartment about 23 hours a day from Thursday until Sunday, getting one hour of “outside time” each day for necessary errands (grocery shopping, dropping off/picking up laundry, buying more Theraflu, letting the wind blow over my only partially-clothed body because there was a nasty urine smell coming out of my pores, etc).  It really, really fucking sucked.

But I am at work today – and not just because my employer probably would have fired me if I were to take another sick day (called out Thursday and Friday of last week).  I feel better but I’m still not 100%.  Still.

It was Saturday night when I started to really assess the situation.  As recently as a year ago, I was one of the world’s leading hypochondriacs (before I realized that it required so much work).  Therefore, I still have the requisite medical knowledge to properly diagnose myself. 

When my sickness started, I thought it was a head cold.  I was stuffed up, couldn’t sleep, felt exhausted.  But the head cold and stuffiness soon went away and was replaced by a fever and chills, an intense lethargy, and swollen glands.  Those these three conditions have decreased over the past few days, they are still present.

Then I remembered when one of my first girlfriends – before she was my girlfriend – got mono in junior high.  She was tired all the time, had a fever, and had these giant swollen glands.  We all treated her like she had rabies because we thought mono was so scandalous.  But the fever, tiredness, and swollen glands…Hmmm… 

And then I thought about how much making out I’ve been doing lately.  My escapades with women over the past few months can only be described as “epic.”  My partner in crime, my buddy Jeremy, and I have been so impressed with ourselves that we can only say “We’re back” when discussing our Lotharian behaviors.  Of course, in order to preserve my loser image, I can’t write about this woman craziness here.  However, I have started another blog which details my recent sexual escapades (or sexcapades, if you will): iamgettingsomuchpussyrightnowitscrazy.blogspot.com.  There you can read about my cavorting with the opposite sex and all its explicit, makeoutalicious detail.

And then I put it all together: I have the symptoms of mono.  I have been making out a lot lately.  Therefore, I more than likely have recently contracted mono.

So, sweet.  Apparently, you just have to take it easy, suck on some lozenges, and drink a lot of fluids, so that’s what I plan on doing for the next few days.  I guess it’s just something that you have for a few days that eventually goes away.  Like I said, I feel like I’m getting better, so hopefully this is on its way out. 

One last thing: I haven’t mentioned any of this to my date for my buddy Greg’s wedding this weekend, so if we could kinda keep this between us, that would be most appreciated.  I don’t think she’d be too happy to learn she has to spend a whole night with a guy with some lame, pseudo-STD.  Jesus.  If I were a real man, I would have gotten herpes or HPV or at least chlamydia, but mono?  Really?  What am I, 17?  I have to admit, I’m kinda disappointed in myself – and not in the way that I should be. 

I hung out with Playmates last weekend.
You know what?  I’m tired again.  Let’s pick this up in another post in a little bit.  I need a break. Stupid mono.  

At about 4am this morning, my fever peaked at 102.9 degrees.

I called out sick this morning and since 7pm last night I have spent 96% of my time in bed.  Yesterday I felt terrible, last night I received my Last Rites, and today I feel fairly worse than yesterday.  Also, now my throat is starting to hurt and in the shower I almost fainted.

This truly may be the end.

Therefore, I ask that one of you please come to my aid.  Your duties will not only include taking care of me (getting me water, refreshing my warm towels, giving me deep tissue massages, and of course, bathing me – we need to keep Mr. Steve and the Gentlemen fresh throughout this ordeal), but also you’d have the honor of taking down my final post.  Typing makes me woozy, so I need someone to whom I can dictate my swan song, which will at once be poetic, prophetic, and contain some variation of the word “penis” no less than fourteen times.

I will now return back to my bed to lie around and feel sorry for myself and maybe cry a little bit, but if you are interested, please email me.  Note that there is no compensation for this, but only a lifelong memory and an afternoon/evening of some of the most inappropriate suggestive and sexually aggressive comments you’ve ever heard.

Thank you for your consideration.  And please, pray for me.

The next monthly email will go out on Monday, September 25.  So if you haven’t already, please sign up on the right (remember, the monthly emails will never be put on the site, so if you want to read them, you have to sign up).  This one is titled "The Top Five Mistakes Women Make When Giving Blowjobs" so be sure to use your personal rather than work email addresses if the latter has filters.  Because if your work email does have filters, I don’t an email with words like "semen witch," "ham-scented testicles" and "The Great and Wondrous Penile Explosion, Volume II" will make it through.  But then again I don’t really know anything about technology…  

Uncle Jason is very, very sick today.  I feel like someone put a deflated basketball in my head and is pumping it up.  My head now weighs more than my torso, on account of all the mucus in it.  Every time I cough, I feel like someone is smacking my forehead with a ruler – from the inside.  I can stand for about two minutes before my legs get weak (I had a mini-meeting in my boss’s office this morning and five minutes into it – as they weren’t any available chairs – I was leaning against the wall, slowly sliding down it, letting out a quiet "mmmeerrrrrr" noise as I nearly collapsed to the floor).  Even though you could cook an omelet on my forehead, I’m so cold that there are icicles developing at the tips of my fingers.  Or maybe that’s just semen.  Whatever.

Though I’m at work today, I’m not a very strong person when it comes to illness. (Had I not been out of the office on Monday and last Friday, I surely would have called out.  Also, I didn’t feel like laying around among a sea of snotty tissues in my apartment, trying hopelessly to masturbate between replays of the same Sportscenter episode I’d seen three times already.)  Remember Michael Jordan’s flu game?  When he was sick but dropped 38 points on the Jazz in the playoffs?  Often times, you hear of athletes doing stuff like this: transcending their illness to achieve bigger and better things, and in doing so cementing themselves as legends.

Well, not me.  Not even close.

I’ve emailed my co-worker at least four times today, imploring her to come "help," "take care of," or "save" me.  As she has real, actual work to do, she has yet to make an appearance.  So my next email will be sent in about ten minutes.  I’ve called my mom a few times, but apparently sometime in the past 48 hours she has disowned me, as I haven’t heard back from her.  I’m about two hours away from pulling out my long and distinguished list of ex-girlfriends, picking names at random, and asking them to come nurse me back to health.  And let me see their boobies.  Because boobies are more potent than most antibiotics when fighting illness. (Look it up.)

No, when I get a cold, I act as though I have AIDS.  As I write this, I’m simultaneously writing a letter to my father, apologizing to him for not becoming a real "man."  I want him to know how sorry I am about failing him, in case I don’t make it through this illness (odds are 30/60 for survival right now – 10% having been removed because, well, who gives a fuck what happens to me?).  He never asked for much; I didn’t have to become an altar boy or a star athlete or attend school every day or even learn how to read.  All he wanted was a son who was willing to fight and do a chick at a moment’s notice and maybe get a couple of tattoos, and in this, I failed him.  I’m telling him that I’m sorry I can’t bench press over 100 pounds, I’m sorry that I didn’t learn to ride the motorcycle he got me when I turned 16 because "it was too loud," I’m sorry that I never became a two-packs a day cigarette smoker.  Of course, I won’t spend too much time on this, since he probably won’t read it (like he always says, "Reading is just a conspiracy").

Next will be a letter to my mom, assuring her that no matter what she thinks, I go to my grave at least 91% heterosexual (one time your mom walks in on you kissing DJ Mikey Deuce at your 13th birthday party and you get a lifetime of "I can’t believe my son is a gay").  Just because I never brought home a girlfriend or even mentioned anything about a woman (expect to deride her fashion sense, of course) or wasn’t able to get an erection when she secretly got me that hooker on my 21st birthday, well, that doesn’t make me a gay.  A little different, sure, but not a gay.     

But the good news in all of this is that I think I’ve figured out what caused this illness.  For the past two nights, I’ve been sleeping with my air conditioner on, even though it’s dipped into the mid-50’s in NYC.  Why am I doing this, you ask?  Well, Thursday is the start of the Annual San Gennaro Festival in Little Italy (aka my least favorite eleven days of the year).  While I would have loved to be sleeping with my bedroom windows open the past two nights, I can’t because the noise coming from the carnies and guidos building shit for the festival is very, very loud.  I have no doubt that numerous city ordinances are being broken (really? you can drill and pound shit until 3am?), but I expect some sort of Sopranos-esque intimidation is keeping the construction going.  Preferring cold to heat, I slept with the AC on the past two nights.  And now I am sick.

[I'm sure my illness had nothing to do with my past two weekends in Maine and Boston, respectively, when I tried to drown myself in Miller Lite.  Completely unrelated.  And we all know I went to medical school for one year, so I'm more than qualified to make this statement.]

So I still owe you a recap of the weekend in Boston, which I will hopefully get to you soon.  In the meantime, I took some more pictures while  up there.  Check them out and then drop me a line to tell me that I’m bald, ugly, obese, or look like a criminal.  Note that if you view them in a slideshow, like the Maine photos, they are backward.  Because I’m that awesome at technology.   

As for now, I’m going to head back to the bathroom so I can kneel down in front of the sink while hot water is running, soaking in the steam.  Wish me luck and let’s hope that no one I know walks in.   

And if I don’t make it, remember: I loved you in a way that no one has ever loved you before – from afar, from behind a computer, with a whiskey in one hand and a penis in the other.

(Not my penis, of course.)

Thank you for the emails regarding Monday’s post.  Y’all are some nice sons of bitches.

But soon we will be back to our regularly scheduled programming.  To wit, I’ve only started writing the next post, but the word “blowjobs” appears four times in the first paragraph.  ‘Cause I keeps it real.

Anyway, thanks again for the nice emails.  I appreciate them. 

It was Tuesday morning.  I was wearing a black shirt, khaki pants, and my glasses.  It was hot.

I had started working as a legal assistant at the firm only a few weeks before in late July, but aside from orientation and training, I hadn’t spent much time in the building downtown.  Once training ended, I was immediately shipped to midtown to work on a case at an off-site location.  It was miserable, stuck among boxes of documents piled high and stuffed into rows and rows of shelves spaced only a few feet apart.  The heat from the sunlight of the sixteenth floor windows, mixed with the dust and the dry stale smell of paper, made for physically uncomfortable working conditions.

But more than that, I was lonely.  While there were a few other legal assistants and some temps in midtown on the case, I was the new guy and had remained, for the most part, outside of the long-established cliques.  Alternatively, training had been about bonding more than anything else.  Between tedious info sessions and boring computer lessons I had established many friendships with the other new legal assistants. Yet before I could nurture them, I was off, banished to the glorified warehouse in midtown for the first seven weeks of my employment.  This was not the glamorous New York City job that I had imagined when I accepted it over going to boring ol’ grad school. 

Things were turning around, however.  Just the day before, Monday, had been my first back in the downtown office since training ended.  I was now mixed among the general population, able to enjoy the accoutrements of working in the main building, now my building – the shorter commute from my apartment in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, the subsidized (and rather delicious) cafeteria, the company of the other legal assistants, and the Wall Street area bars at which they had already begun to congregate for happy hours. 

On the morning of that Tuesday, I left my apartment and walked the four long blocks to the subway.  The time was about 8:15am.  I had to be in at work by 9:30am.  Leaving at 8:15 would put me at work around 9, with thirty full minutes to spare.  I’d like to say that I arrived early for work because I cared about my job; having just started, I wanted to impress my co-workers and superiors.  But this would be a lie.  I arrived early because I loved the made-to-order omelet station at the work cafeteria.  The station closed was out of most of the good stuff by 9:15.  Even though I had only eaten the omelets a few times during orientation, I knew it was something I wanted to continue.  If this meant waking up a few minutes early, that was ok with me – good eggs are always worth it.

I waited, as I always did, for some time for the R train on the Bay Ridge Avenue platform.  It finally came and I boarded.  I sometimes read on the commute and got through many books doing this (as it was about fifteen stops until I reached work), but on this morning I forgot my book.  So instead I passed the time listening to my cd player, in particular “The Story of Them Featuring Van Morrison (Disc Two).”

Over Van the Man’s encouragement about how it soon won’t hurt half as much, there came an announcement from the train’s PA system.  Due to a medical emergency, the train would not be stopping at Cortland Street.  This was of no concern to me.  Not only because “medical emergencies” were common (they could range from serious incidents like a commuter falling on the tracks to trivial things like someone throwing up in a crowded car), but also because I was not getting off at Cortland Street.  That was World Trade Center territory, two subway stops (though just a few blocks) north of my stop near Wall Street. 

The train carried on.  Another announcement followed a few stops later.  There was no mention of the medical emergency at Cortland Street this time; the conductor announced that the train would be terminating at the next stop and apologized for the inconvenience.  This did concern me.  I had been heading north from south Brooklyn toward my office in Lower Manhattan.  Because my train was now terminating, I would have to switch trains three times (!) to get to work.  Fuck.

First, I had to back-track my steps.  I needed to board a train heading south, into Brooklyn, away from Lower Manhattan.  I would take this one stop, switch to a train that would take me over the Manhattan Bridge into Manhattan – putting me north of my stop – then finally switch to a third train in Manhattan which would take me south, down to the tip of the island, and drop me off in front of my building.  What a major inconvenience.

That first southbound train arrived shortly and I hopped on.  I noticed a commotion from the opposite end of the train car, someone yelling about something or other, and I turned up the volume on my cd player.  It is not uncommon for someone to be yelling on a New York City subway train – once a week I’m treated to a schizophrenic’s interpretation of the Gospel of Luke or a drunk’s rendition of “Only You.”  That’s part of the charm of the city, really.  

But what is uncommon is when the ranting is coming from a kid my age wearing a blue New York Stock Exchange trader’s jacket, holding a stack of charred documents in his hand, hysterically yelling, “They got the World Trade Center!  They’re going to get the Stock Exchange next!  They got it!  They got it!”

This…this was different.

I can hit the New York Stock Exchange with a tennis ball if I’m standing at the steps of my office building.  Logic would therefore imply that I have a vested interest in any situation in which someone is trying to “get” this building.  But this is New York City – people bleed to death in the streets while others step over them.  I was tired.  I was late.  I was pissed off.  And worst of all, it was becoming clear that I was going to miss the omelet station.  I didn’t have time for any shit.

We reached my stop and I got off the train.  The second train came shortly thereafter and I got on.  I tried to look at it positively.  Even though I was now going to be late for work, at least the trains were arriving quickly.  And now that this train would take me over the Manhattan Bridge I’d be treated to a view of the downtown New York City skyline, which looks even more spectacular in the morning, hulking over the bay, teeming with hundreds of thousands of people working, than it does at night, when there is light, but no life.

I reflected upon how much I’d grown to love Van Morrison in the past few months (who knew there was so much more to him than “Brown-Eyed Girl” and “Domino?”) when the train emerged from the subway tunnel and started its slight ascent onto the Manhattan Bridge.  I sat up in my seat, lifting myself out of a slouch, to get a good look at the skyline. 

This is when it started for me.

One of the towers of the World Trade Center was on fire.  It was a spectacular site, the first image to warrant the use of the word later most commonly employed to describe the day: surreal.  Flashes of red and orange darted out of the sides of the building, a million angry tongues lapping at the sky.  Thick clouds of black smoke, seemingly the size of small planets, encircled the top of the building before dissipating high into the air.  The sky that was cloudless and blue when I had left my apartment earlier in morning was now scarred and dyed gray.       

Commuters flocked to the left side of the train, their faces and bodies pressed against the windows and each other.  No one spoke.  Everyone watched.

Soon though the cell phones started flipping.  My fellow riders began calling family and friends to find out what was going on.  I joined them.  My first call was to my roommate Kyle, a grad student who usually slept until noon every day.  I figured he’d be able to turn on CNN or NY1 (the New York 24 hours news channel) to figure out what happened.  But my cell phone didn’t work.  Neither did anyone else’s.  True or not, we reasoned that the cell phone reception tower was probably on top of the burning World Trade Center tower.  That’s why we weren’t getting service.

But as the train descended back into the tunnel, now entering Manhattan, there was calm (as strange as that now sounds).  There was a fire – this much was true.  But there are fires.  They happen.  Collectively, there was an assumption that this was something that the Trade Center was prepared for.  Perhaps it started in the Windows of the World restaurant before spreading to a few floors, but certainly all the employees had been evacuated.  Not a big deal.  Not for New Yorkers, anyway.

***

Canal Street – City Hall – Cortland Street – Rector Street – Whitehall.  This was the route of the third and final train that I would take that morning, the one that would bring me to work.  When I got on at Canal Street, this time after a bit of a wait, the car was unusually crowded.  Not exactly packed, but several people were standing.  I was among them, gripping a pole nearby two cute French girls, who were seated and pouring over a travel guide.   

There was a quiet but easily identifiable tension.  By now, everyone had heard that one of the World Trade Center towers was on fire.  And this train would take us directly under the WTC, which stood just above Cortland Street.  As we pulled out of Canal, we learned that because of “police emergency” at Cortland, we would not be stopping there (the situation had gone from “medical emergency” to “police emergency” in the span of less than thirty minutes – all mumbo jumbo, certainly, but still not a positive turn of events).

We pulled away from the City Hall stop and were moving slowly south.  We reached the Cortland Street subway station, now eerily quiet and empty.  Riding through an empty subway terminal in Lower Manhattan during the morning rush hour is a strange, unsettling experience, like bearing witness to a modern day ghost town.  I tried to imagine what was happening a few feet above ground and a few thousand feet above ground.  How would they reach any people if they were stranded on those top floors?  Would they use helicopters?  Can helicopters even go that high?  A true “crisis” Irish Catholic, I made the sign of the cross and asked God to help out, if possible.

At Rector Street, we picked up no one, not a single person.  A few riders got off.  We were now one stop away from my work.  Much to the chagrin of the other riders, the conductor announced that Whitehall would be the last stop on the train.  The train would then not make the commute into Brooklyn.  That was fine with me.  This was a rare day in that I just wanted to get in to work, if only to find out what the hell was going on.       

Then, as we moved in the tunnel between the Rector Street and Whitehall subway stations, the ground shook.  My first reaction was that it was an earthquake.  Before I could rationalize that it couldn’t be an earthquake because New York City is four hundred miles away from the nearest minor fault line, the train stopped.  Not suddenly, but not gently. I lunged forward and grabbed the pole I was standing near with both hands.  The momentum of the unexpected stop caused my work bag to swing off my shoulder and hit one of the cute French girls in the head.  Before I could apologize to her, the train, now still, grew dark.  It was pitch black.  The conductor, in what I can only imagine was a communiqué meant for the other MTA employees on the train and not the commuters, screamed over the PA, “We just lost power!”

This whole sequence of events took place in less than three seconds.

In the car in which I was standing, people began screaming, crying, running the gamut of “flipping out.”  Back-up lights came on, dimly lighting the train.  I tried to stay calm, but I don’t remember much of what I was feeling at this time, as everything was happening too quickly.  I only remember what I was doing, namely, walking with the other passengers to the front of the train.  Apparently, the first car of the train was in the Whitehall Street subway station, so we were not stuck in the middle of a tunnel.  The crew instructed all riders to walk to the front of the train to exit from the first car.  So we moved, single-file, up to the front.  I turned down my Van Morrison so that I was better able to focus on getting out as quickly as I could. 

I walked behind the two cute French girls.  They were frazzled, speaking in rapid fire French to each other.  I imagined that I would take care of them once we got out of the train.  They could come with me to my office building to figure out what was going on.  Sure, it might be weird to have two strange French girls in my office, but I was sure Security would understand and give them each a building pass.  Then maybe later that night, when this was all figured out, we’d meet up for drinks and I would kiss both of them at the same time.  Even in a crisis situation, I was thinking about sex.  With two girls. 

But when we reached the subway station and exited the car, I knew that something might be seriously wrong.  The station was filled with ash, smoke, and dust. (I realize that this might sound silly in retrospect – it was the dust-filled subway station that freaked me out, not seeing a trader having a nervous breakdown about people “getting” buildings in Lower Manhattan, not seeing a tower on fire from the Manhattan Bridge, not being underground in what felt like a 4.2 earthquake.  It was dust, fucking dust.) There was no time to think, though.  We were moved up and out of the subway station. 

If being in the dust-filled station was my first clue that something might be very wrong, this feeling was confirmed when I exited the station.  There were white-out conditions on the streets of Lower Manhattan.  Everything was ash and dust and heat.  Again, falling back on my on what comes most naturally to me, one of my first thoughts was, “The French girls!  Where are the French girls!”  But I couldn’t find them.  Visibility was almost nothing.  If you were to extend your arm out before you, you wouldn’t be able to see your hand.  It was so difficult to see and orient myself that even though my building was only a block away from the subway exit, I got lost.  Van was covering Dylan’s “It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue.”

I entered the first building that I saw to get my bearings.  People were packed into its lobby, shaking off dust, trying to make phone calls, panicking.  I was already covered in the ash and dust.  It was caked into my hair, beard, clothes, shoes.  I was in the strange building’s lobby only a minute, taking a moment to grab some tissues to clean off my glasses and so that I could hold them against my mouth as I walked to my office.  This fire was apparently much, much bigger than I thought.

When I finally arrived at my building after what seemed like days, all employees were packed into the basement into the sublevel conference rooms.  There were televisions on and working telephones. 

This is when I figured it out.

My first reaction: I have to call my mom.

There were lines at each of the four or so working telephones in the largest conference room, so I left that room and ducked into a nearby caseroom that I had been assigned to the day before.  There was a computer there and a telephone.  As I brought up CNN.com to read as much as I could about what had and what was happening, I got connected to my mom.  I assured her that I was alright, that I was at work, but was safe there (I explained to her that the building was a bomb shelter, which was true, but I left out the part about how it’s 40 stories high and one of the largest in the Lower Manhattan skyline). 

My next call was to my roommate Joe, who every day traveled from our apartment in Bay Ridge to the World Trade Center, where he would take the PATH train into Newark where he worked.  Joe had left for work before me that morning, before I had even woke up, as he usually did.  I was certain that he was at the World Trade Center at some point that morning.  My hope was that he had already made it into Newark by the time the planes struck.  Based on the timeline I was reading about on CNN, I knew it was close.

I couldn’t reach Joe.  All cell phones were out of commission by this point, reduced to plastic flashy trinkets that told time.  Instead, I called my other roommate Kyle.  We had a landline in our Brooklyn apartment, where I was hoping Kyle was awake and aware of what was going on.

Kyle answered.  Before he could even get out his “Hello,” I asked if he had heard from Joe.  He had.  Like so many stories that we would hear about on that day, Joe had to be at work early that morning for a meeting.  He had left for work earlier than normal and was safely in Newark before anything had happened.  Had he left at his normal time, he would have been under the World Trade Center, waiting for the PATH train, at just about the time that the first plane struck.  Joe was still in Jersey (and wound up stuck there for two days), but he was safe.

I hung up the phone with Kyle, promising him that I’d be in touch.  My plan, if you could call it that, was to wait it out at work.  I returned to the large conference room which doubled as the information and communication center for the firm and learned that subway trains were no longer running.  My options were to walk home, which would take me past the WTC, over the Manhattan Bridge, and through ten miles of Brooklyn, or to wait.  I chose the latter.

I don’t remember how long I waited in the conference room with the hundred-plus other employees, transfixed by the news on television, before my “plan” became moot.  The word came down that everyone in Lower Manhattan had to evacuate the area.  We all had to go.  Now. 

When I left the building, it was clear and it was hot.  Less than a half mile away, the World Trade Center burned, sending billows of smoke up into the sky.  But the wind was blowing from the east, sending the smoke over the Hudson River to New Jersey.  The ash and dust had settled.  As I stood east of the towers, the sky above me was blue, cloudless, like it had been when I left my apartment hours before. 

I couldn’t bring myself to begin the walk back to Brooklyn.  While building security was ushering us out of the office, there were rumors that asbestos was now everywhere and there might be subsequent explosions from gas leaks around the WTC.  Before I could start on the long trek to my apartment, I needed to pull myself together a little bit.  This was going to be a difficult walk home.

I ambled around at the tip of the island of Manhattan, following hordes of people to the Staten Island Ferry terminal.  I don’t know why I did this, since Staten Island was not where I wanted to go.  But this was when things were hitting me, when I was realizing – albeit slowly – the gravity of the situation.  I moved, but I did so without thinking.

But fortunately, walking to the ferry terminal turned out to be the best idea I had that day.  The ferries were running to Staten Island, but in an astonishing twist, private and commercial boats started pulling up to the terminal, offering to take groups of stranded people wherever they needed to go.  One boat was willing to take people to Hoboken, another to Long Island City, another to Weehauken.  When the captain of the tugboat in front of me shouted, “Anyone to Bay Ridge?”, I jumped on. 

Though it was packed like a Calcutta ferry, I couldn’t have been happier to be getting away from Manhattan and back to Brooklyn.  Soon I would be home, back to the safety of my almost-suburban apartment, where I could shower, watch the news, and connect with my friends and family.  But then as the tugboat pulled away from the terminal, I turned and looked back at the skyline and saw the hole where the two giant towers once stood.  The relief I felt about going home was instantly drained from my body.  I felt empty.  I would for a very long time. 

***

I am not the one to eulogize that day or those involved who worked so valiantly to save so many lives, often at the cost of their own.  Many more capable – and more qualified – than I will do so.     

Not only that, I am unable to articulate how exactly that day affected me.  I did not lose any friends or loved ones on September 11, 2001.  I realize that for this reason I am very blessed.  I stood in that conference room at work and watched those men and women on the phone, sobbing.  I, like every other American, watched the news for days and days upon end after the tragedy, unable to sleep, listening to the stories of those who were looking for husbands and wives, fathers and mothers, sons and daughters, brothers, sisters, friends, knowing through their pleas that they were probably never going to find them.  And I knew that I was most fortunate to escape that kind of pain.  

And for this, when I think about that day, I feel guilty.  At least, I think I feel guilty.  I don’t know if I’ll ever have enough emotional intelligence and perspective to know for sure.  I was there, yes.  I saw one of the towers burning from a perspective that few others were able to see, yes.  I think I was underground when one of the towers fell, yes.  I walked the streets of Lower Manhattan on that September morning in the rain of ash and dust as shredded paper fell like ticker-tape, yes.

But 9/11, the events of 9/11, are not me.  At most, I was an observer.  I was there to see and to experience, but that’s it.  I “lived through it,” but not really.  I have a story, but not a scar.

And this, among the sadness, anger, and gratitude I feel when I think about that day, occupies my thoughts the most.       

First, for the first hour and a half of my day, my fly was open.  This time included leaving my apartment, riding on a more-crowded-than-usual subway train, walking around my building, and talking to two of my co-workers while standing in the doorways of their offices.  Nice.  For being totally fucking awesome, I rewarded myself with a bacon, egg and cheese bagel.  It was terrific.

Second, speaking of being totally fucking awesome, you have no idea how good it feels to come home at 1:30 in the morning with a nice buzz, feeling happy, only to check your email to read 60 emails from strangers saying, "Dude, you are really going bald."  That’s totally fucking awesome.

Perhaps I should have mentioned that my main priorities while in Maine (main-Maine, get it?) this weekend were not focused on my hair.  In fact, if I had to put them in order of importance, my priorities would have gone:

1) Getting messed up.
2) Eating pretty much everything put in front of me, live or dead.
3) Not masturbating.
4) Seriously, getting really messed up.
5) Wearing a hoodie that says "Maine" even though I’m in Maine and not doing this out of irony but because I packed only t-shirts and it was 55° all weekend and I was fucking cold.
6) Sorting all kinds of shit out.
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11) Inhaling a lot of second-hand cigarette smoke.
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23) Telling everyone about how Wendy’s now has a vanilla frosty and saying "It blew my fucking mind" over and over again.
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39) Taking long showers and pissing off my friends.
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58) Not answering any calls or text messages from anyone not in the house with me.
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83) Raving about the Wendy’s grilled chicken sandwich I ate on the drive up, mentioning the vanilla frosty again.  Adding, "Doesn’t that blow your fucking mind?"
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112) Praying for the soul of the Croc Hunter, that he isn’t eternally damned for tormenting literally billions of crocodiles throughout his life.
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597) Making sure my hair looks good for the pictures that my friends are taking while intoxicated.

So I guess what I’m trying to say is that though my hair may appear a little bit thinning in those pictures, I have lovely hair.  Well, maybe not lovely, but I’m not going bald.  Sure, I do have power alleys, but my hair is fine.  Ok?  Let’s just move on before I get too wound up.

(Also, do you know how windy it is on the beach in Maine?  The answer: Lots.  Lots windy.  Not good for hair.)

(Also, by a show of hands, how many people were named one of the most gorgeous people in the universe in the past 15 months?  Anyone?  Wait, only my hand is up?  Yeah – that’s what I thought.  So I guess I’m doing pretty well for my bald self.  Did I mention I just lost 33 pounds?  Jerks.  The whole lot of you.  Buncha jerks.) 

Third, Six Songs.

"Parties in the U.S.A."  Jonathan Richman
I’m going to make this real simple for you: if you like parties, and you think we should have more parties in the USA, then you will probably like this song.  If you like songs that sound like 60’s rock but were actually made 30 years later, then you will probably love this song.  One of the unofficial theme songs to this past weekend in Maine. 

"Let’s Make This Moment A Crime"  The Format
Damn this band writes some catchy songs.  They’re so catchy and poppy that I’m not sure if it’s cool to like them.  But since I’m not cool, I’ll continue to enjoy their music and pimp them out to you all.   

"Gotta Travel On"  Bob Dylan
My friend Corinne played this song as we pulled away from the beach house, passing by summer homes of all shapes and sizes, the ocean on one side of us, the hills on the other.  It was the most movie-like experience of my life, and not only because I had so much marijuana smoke in my lungs that I could have been arrested for possession – even though I didn’t have any pot on my person.  Bob Dylan is better than Jesus. 

"It’s A Crime (I Never Told You About the Diamonds In Your Eyes)"  Black Heart Procession
I like piano-driven songs with long titles.  I also like diamonds and sadness.  So this song is a perfect fit. 

"Only A Dream"  Solomon Burke
I feel like I could be a very good 70 year old black man.  Maybe sitting on a stoop, wearing a hat, rocking a cane, listening to Otis Redding, Sam Cooke, Solomon Burke, and tons of other old school R&B artists I, as a white 27 year old, have never heard of.  This song comes to me from my Otis Redding playlist on Pandora, which, if you aren’t using, you absolutely should be.  Sweet, sweet song.

"Brain Freeze (Track 1)"  DJ Shadow
I have no idea where this comes from, I have no idea if it’s on an album, and I have no idea how a white guy could do this, but I do know one thing: this rocks my fucking balls off.  Download this off Limewire, sit back, and prepared to have your guts kicked out.  (The song is sometimes listed as DJ Shadow and Cut Chemist, if that helps you find it.)  The ultimate background music for parties, hanging out, or drinking.  Great.    

[Now, have a good weekend.  Off to Boston - wish me luck.]

[See?  I told you I might post again.  You guys never listen.  Never fucking listen.]

Because I recently returned from Maine and one of the best weekends of my life, and because I’m off to Boston this weekend for more excessive partying and self-abuse, and because August was a huge month for me and the site, and because I’ve been crazy busy at work and with other things, and because I haven’t done so in ages, I’m taking this week off. 

(I think.)

(I say "I think" because I don’t really view this as a job but as a relief for all the other stuff going on, so I may be inspired at some point to write on here.  So we’ll leave it at "I think" for now.)

But before I sign off until next week (probably), a few notes:

1) Thank you for all the recommendations for a good Mexican place and for the best mac and cheese in NYC.  Although I should have said right away that I was and am aware of S’Mac and further stressed that I was looking for an upscale Mexican restaurant (Tortilla Flats, though tasty, is not upscale), I got literally dozens of good suggestions.  I’ll whittle them down and let you know the results. 

2) Thank you for all the suggestions at to how to improve my knee pain.  The good news is that the time away from running has helped and my knee is now 100% back to normal.  Additionally, many of you suggested that I a) closely monitor my increase in distances, which I will begin to do; and b) invest in a good pair of running shoes.  This is something I intend to do immediately, as my current running shoes are the same sneakers I wear all time, a pair of two year old New Balances.  So I’ll get myself a nice, new, and proper pair of running shoes.  So thank you.  The good people at Mastercard also thank you, since Uncle Jason is a little cash-strapped at the moment and will buy these on credit.

3) If you’re in NYC and looking for something to do on Thursday night, you should check out Charles Ramsey at Kenny’s Castaways at 9pm.  Charles is an old friend of mine from high school who blew my fucking brains out when I heard his music, which I find truly remarkable.  The show should be a great time and if you’d like to hear a sample of the music of Charles Ramsey, check out his MySpace page, have a listen, and be his friend.  My personal favorites are still "I Still Exist" (when I’m feeling sad) and "So Much Better Off" (when I want something a little happier and am thinking about stealing other dude’s girlfriends, which I do often).   

(That is, thinking about stealing girlfriends, not actually doing it.)

(Also, if "So Much Better Off" doesn’t get your foot tapping, then you probably don’t have a foot.) 

4) If you’re in Boston and looking for something to do on Friday night, you should go to Lir (where I fell in love with a waitress) on Friday night.  There will be a fundraiser there for a memorial fund started for a Boston College alum, Mike Holden ‘00, who passed away recently and was a reader of this here lil’ site.  Mike’s friends have started the memorial fund to contribute to different organizations, including for scholarships to BC and in his hometown of Allentown, PA.  The event will be held in the private area of Lir from 9pm-12am on Friday night and will have free appetizers, a cash bar and some prizes and raffles.  Donation is $20.  A good bar with great food, hot waitresses, potent drinks, and for a good cause – what more can you ask for?  

Otherwise I’ll see you next week.  I’m really looking forward to Boston, as I haven’t been there since June, which is a very long time for me.  And there’s tailgating for BC’s first home football game on Saturday, which will be nice.  After that, we’ll be back to normal.  Thank god summer is almost over. 

But just to prove that I love you, here is an unprecedented look into my sweaty life: some pictures I took in Maine (it’s so unprecedented that it makes me kind of uncomfortable, but I feel guilty for abandoning you for the next few days, so there you go).  If you view these pics as a slideshow, be aware that they are backwards because I am an idiot.  And no, even though I lost some weight, I’m still not quite ready to take my shirt off in the ocean.  Maybe next summer.

(And to Corinne, Lauren, Brian, and Jeremy - I’m sorry.  I probably should have asked your approval before I showed these pictures to a few thousand strangers, but hey – we’re all really good-looking.  And you already know that I didn’t put up the ones in which we’re really, really messed up, so try to keep your angry phone calls and emails to a minimum, ok?)

[Have a good week/weekend.]

[I think.]