three sour notes
Jason posted on October 30, 2006

1) The Philadelphia Eagles season is over.  That was disgusting, absolutely fucking disgusting, miserable, wretched, putrid.  A total fucking whipping and I’m embarrassed to be a fan of that team (more so than usual, that is).  I predicted 9-7; they’ll be lucky if they get even that.  I really can’t even talk about this.  Those three hours on Sunday ruined my week and possibly the next two months.  Fucking terrible.  Fucking terrible.  I usually read every single word written about the Eagles on philly.com after a game - even after a loss - but I am so disgusted by yesterday’s game that I won’t go near the site, fearing that - well, I don’t even know what.  Just fucking terrible. 

2) My friends and I "celebrated" Halloween on Saturday night.  I wore a costume.  But I won’t tell you what this costume is because, schedule permitting, I may be going out again on Tuesday and will wear the same costume.  The costume turned out pretty well, but the night…not so much.  Also, I did not take any pictures, of course, because I am a retard. 

(PS – thank you for all the suggestions.  But we will cover this later.)

3) My penis and I are no longer on speaking terms.  Too often recently I have woken up filled with regret about the previous night’s behavior, all because my penis is putting me in awkward positions with members of the opposite sex (and by "awkward positions" I don’t mean trying to fit myself, two women, a bottle of champagne, a dozen toy cars, and a Native American into my bathtub).  Without getting too into it, after the terrible Eagles loss he and I had a major blow-up precipitated by his unconscionable behavior this weekend (and the past few weekends) and we are finished.  I don’t want to even look at or touch him, which means I’m going to have to start wearing diapers or something (and if I can’t touch him I will not be able to wash him, which is bad news for everyone, especially my poor co-workers - guess we won’t be having any meetings in my office this week).

This is not how I was hoping to start the week.  Not at all.

(And I hate it when dudes refer to the birds as a person or "him," but I kinda had to here.  So forgive me.  At least I realize I sound like a douche.)

heat week
Jason posted on October 26, 2006

There are several benefits of living in an apartment older than most U.S. states.  The first is probably the history; I often think of the immigrants who lived in my Little Italy apartment generations ago, who sweat and toiled so that one day, many years later, their descendants could pound jagerbombs and look like this (nice straws, fellas).

[I have to say right off the bat - I'm very prejudiced against Italians ("Can you imagine, in this day and age, a Jew broad prejudiced against Italians?").  One of my ex-girlfriends had a dream of going to Italy, and, though my sugar daddy instinct kicked in almost immediately and I began saving for a surprise trip, I tried to explain to her that if we were to go to Italy, only she would come back.  This is because Italians are so sexually aggressive that it's almost criminal - and none of them fight.  They are relentless when hitting on women, even if a guy is present.  And though I'd be able to put up with it for a while, trying to do my best to represent my country, eventually all that body hair that I have would take over and there'd be some major problems and I'd end up in jail, known in the Italian press as "l'orso americano della morte."  Because like I said, Italians don't fight.  Throwing a punch in the middle of a group of Italians is like throwing a rock in the middle of a group of pigeons - they freak out, make a bunch of noise, and get the hell out of there as quickly as possible (I've seen this first-hand).  This behavior, which was confirmed by other friends I know who have lived in Italy, was shocking to me because Italian-Americans are all about machismo.  What happened during the transition from real Italians, who don't fight, to Italian-Americans, who will fight you for breathing on their leather jacket?  Italian-Americans are like the kids who got bullied in grade school, then transferred to another grade school and immediately started bullying everyone in the new school so that they wouldn't get picked on anymore.  Well, I know your secret my Eyetal-American friends.  So watch it.  And by the way, you look ridiculous.]

[And the girl and I never made it to Italy.  Like everything else in my life, she and I had a great start, and then a meager, awkward finish.  I think I spent the Italy trip money on cocaine and harmonicas.  So it worked out for everyone.]  

Another benefit of older apartments is that they are typically large.  I know this might sound counter-intuitive.  You may be thinking, “But I thought the average person was like 4′11 in 1875, so wouldn’t the apartments be smaller?”  This is certainly true - studies have shown that the average height of a male in 1875 was exactly 4′11″ - but you’re missing the bigger picture.  Because literally dozens of immigrants lived per apartment in Manhattan, a lot of the older buildings have apartments that are quite large for a modern one or two bedroom.  For example, in my two bedroom apartment, there lived a family of twelve people in the 1930’s.  And yes, I completely made that up.  But if it were true, it wouldn’t surprise me.  Well, maybe a little bit.  But anyway…

But even though I love its history and its size, I hate a few other features of my apartment.  One in particular is unbearable: the heat.

I love to sleep in the cold.  This is not surprising, I guess, since when I go swimming it looks as though I’m looking for salmon.  In the summer, I blast the AC, keep the windows open in the spring and fall, and like the heat low in the winter time.

The past few weeks have been great sleeping weather in my apartment, as temperatures had begun to dip into the low 50’s about three weeks ago.  This is perfect.  I can sleep with the windows slightly open, just so I can bury myself in my two blankets among my four fluffy in my spectacular either 600 or 800 (I can’t remember) thread count sheets.  Glorious.  

But that all can to a swift end of Sunday night.  Because now it is heat week in my apartment.

At the end of last week, it was cold at night.  Very cold.  “It’s 40° and I can see my breath” cold.  And while I like the cold, contrary to what I might look like in the shower, I am not actually a bear.  So sleeping last week was tough as I tried to stay bundled up to stave off hypothermia.

(And if you’re keeping count at home, that’s three bear references, including one in Italian.)

I was getting frustrated with my shitty old building and began hoping for the heat to be turned on.  Sunday night I got into bed, braving the cold temperatures in my room, closed the windows and bundled up.  It was going to be a long, cold night.

Four hours later, I woke up nearly drowning.  Sometime after I had fallen asleep, the heat - the first heat of the season - kicked on.  And when it comes to heat in my apartment, there is no in-between.  It’s all or nothing (singed eyebrows when walking into my room be damned!).  I was covered in sweat.  I mean this in the most literal sense - sweat was over 100% of my body, staining my clothes and sheets.  My hair was matted to my forehead and my balls - my poor, poor balls - felt like sponge cake when I gave them a lil’ squeeze.

This extreme, out-of-nowhere heat phenomenon happened last year, so I at least knew what to expect.  My old roommate Brian and I called it “heat week”, because it took our bodies about a week to get used to the major temperature change in the apartment.  Each night this week has been a physical struggle, a test of endurance, to see how I can make sleeping work.  I’ve been experimenting with opening the windows at different angles, sleeping with different clothes on and with different blankets, even trying new positions on the bed - all in an attempt to reduce my body temperature without leaving the windows open enough to give me frostbite.

Especially challenging is how the heat only comes on at night, after I’m asleep.  When I get home from work and when I go to bed, my apartment is freezing.  It is only when I’ve fallen asleep and am blissfully dreaming about boobies made of pudding does the heat kick on, leaving me with something like sunstroke. 

(Also, it seems to gain momentum during the night.  When I lay down, let’s say it’s 58 in my bedroom.  At about 2am, it’ll be up to 70.  At 4am, maybe 77.  By the time I wake up, it’s gotta be around 85 in there.  Horrible, just horrible.)

So this week has not been a good one.  To all those I’ve been a dick to this week, please accept my apologies.  I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in a week and what sleep I have gotten has been most unpleasant, like taking your mattress into a sauna.  The good news is that heat week is almost over; my body is very weak and soon I will resign myself to the temperature extremes and be able to sleep through the night.  But until that happens, thank god for wine.  I don’t know if I would have made it through the week without breaking my hands while trying to murder my radiator without it. 

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to zone out at my desk and catch up some rest.  Thank you for understanding and please, let’s keep the loud noises to a minimum, ok?

halloween ideas, beards
Jason posted on October 24, 2006

I am completely stumped about what to do for a Halloween costume this year.  I typically don’t get very into Halloween, but I’ve come up with some pretty decent last minute costumes over the years:

- In 2004, I put on a leisure suit (which a friend bought for me at a garage sale in 1996 for 50¢) and shaved my beard, leaving the moustache.  I was my dad in 1977.

- In 2003, Brian and I (and our old roommate Ben) got all dolled up and went out as Siegfried, Roy, and Montecore the Tiger, thanks in large part to my friend Annie, who pretty much pulled the whole costume together for us while we drank her beer and yelled.

- In 2001, four of my college roommates and I put on the same type outfit (khaki pants, blue shirts) and went out as the Backstreet Boys (I shaved my beard like a Rican to match the dude on the right).

- In 2000, I shaved the beard and left the moustache again, and put on some Chicago Bears paraphernalia that my roommate had hanging on his walls (including a jersey from when he was 12).  I was one of the guys who says, "Da Bears!" 

- In 1999, clean shaven, I put on a suit with an open, butterfly-collared lime green shirt, wore my glasses, and took out one of my shitty guitars.  I was the guy from the Barenaked Ladies.

Not great, but certainly not shitty, either.  But you’ll notice one obstacle in most all of the costumes: my fucking beard.

I found some gray hairs in my beard a few weeks ago and was planning to shave it, but then realized that I should not wilt to vanity.  Also, a girl emailed me imploring me not to shave the beard, saying she’s had a thing for guys with beards since she was 15, which kinda creeped me out but also inspired me.

(Quick horrible beard story: in college, I was courting a girl for a while before she finally relented and let me make out with her.  So we’re in my room making out, just getting into it, when she stops, pulls away, and says, "I’m sorry, but your beard reminds me of something very bad that happened to me."  Wow.  Talk about your all time buzzkill.  She might as well have just said, "You taste like my uncle."  You might not be surprised to learn that that was the last time we made out.)

So now I’ve gone the other way with my beard and it’s probably the longest and thickest it’s ever been.  And I kinda dig it.  Sure, two weekends ago I had to listen to one female friend tell me it looked like "a beard of pubes" all night, and then the next afternoon another female friend actually said "Eww" while looking at me, but to hell with them.  I do not use or need my beard to get chicks.  As long as I have a high credit limit and the ability to dial a phone and/or use Craigslist, I’ll be fine in the ladies department.  Just fine. 

But come Halloween, the beard is limiting.  There are only so many costumes one can rock with a beard.  The old standard is Jesus, and though I’m certainly not the best Catholic in the world, I’m still not comfortable dressing like Jesus and doing what I do on most weekend nights (I don’t know how female bar bathrooms that Jesus "accidentally" walked into in His lifetime, but I’m sure I have Him beat). 

Aside from that, there are lame costumes for guys with beards, like a pirate or a monster or a guy in a toga or some shit.  And those costumes are shitty, except if you put a spin on them.  For example, being a pirate sucks, but being a racist pirate, well, that’s fucking hilarious.  However, the humor of the racist pirate may be lost on some fellow partygoers, who, for whatever reason, might take offense to that.  So maybe you could be a pirate with cancer or a pirate whose parents died in Hurricane Katrina.

(Ok, now we’re just getting stupid.)

(Well, more stupid than normal.)

My old roommate Brian and I have been planning on doing a joint costume for some time, but it would require a beard shave, so I’m backing off it.  I don’t feel too bad about this, since by "have been planning" I mean that we talked about six months ago, did nothing, talked about it again two days ago, and did more nothing.  So it’s not like Brian’s been slaving away on the costume or anything.

And I still hold out hope that one day I will be able to pull off my dream costume: Roxette.  The problem with that is that I’d need a girl to play the Girl Roxette.  That doesn’t sound like that big a deal - couldn’t I just get a female friend to do the costume with me? - but the thing is that I get really aroused on Halloween, what with all the dressing up going on and all, and I’d probably get very nasty and/or inappropriate with my co-Roxette.  So until I get married, no Roxette.  

Which is fine for me right now, because I don’t want to get rid of the beard.  So…this whole post is a roundabout way of seeking help from you all.  What can I be that is easy and allows me to keep my beard?  I have two ideas that I don’t want to share now (I’d like to keep them a secret in case I have to use them), but I’m not too proud to seek out ideas from y’all.  If you have a suggestion, please email me with "halloween costume" or something in the title.  I’m interested to see what you jagoffs have to suggest.

In the meantime, I’m going to sit back and play with my pube-beard.  I think it’s more like steel wool, but that’s probably because my pubes are as soft as a down comforter.  Well, a down comforter covered in saran wrap.  That’s about right. 

bachelor party disgracefulness
Jason posted on October 23, 2006

On Friday night, I got into Philly late. I had a major attack of insomnia on Thursday night and was a mess all day. It’s almost like clockwork; once every two months, seemingly out of nowhere, I’ll get walloped with a horrible night of lying awake in bed, stressing about all sorts of things that seemingly don’t matter much to me, in this case cats and mental institutions.

(I at least realize the source of these most recent nightmares - a book I’m reading called The Master and Margarita. Still, it would have been nice to have an appearance by my favorite nightmare character, a lady vampire who sexes me up and then strangles me, after which I wake up amidst a sea of pulled out chest hair. Can someone - preferably a psychologist or a drug addict - explain to me what this means?).

When I arrived in Philly at 9pm on Friday, I went out, stayed out late, and slept fitfully. I woke up early on Saturday because a dog was stepping on my face and was not able to fall back asleep after that (after having nightmares about cats, being woken up suddenly from a drunken slumber by a dog walking all over me was pretty fucking terrifying). I gorged myself on some creamed chipped beef, my favorite food ever, returned home from my local diner, and took a nap. From noon until 4:30pm.

Why do I tell you all this? Because, jerk, I’m trying to set the stage for Saturday night, the reason I was home in Philly. That night was my buddy Jimmy the Muppet’s bachelor party. Because if I did anything regrettable, I blame it entirely on my messed up sleep cycle.

*******

I realize that there is an unwritten rule about bachelor parties, something like “What happens at a bachelor party should not be disseminated via the internet to thousands of strangers, forever recorded in the annals of the web to be googled at any point in time in the future.” But I’m kind of hard up for material, so fuck it.

And aside from that, everyone was (reasonably) well-behaved at this bachelor party. The groom-to-be, Jimmy, is normally a pretty timid guy whose behavior was stellar (and no, I’m not just saying that because he gave me $200 to do so). Also, the rest of the guys on the party were well-behaved too. If anything, my behavior was (arguably) the most not good.

The bachelor party started at a buddy’s house, where we had hired two strippers to do all sorts of horrible things to each other, things that make you blush, laugh, yell, and vomit all at the same time. But only one stripper showed up. The other, presumably, had gotten murdered and couldn’t make it. But our stripper, Destiny, who (I’d guess) was 25 but looked 35 with ginormous fake breasts, tried to allay our fears about her coming alone, saying that this would allow for “more interaction” with the partygoers.

Well.

I’ve written before that I’m damn near terrified of strippers. Something about them - possibly the amount of dicks they’ve been through or the variety of household items they’ve stuck in their sexy place for $15 or the herpes that is just running roughshod on their upper lip there - just kinda turns me off. I know - I’m crazy and less of a man. Throw in that I’m a sappy drunk and I turn into the guy at the strip club saying things like, “Move to New York, come live with me, and we’ll make a family. I promise I’ll be a good husband and moderately capable lover.” and “Destiny - why do you do this? I can take you away from it all. And no, I will not pay you $8 to watch you stick my wallet in your ass.” and “Baby, let’s go right now. A train will take us to Penn Station in under two hours. Wait, the whole wallet or just a corner of it? With or without my credit cards in there?”

So when Destiny said the thing about more interaction with the guys, I made sure to stay on the fringes of the group and make a b-line for the yard (where the beer was) if she was looking for volunteers. The good news is that I was able to do this fairly easily.

The good news is also that over the next hour, I and the rest of my buddies learned many things from Destiny. Chief among them: paying $60 for a handjob from a stripper - who minutes before you watched spit in your friend’s ass crack - sounds like a great idea in theory, but in actuality…not so much. At least that’s what I heard. From someone else. Not from myself.

And that’s really all I’ll say about that. I’m just glad this whole blog’s fictional or else I’d have some explaining to do to my wife.

(But for the record, we all know that paying for handjobs is not a big deal, since it the only sex act that you can close your eyes during and easily pretend it’s yourself. Except you don’t smell like vanilla candles and pain pills. And you don’t sound like a garbage disposal when you breathe. And you probably wouldn’t stick two of your fingers in your ass while masturbating. But the point: handjobs are totally not a big deal. Now no more talk of this part of the evening.)

(Well, I’ll say one more thing, because I haven’t been writing much and would do you a disservice if I left it out: a buddy of mine was stripped down to his boxers and laid on the floor on a few towels. Destiny then placed a bottle of beer on his bird, which was not exposed but under the boxers. Destiny then squatted down and - bless her skanky lil’ heart - started making love to the bottle of beer. At this point, every guy in the room was on the floor screaming, laughing, and retching. I, of course, was eating Doritos. But then, just when we thought it couldn’t get any worse, Destiny stood up and removed the beer bottle from her secret place and beer streamed everywhere, like champagne in a post-game celebration. Screaming, laughing, retching, times ten. Then, just when we thought it couldn’t get any worse, Destiny, um, opened herself and shot leftover beer from her privates onto my buddy, lying below her. Several times. Opening and closing. Over and over again. Words. None. When it was all over, I felt like I had just been in a fight: sweaty, agitated, pissed off, and sore. So yeah, it was pretty fucking sweet.)

(Also, the name for my fifth book: Sweaty, Agitated, Pissed Off and Sore: How Jason Mulgrew and a Band of Misfits took Down the World’s Greatest Porno Empire (With a Foreword by Elvis Costello). It has a nice ring to it, right? I could sell it on the title alone!)

(God, I’m going to be the worst writer in the history of the world.)

After the “show,” we headed in a bus to a local strip club for more “entertainment.” We went to a strip club I’ve been to several times before and had a private room, so I felt comfortable. However, my comfortableness did not prevent me from drinking whiskey sodas like, um, something easily drinkable and spending enough money in two hours for a nice vacation on the coast of Italy.

I had been laying off the whiskey because Larry was beginning to take over my life. But tonight, with the help of said whiskeys, he was unleashed. And he had some business to take care of.

For some reason, Larry thought it would be a good idea to give strippers $5 bills instead of $1 bills, because that’s just how he rolls. And there were a lot strippers in the private room. And a lot of bill giving. I won’t say how much I spent, because I’ll only wind up throwing up again, but one of my buddies, who I was hanging out at the strip club with the most, had $200 in $1 bills on him. He spent them all. And we were similar in our spending habits. So do the math on that one and get back to me. God damn you, Larry. God damn you straight to hell.

As if I wasn’t disgracing myself and my family’s good name enough, I decided to fall in love with a stripper at the club. I’ve gone on at length at my type of woman: big busted, tan, good dancer, hoop earrings, messy ponytail, sass mouth. So since my type of woman sounds like a stripper anyway, it follows that I’d at least fall in love with a decent-looking stripper, yes? Again, in theory perhaps this would be true. Not in real life.

The objection of my affection (read: the girl I was giving so much money to that she was essentially robbing me) was probably the most unattractive stripper at the club. Now, the club was kinda high end so it’s not like this girl was picking at her scabs or anything, but on the whole, she wasn’t attractive compared to the other girls. For one, she had no boobies, which is not a dealbreaker in and of itself, but she just wasn’t good-looking. She was plain, very plain.

BUT – she did have one thing that got me: sexy librarian glasses.  Every one of my ex-wives (which is how I refer to my ex-girlfriends now, which I’m sure wouldn’t creep them out at all if they knew this) had these glasses and though I don’t recall being especially into them at the time, I guess subconsciously I’m attracted to the sexy nerd look (hell, one of my ex-wives was actually a real life librarian).

And I’ve always liked smart girls. I’m not talking smarter than me or anything, because that’s no good. The perfect girl is always just a little less intelligent than I am, so that we can converse but if she starts running her sass mouth off I can drop a little knowledge to shut her up, like, “Oh yeah? Aristotle died in 322 BC. So there’s that.” or “1812 – remember that year? Well, former Massachusetts governor Elbridge Gerry does, because that’s when he invented gerrymandering. But you probably knew that.” This is how you win an argument with a girl who thinks she’s smart.

Whereas my darling stripper, whose name I can’t recall but who we shall call Stacey, was probably not nearly as smart as I am, sexy librarian glasses notwithstanding. And I’m not saying this because I’m smart or anything, but because I watched her put her shirt on backwards three times and once I saw her trying to eat her shoes. But I’m the moron because I spend all week studying trends in M&A so I can give Stacey my money so that she and her boyfriend can go to Greece next summer. God damn you, Larry. God damn you straight to hell.

(And I would have given her more if it had not been for my buddy Chris, who in front of Stacey said, “Mulgrew’s got a girlfriend.” I made a joke about how she and I were going to get married soon, which I’m sure at the time was only a half joke, maybe even a third of a joke, and then I never saw her again. Methinks the fire in my eyes and the passion in my loins was enough to keep her hiding in the kitchen for the rest of the night. But hey, she had already made enough money that evening, so good play on her part.)

After the strip club, it was back to the local bar, the last stop on the bachelor party. Fortunately, I don’t remember much of this part of the evening, as my belly was full with whiskey and my testes swollen with semen. At that point, I just wanted to do and eat. I’ll give one guess as to which one worked out.

*******

In conclusion, yes, I had a good time. And yes, I’ve spent most of my free time since in the shower, scrubbing myself and weeping. But again, I can take solace in the knowledge that if I had only been sleeping normally, none of this would have happened and I wouldn’t have to eat fingernails for dinner for the next month to make up the difference in my bank account. So let this be a lesson: get a good night’s sleep before a bachelor party. And stay away from whiskey. And don’t be a lonely drunk with a big (but fake) ego and a tiny penis. Because that is a lethal combination.

(At least that’s what I heard. From someone else. Not from myself.)

streetwars: a tale of life and death, once passionate but quickly apathetic (a dry recap)
Jason posted on October 18, 2006

About a year and a half ago, I was watching CNN when an investigative report came on about an "assassins" game.  The game worked like this: a person signs up, gets a "target" and information on this target (where he/she lives and works), and has to assassinate this target by shooting him/her with a water gun.  Not only that, but just as a player has a target, that player is being hunted as well by someone else in the game.  The report showed young people, mostly in their twenties, stalking their prey with water guns in tow, and the players spoke about the adrenaline rush of both hunting and being hunted. The game was called StreetWars.

This idea intrigued me.  Not because I’ve ever fashioned myself an assassin, but because I like murder shows and I’m generally considered a creepy guy.  Being able to legally stalk someone - even "kill" them - kinda turned me on (and I mean that in the most sexual way possible).  As I am internet savvy, I went to the StreetWars website and signed up to be reminded when the game came to NYC (the CNN report showed people playing in Los Angeles).  And then I completely forgot about it.

Fast forward to a little under two months ago and a reminder popped up in my email inbox telling me StreetWars was coming to NYC.  My interest was repiqued, but then my laziness set in - hunting someone seemed like a lot of work.  That night, I went out for my buddy Jeremy’s birthday and got drunk, as all my friends did.  Since my group of friends spends so much time together we’re quickly and quietly morphing into the characters from friends (I’m Monica), during one of the many lulls in the conversation I brought up StreetWars.  My friends were intrigued.  Then we did some shots.  And then next thing I knew, Brian, Corinne, Jeremy and I had signed up for StreetWars as a team.  The hunt would soon be on.  We were the Hashish Assassins.  Don’t fuck with us. 

[It should be more widely known that the words "hash" and "assassination" are related.  Marco Polo wrote about a Muslim leader who used hash to dupe young men into joining his personal army.  Basically this leader would throw a big party and get these young men fucked up on hash, then he'd throw all sorts of food and women at them and show them a grand old time.  The young men would then pass out and when they awoke, the leader would say that he took them to heaven.  If they wanted to get back to heaven to enjoy the women and food, they had to do his bidding, namely kill mother fuckers.  So they became assassins.  Because of hashish.  I know I'm butchering this legend a little bit, but I can assure you it's at least 75% true.  So there.]

I, like the rest of my friends, grew excited about StreetWars.  I knew that there was something inherently nerdy about it, but hey - sometimes nerdiness isn’t all bad (I can’t believe…I just…wrote that).  Besides - stalking!  Fake shooting!  Kinda murder!  C’mon people - what’s not to love here!

In order to get the information about our target, our team, like all the other players, had to head to a random place in Queens to meet the organizers of the game.  I could not attend, as I was getting bombed after watching an Eagles game.  Nor could Corinne, so Jeremy and Brian made the trek out to Queens to pick up our shit.  I wrote about this before, so I’ll just cut and paste: 

[In Queens to pick up our target's dossier, Jeremy and Brian] 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.

This is when we first realized that StreetWars might be even nerdier than we anticipated. 

But at the time, we were still into it.  Since the four of us were in a team, we all shared the same target, a guy who was a lawyer at the courts here in NYC.  In a way, it was unfair, since all four of us were going after him. 

But there was a negative to being part of a team.  For whatever reason, Jeremy was chosen as leader of our team.  This meant that if Jeremy were to be assassinated, the entire team would be eliminated (whereas if I were shot, I’d be the only one out).  So while we could work as a team to go after our target, we also had to essentially act as bodyguards for Jeremy. 

As the game started, I put the over/under for our survival at three days.  I had seen the CNN report and knew that people got very into this - taking vacation days from work to sit outside a target’s home for hours and the like.  And after Jeremy and Brian went to Queens and told Corinne and I about all the Star Wars-lovin’ geeks that were involved, I figured that slackers like us wouldn’t stand a chance.

And I was kinda right.  But at least we made a kill.

On Monday night, the first night of the game, I actually picked up Jeremy from work, water pistol drawn, and escorted him to a bar next door to his apartment (StreetWars rules stipulate that you are safe inside bars, but not restaurants - this place was somewhere in the middle).  There, we were eating wings with our friend Meredith when a guy walked up to Jeremy with his water pistol out and said, "Are you stalking me?"  It turns out that this guy was in line with Jeremy and Brian picking up the dossiers in Queens.  As he was one of the few normal people there, the three struck up a conversation.  But now, he was standing in front of my leader with his gun in his side, looking threatening, as I, Jeremy’s protector, had wing sauce on my face, beard, hands, hair, and feet (don’t ask).  Awesome fucking bodyguard, am I.

Jeremy said "No" and asked the guy if he was stalking him, expecting to be shot.  Instead, the guy said that he wasn’t stalking Jeremy either, but was in the bar watching the Monday Night Football game with his buddies.  The two immediately relaxed and I breathed a sigh of relief and resumed eating wings (ok, I never stopped).  Jeremy added, "We’re in a bar anyway", but the guy countered "This is more of a restaurant, isn’t it?" and the two went back and forth arguing whether or not this was a safe zone.  The guy said that his target lived around the area but he was there, again, just to hang out with his buddies.  They talked for a bit more and then the guy left to go to the bathroom.

After he left, Meredith was the first to say, "You know - he kinda looks like your target."  Jeremy pulled out the picture of our target and wouldn’t you know it - the guy who was just speaking to Jeremy, who we will call Sam, was our fucking target.  I could see why this wasn’t instantly recognized: Sam was thugged out in the picture we had of him, with a Knicks jersey and spiked hair, while the guy we were just talking to was very corporate and conservative.  But the fact remained - he was our guy.  All we had to do was shoot him.

But we didn’t, mostly because we were eating wings.  By the time we decided to act, Sam had left the bar.  This made us mad at ourselves, but also raised a few red flags.  Why, if he was at the bar to watch the game with his friends, did he leave when it had just started?  Was he onto us?  Or was he really Jeremy’s assassin but unable to shoot him because he was in a safe zone?  Hmm…

The result was four days of paranoia - including Jeremy staying over at my apartment for two nights - that ended only when Jeremy walked outside his place to find Sam, our target, his possible assassin, standing there.  Playing it cool, Jeremy struck up a conversation with Sam, who allowed that his target lived only two doors away from Jeremy.  As Jeremy tells it, he then said, "Oh yeah? Well how about this!" and then shot Sam, but I imagine he let out more of a "moo"-type sound and awkwardly sprayed Sam with his water gun, possibly dropping it and also prematurely ejaculating when doing so.  Either way, we had our first kill.  Victors. 

The rules of StreetWars stipulate that once you "kill" someone, you take his or her target and hunt that person.  Sam handed his target’s info to Jeremy and clued him in on some intelligence he had gathered: Sam’s target, our new target, was a lawyer at a big-time law firm in midtown and worked long and erratic hours.  Sam, however, had a buddy on the inside of his target’s firm who checked the log book to see what time the target arrived at work each day.  Armed with his information, Sam was convinced that his target was not staying at his place - possibly staying at his lover’s - because Sam had been outside his apartment for hours each morning, each time in the range that his target signed into work.  Something was fishy…

And this is the point when we pretty much gave up.  The thrill of our first kill proved fleeting and was replaced by apathy.  No member of the team had any interest in staking out a guy who was clearly not staying at his apartment (a violation of the rules, by the way).  And also, it was apparent that no one was coming after Jeremy.  After a few first jitters on the first few days, Jeremy felt completely safe - he didn’t see any suspicious people, never felt like he was being followed - nothing.  It appeared that the only people more lazy than us - killers by accident because our target was practically delivered to Jeremy - were the people hunting Jeremy.

(Brian and I had long resigned ourselves to the fact that no one was hunting us.  I was pretty much the easiest target in the world, since I work regular hours, walk everywhere, and a simple google search would bring my assassin to this website, where he could learn all kinda shit about me.  Corinne thought she was being targeted, but Brian and I chalked up her fears to being a crazy girl.  She did not like that and went so far to point out that I’m more of a crazy girl than she is.  And she’s right.)

So for the next few days after our kill, which took place on Day 4, we did nothing.  We still carried around our water pistols, but I was no longer escorting Jeremy out of work, none of us were taking alternative routes home, we were barely talking about it.  The thrill was gone and our emails turned from discussions about StreetWars to "Have you ever gotten high at work? Highly recommended."

Then, on Day 11, the end finally came.  Jeremy was buzzed walking back to his apartment and someone approached him at his door, asked if he was Jeremy, then shot him.  Elimination, at long last.  Jeremy’s assassin turned out to be a cool guy who even bought Jeremy a drink at the bar next door and appeared extremely high.  I pointed out that it would probably be more acceptable to be killed by the nerd who’s been plotting for days than the guy who gets high in his apartment all day long, but no one listened to me.  They never do.  Which they will regret one day.

(I hope.)

**********

In the end, StreetWars was another typical chapter of my life: a lot of promise and enthusiasm at the start, but ending with a whimper and an awkward goodbye.  This can be said for pretty much every endeavor, job, and relationship I’ve ever had in my life.  But at least I’m consistent.  I kinda smell pretty good, too.  But that’s about it.

(Let’s just end this before I get too depressed.  And yes, I am getting some ice cream tonight - thank you for asking.)  

maiden
Jason posted on October 17, 2006

Those who know me in real life know that, despite being a big music lover, I do not go to many concerts.  Those who know me in real life also know that I have the worst speaking voice in the history of mankind and so prefer for all my interaction to occur via email, text message, or dance.  But we will save this for another time.

I’m not exactly sure why I don’t go to concerts more often.  I’d like to give an understandable explanation like, "When I was little, my uncle took me to a Bon Jovi concert because I loved Bon Jovi and then, long story short, Bon Jovi killed my uncle.  Twice.  So I don’t like to go to concerts." 

But unfortunately (or rather, fortunately), this did not happen.  Instead, I think the main reasons why I don’t like to go to concerts are because a) I am lazy and b) rarely does the musician/band live up to my expectations. 

Concerts are a lot of work - you have to find someone to go with, buy the tickets, travel to wherever the hell the show is, find your seats or stand the whole time, pay $7 per beer which makes you have to piss, then halfway through you’re checking your watch and sending text messages to your buddies about your date, like "I think she has hairier balls than I do" and "She smells like a little like cat piss and a lot like old sex" - it’s just unpleasant for everyone.  

But all this doesn’t mean that I never attend concerts.  My first concert was Paula Abdul with Color Me Badd opening.  My second was the Grateful Dead (how’s that for progress?).  I’ve seen Elvis Costello almost a dozen times, Glenn Tilbrook a bunch, then a variety of different acts, from Phish and Page/Plant to Wilco and the Who.    

(Pretty smooth with the P’s and W’s, right?  That’s why they pay me the big bucks.  Real writer-shit, right there.)

So I occasionally go out to venues to see some live music.  But it is rare that a perfect storm develops, providing the fan (or, as in my case, the jerk with nothing better to do on a Friday night) with the opportunity to see some great live music, in an incredible location, among at once some of the nerdiest and most frightening people in North America.

Last Friday, the 13th of October, was such a perfect storm.  My friends and I saw Iron Maiden at the Continental Airlines Arena in East Rutherford, New Jersey.  And no, I’m not joking.

Nor am I an Iron Maiden fan.  I was aware of Iron Maiden just as I am aware of white women who only date black men - I know they’re out there, and I know they’re not to be taken seriously.  And like white women who only date black men, everything I need to know about Iron Maiden I learned from VH1 Classic.  I knew that they’re death metal, or at least heavy, heavy metal (I’ve seen them also described as "doom metal").  I knew about Eddie, the band’s mascot, a giant monster who appears on stage and randomly hangs out for a song or two, much to the delight of the crowd.  And I knew they were loud.  And that’s about all I knew.

The idea of going to see Maiden was suggested by my old roommate Brian.  His college buddy, Jeff, who can only (but accurately) be described as a Southern metalhead, was driving up from Virginia to see the show.  This so humored Brian that he suggested a bunch of us go, just to check it out.  The prospect of some serious comedy at an Iron Maiden show on Friday the 13th in October - in New Jersey, no less - was too much to pass up and so after work on Friday afternoon, my friends Brian, Jeremy, Corinne and I met in midtown and soon were in Corinne’s car driving to Jersey.  Ten miles and two hours later, we had arrived.  It was time to rock our balls off. 

Research, Metal-Style
Before I got to the concert, I did a little research, downloading two dozen or so of Iron Maiden’s songs from LimeWire.  I figured I should have at least some idea of what kind of music I’d be listening to when some guy with tattoos was punching me in the face. 

And to be honest, I kind of dug Maiden’s music.  Sure, it’s not my typical cup of tea, but it has its place.  The song titles alone are worth it.  Maiden is responsible for such masterpieces as "Hallowed Be Thy Name", "The Number of the Beast", "Sea of Madness" (not to be confused with "Can I Play With Madness"), and my personal favorite, "Bring Your Daughter to the Slaughter" (I’m such a sucker for internal rhyme).  Another one of their songs is called "Alexander the Great" and I remember when listening to it for the first time being surprised that the song was about…Alexander the Great.  Literally, the lyrics talk about Philip of Macedon and Asia Minor and the Tigris River and all kinds of crazy shit.  This, for whatever reason, shocked me. 

(I mean, am I a moron for not expecting the song to be about Alexander the Great?  Perhaps I thought it was a metaphor or something.  I brought this up to my buddy Brian and he said, "It’s like they want to teach you before they blow your brains out."  Sometimes Brian can be really wise.)

Bonus points for the band because their lead singer is named Bruce Dickinson.  No, not THE Bruce Dickinson. 

[youtube]PyJ_8_SmHU4[/youtube]

Iron Maiden’s Bruce Dickinson, according to his website, enjoys fencing and flying planes and has written two books about a character named Lord Iffy Boatrace.  Not surprisingly, Bruce is also interested in Aleister Crowley and even wrote a movie script about him.  And it goes without saying that he too, when he puts his pants on, makes gold records.  I don’t know about you guys, but I kinda want to fuck him.

Pre-Game, Maiden-Style
Because traffic out of Manhattan on a Friday evening is deplorable, we got to the concert at 8pm, just as doors were opening.  This made us kinda sad, because we were hoping to take in the hoi poloi at your typical Iron Maiden tailgate in Jersey.  It wasn’t a total loss, since it didn’t take long to locate a lot of bad hair, a lot of drinking, and a lot of people who still live with their parents.

Maiden fans on the whole were not that scary.  I was expecting deviants and devil worshippers.  I made a point to change out of my work clothes and into something more casual before going into the show, fearing that wearing my Banana Republic slacks and Brooks Brothers shirt would be the equivalent of putting a "Rape Me" sign on my chest.  Instead, the crowd was not scary but rather stuck in 1983.  I’m not saying there weren’t some people there who have spent significant time in prison, but for the most part, I felt safe.  I even put the "Rape Me" sign on anyway and wasn’t even approached.  Which sucked.  

Another downside about arriving so late to the concert was that I didn’t get messed up enough.  I do not like to drink at concerts, as I have a bladder the size of a three year old girl’s.  So I forego beer because I don’t like to go take a piss every other song.  However, before shows I do greatly enjoy those funny cigarettes that make you hungry and happy.  But my friend Corinne has some ridiculous rule about not smoking pot in her car (fucking narc), so I and a few others were only able to enjoy after our arrival.  The point: I didn’t get high enough.  I was not thrilled about this but would soon forgot about it.  Because I was about to get my cock rocked off. 

Iron Maiden = Spinal Tap?
I don’t really have a joke about this but I’m not ashamed to say that Iron Maiden totally fucking rocked.  They were pretty much what I expected from listening to their stuff: a singer, three (!) guitarists, a bass player, and a drummer on a set made to look like a cave, rocking the fuck out.  Hard, heavy, loud.  So, awesome.     

I am also pretty sure that Iron Maiden was the inspiration for mockumentary band Spinal Tap.  I’m sure that Christopher Guest and Co. took elements from other rock bands of the genre and era, but Maiden had to be tops on the list.   

Specifically, this guy, guitarist Janick Gers, is the real life David St. Hubbins.  And not just because they look the same, but because Janick was acting like quite like David does in Spinal Tap, throwing his guitar in the air, swinging it around, pointing it at the crowd with his tongue out, sticking it between his legs - pretty much every ridiculous on-stage move you can imagine.  My buddy Jeremy and I decided that there was no way he was actually playing guitar, because when he wasn’t carrying on, he was strumming out of time and he was barely doing so anyway.  It’s like they turned off the volume on his guitar and said, "Go and have some fun out there." 

(Worth noting is that minutes after Jeremy and I finished having this discussion, Brian tapped me on the shoulder and said, "Corinne and I were just talking and there’s no way that blonde guitarist on the right is actually playing."  So it wasn’t just us.  Good job, Janick.  Way to sell it, way to sell it.) 

I Love Metal Chicks
The Metal Chick is a type of woman I had been previously unfamiliar with.  She’s the oldest, lamest sister of the Heroine Chic Girl and the Hipster Fucker.  She’s got some tats like her youngest sister the Hipster Fucker and loves drugs as much as her middle sister the Heroine Chic Girl, but she’s drastically different in other ways.  Her hair is out of style, but not in an ironic way like her baby sister’s.  She’s crazy, but not in the "I’ll kill myself" way of her middle sister (indeed, her type of craziness is more "I’ll kill you" than anything else). 

But the Metal Chick is not without her charms, and first and foremost of these is her sexy-ass body.  I know, you may be shocked to read this, but I was surprised at how many mid-30’s Metal Chicks at this concert had very good bodies, nice boobies and heinies built from years of being angry and rocking.  That doesn’t mean there wasn’t a fair share of 200-pounders sucking on bongs with vast stretches of inked-up pale flesh exposed from their ill-fitting Maiden shirts, but on the whole, I was surprised.  And happy.  Because I like good bodies, you know, since I have one now. 

(By the way, I’m down 40 pounds, so suck on that.) 

My friends and I sat in front of one of these good-bodied Metal Chicks and by the end of the concert - between her gyrating and rocking the fuck out and the speed and intensity of the music - I was planning on committing a sex crime.  The thought of going back to that Metal Chick’s dingy apartment in Westfield, New Jersey to fuck her on her kitchen floor while listening to "Run to the Hills" was too much to bear and I asked my buddy Jeremy to start making out with me to turn me off.  He complied.  Without getting too into it, talk about your all-time backfires.  Let’s just move on.   

Family o’ Mexicans
Another group of fans near us was a family of Mexicans, maybe a dozen of them.  What’s so interesting about this was that they were all exactly the same.  I don’t mean that they all looked the same, but that they were the same.  It was impossible to differentiate not only their ages, but also their sexes.  It was thirteen of the same exact person.  The only reason I know that some of them were women was because couples were paired off and cuddling.  Otherwise, I wouldn’t have known.  There were all the same height (maybe 5′0") with the same hairstyle and all wearing similar clothes.  It was both fascinating and nightmarish.  And when the lights came off, after Maiden had the crowd on its feet through its raging encore, I couldn’t get away from those little Mexicans fast enough.  Scary little mother fuckers, they were. 

After the Concert
While it took us two hours to travel ten miles on our way to the arena, it took us only about fifteen minutes to make it back to the city.  We were all pretty pumped up and so decided to go out that night.  We split up, each of us retreating to drop our shit at our homes, shower, change, and then head out. 

It was your typical Friday night for the most part.  I started drinking after the concert and fixed myself a way-too-potent vodka red bull while showering and singing "Fear of the Dark" and soon was at the bar with the rest of the crew and some additional friends.  Brian’s buddy, Jeff, the Southern metalhead whose idea it was to see Iron Maiden in the first place, was so happy that I actually enjoyed the concert that he kept buying me drinks all night.  I thought, based on their color and taste, that these were vodka tonics.  In my inebriated state, I was confused.  They were vodka red bulls.   

Remember, I am a pussy with caffeine - one diet coke will keep me going all day long.  I had already had a red bull that night.  Then I had at least four between the hours of 2am and 4am.  Not good.   

The result?  After getting home, I was up until 7am.  I sat in the shower for an hour reading (or rather, trying to read), then, as I am wont to do when drunk, decided to cut my own hair.  As you might guess, I did not do a very good job and so had to get a haircut yesterday to fix my mistakes.  Of which there were several. 

When I finally fell asleep, I slept for only three hours before waking up, feeling like I could run a marathon.  This feeling lasted only a few hours on Saturday, and when it went away, I crashed hard - so hard that I didn’t even make it out Saturday night.  Ugh. 

(Though I made up for it by drinking from 1pm until 11pm on Sunday.  It was the only way I could deal with that terrible Eagles’ loss.  But let’s not get into that…) 

*********** 

All in all, Iron Maiden was a great experience.  So much so that while I don’t think I’d follow them around the country, I would probably go see them again.  Next time, I’d get there earlier, bring a lot more weed, and study up on what turns Metal Chicks on.  Because I want me one of those. 

(Except if those Mexicans are there again.  I’m not going near those sons of bitches.  Because that shit was messed up.)

busy/travels, emails i, emails ii, mom convo, black eye/suit, music, maiden
Jason posted on October 13, 2006

Over the next two months, I’m fixing to be very busy.  This is a warning.  Lots of stuff going on.

Also, I will be making many travels (which is far superior and much more romantic than saying "I’ll be traveling").  I’m in Philly next weekend for my friend Jimmy the Muppet’s bachelor party and will be in Boston in mid-November for another BC football game (read: drunkfest) either on 11/11 or 11/18.  I will also be going west, with my triumphant return to Seattle planned tentatively for early December - though this is very much up in the air as it involves three of my buddies and I organizing a trip (wish us luck).  And of course, I will be in LA at least once between now and Christmas, but have no idea when.  I’ll probably get a call on a Monday asking me to be out there for a Wednesday meeting, which will be fun. 

So I ask for your patience and understanding over the next two months.  That doesn’t mean I’m going to post any less - I have no idea how this will affect posting - but the angry "post more!" emails have started to trickle in and they always hurt my feelings.  Also, one dude from Bangkok emailed me saying that when I recently lost weight I also lost some brain and funniness, although he did admit that he was drunk at the time he was writing (true story).  So that softened the blow a little bit. 

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

Speaking of angry emails, the recent sports posts have caused a torrent of emails.  And they were pretty much completely divided in half.  Half came from guys (and sports-interested ladies) either asking questions or refuting some of the points I made.  And of course, I responded to 90% of these emails because, well, I fucking love sports. 

But the other half…[sigh]

The other half came from ladies or foreigners who were not happy with my sports posts.  They basically went like this:

Jason,

What the hell?  Your sports posts are BORING.  Go back to being funny!  I’m bored

Sara/Christine/Molly/Heather/Tricia/Someone from Germany or Australia

Ladies (and Germans and Australians), there is a rule here that we have at jasonmulgrew.com that I apparently need to remind you about.  I won’t get too into it, for fear I lose you with all the complicated legalese, but the gist of the rule is that you can not complain about the content of the site unless i) you have donated or ii) my bird has - at the very least - been in your hand.  Otherwise, it’s not exactly right to complain about a free service, is it?

I don’t want to start saying things that we might not mean, but you know that Uncle Jason tries very hard to bring you quality entertainment almost every day, often at the risk of his employment status, his romantic prospects, and his general health.  But sometimes both Jason and Larry get a little tired and need a break.  Remember, it’s a miracle that we’ve gotten 2.5 years out of this blog, since it only has so few themes:

- I’m fat
- Women don’t like me
- I like getting messed up
- I have really, really low self-esteem 

That’s not very much to work with, is it?  Jason and Larry both like sports and sometimes they want to talk about them, especially because it’s easy.  

So in the future, I ask for a little more understanding.  I promise you that this will not turn into a sports blog.  But it’s decidedly not awesome to log on to read 20 emails at a time from women (and Germans and Australians) yelling at you to entertain them.  Unless you’re paying me or providing me with hand-relief, that doesn’t seem fair, does it? 

(And re: sports - I know that I went 0-4 in my baseball playoff predictions, even after saying that I was picking perfectly this year.  I don’t think there’s any need for me to pick for the rest of the playoffs, since I’m obviously not very good at it.  So let me just stick to my strengths, which lately have been eating lots of oatmeal and feeling lonely at night.)

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

Switching gears a little bit, Wednesday’s post about what my friend Laura said to her pseudo-ex inspired a shit load of emails, and, if I’m being totally honest here, 99% of them sucked.  Not to pick on the ladies again (we’ll leave the Germans and Australians out of this one), but many girls wrote in to tell me about some "crazy" shit that she had said or did to her ex-boyfriend and nothing came close to Laura’s original comment.

Instead, most of these women wrote in something like one of the following:

- "So I learned my boyfriend was cheating on me and I said - in front of all his friends - ‘Fuck you, jerk!’  He laughed, but I knew it hurt him really bad."
- "My boyfriend and I kinda broke up but then had this big fight to end the relationship and I told him that he had a little dick!  Crazy, right?"
- "My ex started seeing another girl and I saw him out with his buddies one night.  So I ignored him.  Then I left him a voicemail saying he was bad in bed!  I know - I’m a total crazy girl."

No, sister, you are not. 

Anyway, I did got some emails that made me laugh.  The first was from Carlos in NYC:

My buddy and his girlfriend were in a couple’s fight similar to the one you wrote about.  In the middle, she pauses, looks him dead in the eye and says "Everything that makes you sad, makes me happy."  Ouch.  There’s really…i mean…who would…just ouch.

They’re getting married in April and that little nugget will find itself in the best man’s speech if I get 3 too many Kettle One and tonics.

I think that’s totally acceptable material for a best man’s speech, especially when it’s a loving statement like that.  And of course, I’m kidding.  I recently helped a buddy of mine craft his best man speech for a friend and he was seriously considering including a line about the bride’s "cans" and seem genuinely surprised when I told him that probably wasn’t a good idea.  When I have to teach you about tact, well, that’s not a good sign. 

John from Long Island had a doozy:

I’m not normally one to e-mail bloggers, but I read your shit every day, and your most recent post on ex-girlfriends and their demonic, whorish ways has inspired me, to say the least.

I dated a girl for about three years; lost my virginity to her, the whole nine yards.  Now, the relationship ended on somewhat of a sour note- I was with another girl, etc.  Standard fare for an 19 year old kid.  Well, let me tell you, that was a big fucking mistake, to say the least.  I had seen my cheating as more of a "staggering drunk, looking-for-any-moist-hole-I-could-find" kind of thing, while she saw it as more of a "personal attack, self esteem decimating, invalidating her very existence as a female" kind of thing.  Rational, I know. 

So, as these things tend to go, we ended up hooking up for most of the summer, with me thinking I had won her back with my stunning charm and guile (I was certainly still in love with her, and was absolutely positive she was with me.)  Ho ho.  So late one evening, she calls me up, seemingly a little intoxicated, and as we were talking and flirting, I was trying to plan out the best route to buy condoms and get to her house in the least amount of time.  She’s laughing and giggling, being cute and reminding me while I was still in love with her, and I tell her I am leaving in a few minutes and should be over there in ten minutes or so.  As I am saying this, I hear the door to her house open, and a male voice say something to her.  Pause.  She laughs again, with me in mid-sentence, just kind of hanging on the last word of "I’ll be overrr……". 

Thoroughly confused, although completely unaware that I am about to be absolutely eviscerated, I ask her "who the fuck is that?"  She replies with: "Oh, that’s Mark (my friend who lived four doors down from me since elementary school).  I’m going to fuck him now… I gotta go."  ::silence::  Me: "you fucking whore."  Her: (laughs) "and his penis is MUCH bigger than yours."  *click* 

Awesome right?  So I don’t know how it stacks up in real life, but it seemed like it should be able to hang with your story, and it certainly was the worst female-related moment of my life.

In a follow-up email, he added:

The worst part about the whole ordeal, and part I neglected to actually spell out (I was way too fucking fired up when I was typing it out) was that she actually made the conscious decision to call him, set up the late-night booty call, then call me, knowing that I was ready to stop over.  Fucking mind-boggling right?

Yikes.  We all know that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, but that is a real stinger right there.  But John, I don’t think it’s your fault.  Just because your girl misconstrued the point or intention of your cheating doesn’t make you a bad guy - it just makes her crazy.

But Vernon from Chevy Chase, MD takes the cake:

I was having a meal with an ex of mine whom i had dated for 4 years…i broke up with her and was really pretty over her

now before i go further i should mention she NEVER let me have anal sex with her…ever

during lunch she comments she’s seeing a new guy and i’m happy for her and whatnot…she then goes on to mention "and we had anal sex last weekend…i can’t tell you how much i loved it…i never knew how good it could feel to have a dick inside me like that"

Wow.  Ok, that stings a little bit.  I don’t really know what to say about that, and Vernon end his email "…", so let’s just leave it at that. 

(Besides, I’m a little tired today and don’t feel like getting into a big discussion about anal sex.  Maybe later, and definitely tonight after a few Red Bull vodka and hours of porno, but not now.) 

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

I had the following conversation with my mom this morning, which I now reproduce verbatim for your reading pleasure.

Mom: "Oh, I forgot to tell you, Aunt Monica almost came up to New York last month for some thing - I think it was near you."
Me: "What thing?"
Mom: "I don’t know…it’s got an Italian-sounding name."
Me: "The San Gennaro Festival?"
Mom: "No, no…I don’t think so.  It’s like a street fair or something."
Me: "Are you sure it’s not the San Gennaro Festival?  It’s in my neighborhood and it’s a street fair."
Mom: "No, no - it’s more Italian-sounding.  What was it…"
Me: [three seconds] "The Festival of San Gennaro?"
Mom: "Yes!  That’s it!"

I love my moms.

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

Yesterday, a buddy from Philly was in NYC for a meeting, so we had lunch.  I met him on the corner of my office building, and saw him first walking across the street toward me, decked out in a nice suit, looking all professional.  As he got closer, I noticed something else: he had a giant black eye. 

Businessman/fighter.

I love my Philly friends. 

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

Six Songs

"Let Me Serenade You"  Three Dog Night
Quite simply, this has been my favorite song over the past two weeks.  A great piano opening, stellar vocal performance, and a general sappy sweet theme that’s impossible to resist.  And of course, since I’m sappy sweet, I’ve been fantasizing about singing this song with my cover band, which I have not started yet but will soon, to my future girlfriend, who I know nothing about now other than she is a) hot, b) Hispanic, c) 23 and d) likes me (I don’t even think I have to write that she has great boobies, as that should be understood).  Also she’s (close to) a virgin with no baggage, including but not limited to "my daddy didn’t love me" issues; had cheating/unappreciative/abusive past boyfriend(s); was previously engaged or lived with boyfriend; or was once or is on anti-depressants.  And lastly, she does not want to get married any time soon and going into the relationship understands that should I get actually famous, an occasional slip-up in the fidelity department is really not that big of a deal, as it’s hard to resist advances when you’re drunk and in a strange city or at work on a Wednesday morning and you get a naughty IM. 

Yes, she and I will be very happy together.  Whatever her name is.  And all because of a Three Dog Night song.  Love is funny, right? 

"No One Teaches Life Anything"  Dogs Die In Hot Cars
This song makes me think - and it doesn’t even have any words!  I don’t know…maybe it’s because it has that baby crying at the end and I have several children of my own who are probably crying right now (fucked if I know for sure, though), but it gets my wheels turning.  Not in a bad way, but in a "Let’s appreciate life" type of way.  And yes, I realize that this doesn’t make much sense but it’s very hard to write something about a song with no words.  So just fucking listen to it yourselves, assholes. 

"Do Right Woman, Do Right Man"  Aretha Franklin
This may be the most incredible vocal performance I’ve ever heard.  So, so smooth.  What an amazing set of pipes Ms. Aretha has - and she doesn’t even go crazy in the song, remaining even-keeled throughout.  This song randomly came on my iPod a few days ago between some hipster-ass rock songs and it blew me away.  Forget those Lower East Side poseurs with their unwashed hair and fuzz boxes - this is music, mother fucker. 

"Love Love Love"  The Mountain Goats
It’s been awhile since I’ve recommended a Mountain Goats song, so let’s go with this one.  What is both so frustrating and so glorious about the Mountain Goats is that they’re songs as so simple (both lyrically and musically) and yet so fucking good.  How the fuck do they do that?  I write simple songs all the time, keeping my rhymes basic (like you/true, me/be, semen/dreamin’) and my music basicer, but my songs suck.   

(Actually, the lyrics of this song are rather unsimple.  But I’ve already written the stuff above, so I’m sticking with it.)

"Keep On Running"  Spencer Davis Group
Steve Winwood is underappreciated as a rock legend.  And I don’t say this in the ironic way because I love his 80’s catalogue (though I do).  The guy was in the Spencer Davis Group, Traffic, and Blind Faith (with Eric Clapton); played with Jimi Hendrix on "Electric Ladyland" (including "All Along the Watchtower" and the organ on the live cut of "Voodoo Chile"); and even played organ on Joe Cocker’s "With a Little Help From My Friends."  Then he has a half dozen hits in the 80’s, which still hold up and are listenable to today.  Great stuff.

Anyway, this song gets my fist pumping.  Good shit. 

"Us" Regina Spektor
Man, I’d like to marry Regina Spektor.  Not only is she hot (the blue eyes/dark hair combination kills me), young, and extremely fucking talented (this song makes me feel so warm and loved inside), but she’s Russian!  I took Russian partly out of my love for two things: vodka and Russian woman!  And here’s a real-live Russian(-born) woman for me, right in NYC!  What are the odds?  I’ll finally be able to practice my Russian with someone!

Боже мой, как я тебя хочу, Regina!  Сосок!
(Bozhe moi, kak ya tibya hochu, Regina!  Sosok!)
(My god, how I want you, Regina!  Nipple!)

I feel like if I just had the chance, I could charm her in no time with my knowledge of her native tongue.  And after seeing my skills, I’m sure you all agree.

[Also, it took me like ten minutes to type out that Russian.  I mean, fuck.]

[And of course, we know that regina is the Latin word for "queen," not to be confused with vagina, the Latin word for "sheath".  So if you learn anything from me, let it be that vagina means "sheath" in Latin.  It's quite a conversation starter at bars and parties.]

[Maybe I could practice my Russian by writing weekly Russian lessons on here.  Would you all like to learn incorrect Russian that you only feel comfortable using when very drunk?  Not only will you be killing time at work, but you'll slowly (and improperly) be learning one of the most difficult languages on the planet.  You're probably thinking, "Jason, are you qualified to teach a few thousand people Russian?"  Well, if one semester of Russian two years ago and a few cds and books that I've listened to/read since then doesn't make me qualified, what does?  Would you like me to go and live in Russia?  Well, I can't.  I kinda have some stuff going on here.  So we're just going to have to work with what we have, ok?]

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

Today is Friday, the 13th.  It is October.  And tonight, my friends and I are going to New Jersey to see Iron Maiden. 

(No, I’m not kidding.)

Wish me luck and above all, pray for me.  This sound be…interesting. 

[Have a good weekend.]

indian food, crazy bitches
Jason posted on October 11, 2006

On Friday night, some friends and I went out for Indian food.  I typically do not like Indian food, as I typically do not like dog meat covered in sauces that look uncomfortably similar to liquids that come out of my body when I am ill.  But I was promised that it would be a good time and so went along.  Also, I have like four friends left in this city so don’t have much bargaining power when it comes to how I spend my free time.

And guess what?  The Indian "food" was fucking delicious.  I have no idea what it was or what it was made of or whether what it was made of had some sort of disease, but it tasted pretty fucking good.  So that’s the first positive.

The second positive was that it was cheap as hell.  I don’t mean cheap in the NYC sense, where a turkey sandwich for $9 is considered a good deal.  This restaurant served bottles of Amstel Light for $2.50 a pop, and that’s a good deal no matter where you are.  There were five us and we ate with abandon and drank seven bottles of wine for $35 a person, including dessert and tip.  Wow. 

But more than the ugly-looking food or the cheap booze, the dinner was about friends.  In particular, it was about getting your female friends drunk so that they can tell you about all the crazy shit they’ve done to guys.

Now I don’t mean this in the sexual sense.  For the most part, I have very little interest in what my female friends do with men in the bedroom (or bathroom or stairwell), unless it involves another woman or a picture of me.  Because even though I’ll have sex with most tissue boxes, I do have some limits.

The discussion, which took place between myself, Brian, and three girls, revolved around post-relationship jealousy.  This is a topic that I am most interested in, since I basically started this blog to make various ex-girlfriends jealous of me.  And by "jealous of me" I mean "feel so sorry for me that they take me back so that we can finally make a life together and I promise I’ll be a good husband and if you cheat on me again for the love of God just don’t fucking tell me."

But I don’t really consider myself a jealous person.  I’ve written before about this, but to be jealous you have to actually care.  And as I get older, I find that I don’t care about a lot of things.  I care about sports.  And music.  And myself.  And most of the time my family.  And some friends.  And I’ve been really into barbeque sauce lately.  But crazy ex-girlfriends who probably didn’t like me in the first place?  Not so much.  Over the past few years I’ve learned about ex-girlfriends getting engaged, getting married, fucking two guys at once - and my response has always been the same: "Eh."  And then, "Wait - two guys at once?  Kelly?  Was one of them my brother?  Because I think she’s had something for him for years. The strumpet."

I think there are two main reasons why I am not jealous.  The first is (and bear with me) is that I am (or rather, Larry is) pretty fucking awesome.  I’ve kinda been on a roll for the past 18 months, transforming myself from "Internet Quasi-Celebrity" to "Internet Quasi-Celebrity Who Talks About Himself All the Time."  So when I recently referred to the ex-boyfriend of an ex-girlfriend as a "wigger country bumpkin" and then reminded her that "I’m Jason Fucking Mulgrew," it was not out of jealousy, but rather out of confidence and complete and total security and high self-esteem.  It was also this security and high self-esteem that caused me to stab myself in the chest with a lighter after she and I ended our phone conversation.  But we’re getting off-topic here…

The second reason why I’m not particularly jealous is that save for very few cases, when my relationship with a woman ends, she is dead to me.  I don’t do the whole "Let’s have coffee and catch up" thing, but rather play up the "I guess I’ll see you if any of our mutual friends die" angle.  Maybe it stems from my parents divorce or from a lifetime of dealing with a penis the size of a newborn’s, but I have an astounding capacity to hold grudges and completely shut people out of my life for all eternity.  Some would say that I should probably talk to a professional about this, but to be honest, I’m kinda proud of this, ranking it just below my ability to sing any Huey Lewis song on my list of favorite things about myself. 

So when the girls started talking about what they did to make their ex- or then-current boyfriends jealous, I’d responded to each by saying, "That wouldn’t bother me" or "Whatever" or "Is ‘korma’ the word for ’semen paste’ in Indian? Because it is delicious!"

But then one of my female friends, who we will call Laura, told a story that blew my fucking brains out.

Laura had recently broken up with her boyfriend, "John", but they still hooked up occasionally.  Meanwhile, Laura had begun hooking up with a new guy, "Steve."  Steve and Laura were not serious, only making out once in a while, but Steve was very into Laura.

Laura’s ex, John, knew about Steve and Laura.  But he didn’t care - or didn’t seem to care - because at least he and Laura were hooking up.  Though he had never met Steve before, John knew from Laura that Steve was very into her but she wasn’t too into him.

Then one day Laura learned that John, her ex, had been hooking up with a girl, "Sophie", for some time.  Though John was ok with Laura with another guy, Laura was not ok with John with another girl.

And so she confronted him about his new girl and the two had a classic blow out - screaming at each other in his apartment, her throwing things, both of them continuing the screaming on the street outside his apartment.  Your typical ginormous couple’s fight.

By this point, both John and Laura were arguing and basically trying to inflict as much emotional pain on each other as possible.  Laura was pissed off and tired of arguing and decided to end the argument once and for all.  So she reached deep down into herself, set her icy gaze upon her ex-love, and said, "Just so you know, I’m going home tonight and I’m going to fuck Steve.  And by the way, he would fuck you up."

…

Well.  Um, ok.

I felt like I was in the middle of an episode of "Girlfriends" as Brian and I sat at the table, mouths agape, as the girls drunkenly shrieked in delight and high-fived one another.  Finally, I meekly said, "Laura, that’s terrible."  To which she replied, "Terrible - or AWESOME?!?"  More shrieking.  More high-fiving. 

I don’t really no what else to say about that remark other than it’s one thing to tell your ex-boyfriend that you’re going home to fuck another guy.  It is another thing entirely to add that the guy you’re going to fuck would beat his ass.  I mean, just, wow.  That is quite a zinger if I’ve ever heard one.

As you might imagine, that shut up John pretty quickly and Laura was free to stomp away with a major victory under her belt.  Then she went home and fucked Steve.  Who could beat up John.  In case you didn’t catch that the first time around.

***

There is no moral or ending to this story (aside from that I should carefully reevaluate my friendship with Laura).  If I had comments or a messageboard (which Site Guy Brendan is working on), I’d open this up to y’all and say "top that."  And not in the fictional sense, but asking if any former lover has said anything worse to you.  You can email me, but I doubt it.  That’s quite a doozy. 

Personally, even though I mentioned that I’m not a jealous person, that line would probably turn me gay.  Brian and I have spent the past few days of thinking of something more painful to hear, but have not been able to come up with anything (again, it has to be realistic; it’d probably hurt more to hear "Your brother’s dick is bigger than yours, but not bigger than your dad’s" but the odds of that actually occurring all small).  

But love makes you do crazy things.  It was William Shakespeare who said, "Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind; And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind."  I’m not sure what this has to do with our discussion - I’m not even really sure what it means at all - but I’ve always liked the way it sounds and wanted to end this post on an erudite note. 

…

I don’t think it worked.

iggles, week five
Jason posted on October 11, 2006

Even though I’m still shifting through the hatemail from the two sports-related posts I wrote last week (Jesus, people), I would be remiss if I didn’t say anything about this Sunday’s Eagles-Cowboys game.  So I will say this: holy fucking shit.

That was a pretty complete victory and a true statement game if I ever saw one.  That game was about as close to a must-win as they come so early in the season, as 4-1 and a 1.5 game lead in the division is a lot better than 3-2, a half game back, and 0-2 in the division. 

Not to mention that is was a good fucking game.  After the emotional roller coaster of the last 90 seconds, I just wanted to have sex and then have a big meal (guess which part actually happened?).  And yes, the Eagles almost blew it at the end with that pass interference penalty, causing me to have a minor apoplectic seizure and poop myself just a little bit, but when I regained consciousness I realized that we were talking about Drew Bledsoe here (there?).  And I was right. 

And I could not have asked for a better "homecoming" for TO.  Of course, in an ideal world, a Philly fan, probably someone related to me, would have rushed onto the field and punched him in the face.  But the media frenzy and Philly-hating that that would have brought down would have been too much.  Instead, TO was undisturbed and allowed to do what he does best, which is apparently play football.  And the result?  Three catches for 45 yards.  So good job, TO.  You really showed us.

[For the last time, the worst part of the TO saga was that is was entirely unnecessary.  People forget that in their first season with TO, the Eagles were 13-1 - including 6-0 in the division and perfect in the conference - before benching everyone in their last two games and losing them.  Then they had an easy time in the playoffs before poor clock management and - oh yeah - a dynasty beat them in the Super Bowl by three points.  With Donovan McNabb, TO, Brian Westbrook, and that defense, the Eagles had a legitimate shot at becoming a dynasty.  Then TO sabotaged just about everything because he's a bitch.  So now the Eagles will be just fine with McNabb throwing the best deep ball in the game while TO gets to watch Drew Bledsoe flail around like a goddamn epileptic and throw the football in the air without much rhyme or reason.  The good news for TO is the he probably only has one more season of Bledsoe after this one, which means Tony Romo will be throwing to him soon.  Of course, by then he'll be 35.  You know, if he doesn't kill himself before then.  So who knows.]

What I enjoyed most was the incredible disparity between quarterbacks, a difference I can only hope was not lost on Terrell Owens.  On the one side, you had Donovan McNabb, looking like a cross between Joe Montana, Jesus, and John Holmes.  On the other, Drew Bledsoe.  Drew…I mean, wow.  I have never seen such a string of poor decisions made by a veteran NFL quarterback in all my years of watching football.  I know this is a bold statement, but it is not an overstatement.  I give major props to the Birds’ d-line (should I mention now that the Eagles have 23 sacks in five games - first in the league - after having 29 in sixteen games last season?), but some of Drew’s plays, whether holding on to the ball too long and taking bad sacks or making throws ranging from poor to are you fucking serious - were just hard to watch.  You know your team whupped the other one when you feel sorry for your opponent’s fans.  And I hate the opponent’s fans. 

I do have concerns about next week’s Saints game, since I can’t get a read on that team.  They’re 4-1 but I don’t know anything about them, aside from Reggie Bush and Reggie Bush and Reggie Bush.  And I am concerned that we simply can not run the ball.  It’s not a good thing when you’re team can’t get a first down on the ground on 3rd and 3.  There is something very unsettling about that, since that means it’s all on your quarterback.  McNabb is the MVP of the league right now, but if he has a bad day, the Eagles lose.  Plain and simple.  And lastly, the Eagles surrendered 146 yards on the ground, but that is forgivable after seven sacks and forcing four turnovers from Bledsoe.  The problem has been giving up big pass plays in the secondary, which was obviously fixed in this game.  But that doesn’t mean I’m not a little worried about Reggie Bush and Deuce McAllister…

So while we celebrate, let’s not forget: we need these wins.  The last six Eagles game are simply not fair: at Indy, Carolina, at Washington, at the Giants, at Dallas, Atlanta.  That is incredibly brutal.  To go 3-3 in that stretch would be very good.  We want this team at no worse than 7-3 going into those games.  That means the Birds need to go at least 3-2 at NO, at Tampa, Jacksonville, Washington, Tennessee.  So let’s buckle down and take care of business.

So things are alright in Philly this week and I’m much happier than I’ve been in weeks.  I had a good weekend, won a little bit of money and generally feel pretty good.  My only complaint is that after a rousing session of fingerblasting this weekend I have a cut on the tip of my middle finger that hurts when I type, but all things considered, I’ll take it.  Also, I got to work the word "fingerblasting" in this post, which I like, and gave y’all a good excuse for the cut on my finger, which I really got when I was dancing and washing the dishes.  Such is life.

welcome to the rest of your afternoon
Jason posted on October 9, 2006

You know why I have no post for you today?  Because I’ve spent all day watching these videos and peeing myself.

The first set of videos come to us from the good people at Cracked.  In anticipation of the forthcoming Borat movie, the have assembled a list of the ten best Borat clips.  This should take you about an hour to get through and then another fifteen minutes to wash out and let dry your pants after you’ve peed them.

The second video is of a young, driven man, named Aleksay Vayner.  Aleksay applied for a job at an i-bank he