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.)

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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. 

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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…").   

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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. 

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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.     

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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.