Everyone in the workplace loves to feel important.  From sharing war stories with friends, I realize that I am fortunate in this area because my co-workers are not bad at this at all (and I’m not just saying this because some of them are reading this right now).  But in the corporate environment, it’s all about looking more busy, more powerful, and more important than you actually are.  If you don’t know this, you are probably not very good at your job.

One thing that important people do is name projects.  For example, if one is given a research assignment, your employer will not refer to it as "that research assignment I gave you."  Instead, it often gets a code name, like Project 007 or Project Buttons.  Most of the time, the project code name has nothing to do with the project content.  For example, my friend Chrissy, who works at an ad agency, once told me that her big project of the year was named Project Gypsy.  From the name of it, you may think that this project involved Eastern European transients and/or Stevie Nicks, but it didn’t: it was a presentation to a cheese company.  "Gypsy" was the name of the woman in charge’s dog.  So she named it Project Gypsy.

Since I’ve been at my current position for three years now and I have clawed (read: haphazardly jumped) my way up the corporate ladder, I have recently found myself in the position of being the one who names the projects.  I like this.  What’s more, the projects I work on – even those I work on with others – are relatively unimportant in the grand scheme of things, which means no one is paying attention to the project names.  So I’ve been having some fun with them.

(Of course, I can’t tell you the nature of the work that I do, because I’m not an idiot.  But the good news for you is that you probably don’t want to know anyway, since it is so incredibly boring.) 

Some of my recent project names:

Project Shush Yo’ Mouth (named after the LeBron commercial when the LeBrons are playing basketball and the old one says, "I’ll be all over you like white on rice, like flies on shush yo’ mouth!")

Project Bobbysox (named after my favorite porno, which has the single greatest sex scene in film history: Nikki Tyler and Stephen St. Croix on the forklift – wow!)

Project Frost (named after the masturabatory/handjob technique known as the Robert Frost, which I discussed here.)

I am dangerously close to naming something Project Merkin, but then I realized that I like and want to keep my job, so I don’t know about that one.  But hey – at least this keeps me entertained during the day. 

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

I was watching Seinfeld last night and I’ll tell you – after Kramer’s little meltdown, it’s just not the same.

Please do not think I’m racially sensitive or politically correct.  I enjoy casual racism, but since my aunt is Japanese, I once hooked up with a half-Puerto Rican, and I own a Randall Cunningham jersey, I can get away with pretty much anything I want, as my bases are covered.

But Kramer – wow.  What is most appalling about his diatribe is that he says that a) he isn’t racist and b) that was the first time he ever used the n-word.  Um, no way, bro.  I mean, I realize the guy couldn’t come out the next day and say, "I’m sorry I yelled those things, but I am indeed racist.  And I fucking love it."  But Kramer’s PR people should have come up with a better excuse than "I’m not racist."  Why didn’t he do what Mel Gibson did and claim he was fucked up on booze/drugs?  Why didn’t he say, "I learned earlier that day that my wife wants a divorce and just snapped?"  Even if he went on Letterman, spit out some gibberish, then stood up and pissed himself, at least people would have remembered him as being mentally ill, not a grade A racist.  I mean, anything would have been more believable than "That was my first time."  Because that sure didn’t look like his first time. 

I’m trying to think of examples or comparisons but can’t come up with any.  But there’s no way that you go from being a black-people loving, happy go-lucky guy to screaming the n-word at the top of your lungs in front of 150 people. 

Anyway, it was terrible thing and blah blah blah, but what concerns me most if that I’m having trouble watching Seinfeld.  Every time I see Kramer open the door and barge into Jerry’s place, I visualize him screaming, "HE’S A N****R!"  Or yelling at George, "Fifty years ago we would have had you upside down with fork up your ass!"

I only hope that both I and the black community can forgive Kramer for this, but it isn’t going to be easy.  Just as Kramer can make amends with the black community by meeting with black leaders and making a (sincere) public apology, maybe he can come to my apartment, take shit out of my fridge, and act like a goofball.  But until I get that call, no more Seinfeld for me.  Which makes me sad.

(Oh, and I’m sad about racism, too.  Can’t forget that.)

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

I love cereal.  Big time.  It’s fucking incredible.

But hear me now when I say this: the good people over at Honey Bunches of Oats will change the world with their newest creation – Honey Bunches of Oats with Cinnamon Clusters.

I have never in my life tasted cereal as good as this.  Never.  I don’t have anything else to say, aside from that if you see this cereal in your local grocery store and you don’t buy it, you will regret it for the rest of your life.  No lie. 

(You’re welcome in advance.)

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

Are there any Philadelphia Eagles fans in Seattle?  Maybe I should rephrase that: are there any Philadelphia Eagles fans in Seattle reading this?

My plan was to stay in Seattle until Monday, at which point I’d fly down to LA.  However, I decided to stay in Seattle until Tuesday afternoon, as the Eagles are playing in the Monday night game against Carolina.

(I could have made it down to LA for the game, but that would have meant that I’d have to wake up early to fly - remember, MNF starts at 5:15pm out there – and I didn’t want to do that.)

So are there any Eagles fans in Seattle or can anyone tell me a good place to watch an Eagles game in Seattle?  Preferably around EastLake (Eastlake? East Lake?), where I will be staying?  Even though the season is over for them, that doesn’t mean I’m going to abandon them, and I still plan on watching the game, even if I am in Seattle.

If you can help a hopeless Philly fan with a good bar, preferably an Eagles bar, drop me a line at jason@jasonmulgrew.com.  Thank you in advance.   

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

Quick book recommendation for you: The Feast of Love by Charles Baxter.

Because I sit in the shower for an average of 1.2 hours per day reading (long story), I read a lot of books.  I’m not bragging, because it’s actually quite sad; a 27 year old single man living in the greatest city in the world should not spend any time in the shower reading books, but that’s just how I roll.

Anyway, this is the best book I’ve read in months.  Moving, captivating, imaginative – everything.  Many times I had to pull myself away from the book to let out a "Wow", so moved was I by the writing.  Tremendous.

And now onto the music.

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

Six Songs

"Welcome to the Working Week"  Elvis Costello
There is a 85% chance that this was discussed in the movie "High Fidelity", but if I had to make a Top Five list of greatest first songs on debut albums, this would slightly edge out "Good Times Bad Times" on Led Zeppelin I.  Elvis says, "I’m here, I’m pissed off, and oh yeah – fuck you."

"Crazy for You"  Madonna
I wrote a while back that in my childhood, this is the song I assumed people listened to when they had sex, and now I, as an adult, want to have sex to this song.  I got a pretty good response from a number of you saying that you felt the same way, but at the same time I think that many of you were joking or thought that I was joking.  Well I listened to this song about 40 times in a row last night and I want to repeat in all seriousness: I want to make love to this song (while this song is on? during this song?).  I can not be any more serious here. 

And I’m not even talking about my typical sex session, which is preceded by a lot of vodka, features two solid minutes of sweat, hair and apologies, ends with a fist pump and a request for a high five, and is followed by days (in some cases, weeks) of guilt and shame.  I’m talking about love-making: rolling around on the sheets, messing up each other’s hair, fingers in each other’s mouths – all in slow motion in a room with a lot of candles.  That’s what I’m talking about.   

Mark my words: I’m going to get a girlfriend and I am going to make this happen.  I realize that this might be difficult; my girlfriend may think it’s too corny or funny to go through with it, but women from Cambodia don’t have much of a sense of humor – pretty much she’ll do anything I ask in return for a warm place to sleep and some pocket change for shiny bracelets and costume jewelry.  So I’m not concerned about that.  I just better buy the candles now, so I’m ready. 

"Where Did Our Love Go?"  J. Geils Band
When I first learned that my old college roommate Mike was a self-described "huge J. Geils fan," I thought "What the fuck?"  But they have some pretty good tunes, my favorite being this cover of The Supremes song, which is, dare I say, rollicking.  Much respect to bands or artists who cover songs and infuse them with their own style; this sounds like a J. Geils original.  And if after listening to this song you don’t want to hang out with Peter Wolf (lead singer of the band), then you are truly socially awkward. 

"Call on Me"  Eric Prydz
Speaking of artists that recreate songs, this is a cover of my boy Steve Winwood’s "Valerie."  When I was in England the February before last, this song was everywhere, particularly in the University of London Union (ULU) pub where I spent my days drinking cheap beer, eating cheap food, working on my projects when they weren’t even projects yet, and watching the snow (it snowed a little bit every day).  When I wasn’t watching the snow, I’d watch the TVs that were positioned around the bar and the video for this song, which is so, so nice that I have to include it here.

[youtube]cBoNN_icCDk[/youtube]

Not bad, right?  This came on so often – and got me so riled up – that whenever this song comes on my iPod, I’m brought right back to that pub, with the pints and the snow and the spandexed, sweaty ladies dancing on the TV.

I love nostalgia.

"Busby Berkeley Dreams" and "All My Little Words"  The Magnetic Fields
I recommended these two before but did so at the end of a giant 3000 word post and didn’t give them their proper due.  For the former: is it me or is there something incredible about an extremely gay man with an extremely deep voice sitting at a piano and singing a sad song that starts "I should have forgotten you long ago/But you’re in every song I know"?  For the latter, if you want to know what hopelessness sounds like, check this song out ("I could make you pay and pay/But I could never make you stay").  Two profoundly depressing songs – and you know that I know my depressing songs.  I’d have to think about this a little more, but of the 22 suicide-inducing songs on my "Sad as Fuck" playlist, these may be the two saddest.  This is about the strongest endorsement I can give.  If you don’t download them, well, you’ll probably be a much happier person.  But if you like sad music, you’re doing yourself a disservice by not checking these out.  

(And yes, I realized that I raised the bar so high that no song could live up to this hype, but whatever.)   

"Sexx Laws"  Beck
Very hot and cold on Beck, but I don’t want to end this installment of Six Songs on such a sad note with the above Magnetic Fields songs, so here’s something that’ll make you happy.  If you’re not already in the shower crying. 

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

In Seattle from Thursday night, 11/30 to Tuesday afternoon, 12/5.  Then in Los Angeles from Tuesday afternoon, 12/5 until Sunday afternoon, 12/10.  But fear not: I will be checking in or otherwise you will have something good to read on here, so check back if you like.  I mean, I’m not going to beg you – hell, I’ll be on vacation getting fucked up and sleeping until 2pm – but I’m just saying.

And I promise to take lots of pictures and do lots of stupid things.

[Have a good weekend.]

It’s the holiday season, which means it’s time for one of my least favorite holiday traditions: the Lexus "December to Remember" commercials.

If you’ve watched even one hour of television between Thanksgiving and Christmas over the past four years, odds are you have seen one of these commercials.  The premise is simple: either a husband or a wife wakes up on Christmas morning to see a brand new Lexus, fitted with a big red bow, parked in their driveway.  Then the husband or wife, who is gorgeous, will smile, hug, and then presumably make love to his/her spouse, who is also gorgeous.  Everything is happy on this Christmas day, thanks to Lexus.  Gorgeous, rich people.  Happy holidays.

I don’t know if it’s because I spent a portion of my childhood beating up my little brother so that he’d be the one going to the store and using the food stamps instead of me, but these commercials make me want to punch these rich fucks right in their smug faces.  I mean, who gets a brand new Lexus for Christmas?  A new Lexus?  Really?  Couldn’t find anything you liked at Zales, mother fucker?  The nicest gift I’ve ever gotten was an iPod, which I bought for myself on credit – and I’m pretty fucking rich now.  But a Lexus?  Are we fucking serious? 

Are these commercials aimed at the .0003% of the American population that can afford to give a $70,000 gift on the holidays (or $30,000, if you stoop to pre-owned)?  It’s not like I watch Masterpiece Theater here, folks – I mostly stick to reruns of Seinfeld and King of Queens and sporting events.  And I have seen these commercials hundreds of times over the years.  And each time they fill me with such rage that the joy of my holiday season is threatened.

I should probably stop now, lest I pick up my keyboard and start smashing it against the wall.  But am I alone on this?  Is it because I have a deep-seated resentment for the wealthy, having grown up poor?  Or is it because I’m self-loathing, because I am now rich and smug?  Or maybe it’s because I’m jealous, because instead of getting/giving a Lexus and fucking my hot wife this Christmas, I’m going to watch my dad eat a cigarette to entertain my little cousins and then drink so much that I pass out in the bathroom?

(Author’s Note: I’m actually not rich at all.  But because I accidentally leave lights on in my mom’s house and threw out a half gallon of milk that was eight dates passed its expiration date in my dad’s fridge, my parents think I am.  Also, I’m keep writing "I’m rich" to impress any women readers.  It gets lonely around the holidays.)

I don’t know – if it’s me, I’ll stop complaining about it and try to work my way through it.  But I get really upset by these commercials.  And I can only hope others out there do as well, if only to convince me that I’m not crazy.

(That being said, if any of you would like to buy me a Lexus for Christmas, I promise I will cherish it forever.  Then we can make love in the living room.  Happy holidays.)

I’m trying to keep a positive attitude today.  Even though stress kept me awake until around 3am and I was jarred awake at 5:46am this morning by what sounded like two trash trucks fucking outside my bedroom window, cheered on by a gaggle of immigrants, screaming in a foreign tongue about something (apparently) very important.  Even though the Eagles got utterly destroyed Sunday night by the Colts, a beating so thorough that I’m not even sad about it, just astounded.  Even though I think I have seriously damaged my left hand because my friends and I got into a fight – a small skirmish, really – over the break and I now have a shooting pain between the knuckles of my middle finger and ring finger which makes it difficult to play my geetar and (gasp!) type (that’s all I can really say about that, aside from it was pretty fucking awesome and I still got it, baby). 

I’m keeping a positive attitude because I had a spectacular Thanksgiving break and this Thursday I’ll be getting on a plane to head to Seattle, where a little bird told me it’s been snowing (and by "a little bird" I mean "some big dude named Ben").  After that, it’s a week in Los Angeles at a hotel that I simply cannot afford but have booked anyway.  During this vacation, I plan on doing very little aside from things that make me happy, namely eating, drinking, sleeping a lot, and, God willing, making out.

But I still have to get through these next few days before the vacation starts.  So let’s focus on what just happened as opposed to what’s going to happen.  These past few days have been awesome because of three reasons.

Drinking is awesome.
Normally on these here site, I try to take bragging about boozing and make it an art form.  Anyone can talk about the stupid shit they did while drunk, but I (in my humble opinion) take this up a notch by not only telling what I did when drunk, but also by throwing in a big word or two, using a ton of run on sentences and parentheses, and comparing my penis to a diminutive household object.  Not to mention all the casual racism that’s bandied about.  This is what makes me special, and this is what makes you keep coming back.

But there can be no elegance or art when I talk about the drinking of the past few days.  It was simply dominant, and part of me is a little surprised that I am not in a hospital or a prison right now.  I got home on Wednesday night, dropped my shit off, and went straight out on the "Whacked on Wheels" drinking tour, wrapping up at 3am (drinking hours: 8pm-3am).  On Thanksgiving night, I stayed up drinking and playing cards until 4:30am (drinking hours: 7pm-4:30am).  On Friday, I woke up, showered, then started drinking at 2pm on the Black Out Friday pub crawl, and drank until the bars closed (drinking hours: 2pm-2am).  I had a brief respite on Saturday afternoon, which I spent laying in bed collecting myself, before heading out for my friends’ wedding reception, getting home that night just before 4am (drinking hours: 7pm-4am). 

I have spend the past few days hydrating myself and praying.  Because I know that the damage I did to myself over Thanksgiving break will pale in comparison to what’s going to go down in Seattle and LA.  I ask you to pray for me as well.

Almost winning a lot of money is awesome.
I am having a tremendous NFL season in terms of gambling.  I’m so happy about this that I share with you here, even though it certainly means that over the course of the rest of the season I will lose 90% of my games because of bragging and will have to sell large portions of my skin and/or marry a Ukrainian man to pay off debts. 

I typically only bet on two or three games a weekend for modest sums, never more than a night’s worth of drinking (because god forbid I have to give one of those up).  For whatever reason, I’ve been really on the ball.  I haven’t kept a record, but I have to be around 75% right so far this season.

Additionally, I’m in two season-long pools.  In one, every week I pay $10 and pick six games with the spread.  In order to win, you have to go 6 for 6.  There are 80 people in this pool, meaning $800 a week is a stake.  If a Sunday passes without a winner (which is does more than half the time), the pot rolls over, so you are playing for $1600 or $2400.  Twice in this pool I have gone 5-1.  Yes, I realize this means nothing since I haven’t won anything, but my powers of prognosticating sort of give me a boner.

I’m also in a Survivor pool.  Each week, you have to pick a team to win.  The spreads do not matter – the team only has to win.  If you pick a team and they lose, you’re out of the pool for the season.  The catch is that once you pick a team, you can’t pick them again.  For example, in Week One I picked Indianapolis, so I wasn’t able to pick them again. 

At the start, there were 80 people also in this pool.  As of Saturday, I was one of five left.  I picked the Cowboys this week, who won on Thursday.  Someone picked the Panthers, who lost during the 1pm games on Sunday, so it was down to me and three others.  These three others picked the Chargers to beat the Raiders, a 4pm game.

I wasn’t paying attention to the game, but I got a call from a buddy to tell me that at the start of the 4th quarter, the Chargers were losing 14-7.  If the Chargers lost the game, all three people who picked them would be out and I’d win the $1600.  Violating the number two rule of gambling (the number one rule being, "Don’t write about your hot streak on your blog"), I started thinking about how I’d spend that $1600, mostly fantasizing about cocaine and milkshakes, which surprisingly go very well together and also make for great names for a pair of dogs. 

And of course, the Chargers came back to win 21-14, meaning the four of us advance to next week.  Again, I know I shouldn’t be happy because I didn’t win shit – if anything, I should be pissed off for coming so close and losing – but something about predicting the future really gets me excited.  I’m a simple man: all I want is a nice sandwich, a strong drink, some soft boobies, and almost winning money.  It’s amazing how little it takes to make me happy.

Getting recognized is awesome.
[DOUCHEBAG ALERT: I'm going to sound like a major douchebag in this portion of the post.  But I'm really hard up for material.  You have been warned.]

When I started the blog, I didn’t want to put any pictures of myself up.  Not because I wanted to be anonymous – the site address was my name, after all – but because I felt it was, for lack of a better word, lame.  Sure, the site was about self-promotion, but I have pretty low self-esteem and don’t want to post pictures of myself for thousands of strangers to look at and judge.  I think people who do have sites and put pics of themselves all over the place are lamest of the lames.  It’s one thing to make a grab for attention, but another entirely to make it so obvious.

(Forget that I started calling myself an "Internet Quasi-Celebrity" when 40 people read this site.  That was a long time ago.)

But then I got a MySpace page and realized, slowly, that pics aren’t a bad thing.  And this isn’t because after posting pictures of myself I got a tremendous uptick in the number of booby pictures I received from you all (well, not entirely because of it).  Maybe it was nice to show my friends and I having fun, if for no other reason than you know I’m not (totally) lying.  So no, pics are not all bad.   

Then, over the course of the past two weeks, I was "recognized" by people I don’t know, people familiar with the site, five times.  It happened twice last weekend in Boston, both times at the BC game, and then three times over Thanksgiving: Wednesday night in Penn Station before traveling to Philly, Sunday afternoon in line for a taxi at Penn Station, and then Sunday night while getting takeout from the greatest Thai restaurant in the world, Sea. 

I know I shouldn’t say anything about this at all; that it’s much cooler to ignore it and play it off like it’s no big deal.  But I mention it here because a) it is pretty awesome; and b) it is very awkward.  Awesome because, I don’t know, it’s kinda cool to have a stranger come up to you and say, "Is your name Jason?"  Awkward because, I don’t know, it’s kinda weird to have a stranger come up to you and say, "Is your name Jason?  You’re right – you do suck."

Also, I didn’t really handle it well.  I was so startled when a woman approached me in Penn Station on Wednesday that I barely made sense:

Her: "Is your name Jason?"
Me: "Um, yes."
Her: "That’s what I thought.  I read your site."
Me: [flustered, suddenly alarmingly perspiring] "HANDJOB!"
Her: "What?"
Me: "I AM NOT A MONSTER!"
Her: "I don’t know – "
Me: "CHIPWICH!"

Eventually, I calmed down enough for the woman, Patricia, to spend ten minutes with me telling me how she stopped reading because she got sick of hearing about my old diet, that having a beer gut is sexier than reading about working out, that she was concerned that I was going to start wearing Diesel jeans.  I told her that I’m no longer dieting or writing about it, so she should come back to the site.  Then I implied – perhaps not so subtly – that I had time to kill before my train left.  Then she implied – not very subtly at all – that she was going to contact the Amtrak police.  We parted.  Sweet girl.

The taxi line on Sunday night was even better, mostly because there was a stunningly attractive women behind me in line when another woman came up to me and asked who I was.  Although I was more prepared this time and it was a much briefer meet-and-greet, I wanted to turn to the hot girl behind me:

Me: "Yeah, she’s a – I feel embarrassed just saying this – but she was a fan of mine."
Girl: "Really?  What do you do?"
Me: "I write a blog."
Girl: [unimpressed] "Oh."
Me: "But I also, um, play professional baseball."
Girl: [unbelieving] "That’s cool."
Me: "And I - geez, this is even more embarrassing – I model my penis in various publications."
Girl: [gathering things and walking away]
Me: "I also own hotels, and, uh, various properties, and – I just really want to talk, that’s all…"

********

So my task is simple: make it to the airport on Thursday.  At that point, I can load up on the Xanax, pass out on the plane, and wake up in the great Pacific Northwest, an area of the country that I love.  Let’s all hope that the next few days pass without incident, binge, fight, or accident.  Because, after Thanksgiving break, I really need a vacation. 

From all of us here at jasonmulgrew.com (read: me and, when he wants to, Site Guy Brendan), have a happy and safe Thanksgiving.  Enjoy and be safe.  See you next week.

Love,
Jason

I think this weekend was the very definition of "up and down."

The Up

I like visiting Boston, but there is nothing relaxing about it.  If anything, it’s more like a weekend-long physical challenge than a vacation.  And if you’ve been reading as of late, a physical challenge is about the last thing I’m ready for.  The word I’d use to best describe me over the past two or three weeks: tired.  Runner-up: jaundiced.

(Long story short, when I was drunk last weekend I ate a bunch of tacks.  I think I messed something up in there pretty bad.  Or I just have hepatitis.  Whatever – I’ll figure this out after the holidays.)

Though I was greatly looking forward to it, I knew this weekend would be difficult.  The main event of the weekend was a BC football game, a game which started at noon.  This meant tailgating would begin at 9am.  Since my friends and I don’t have the presence of mind (or the willpower) to take it easy on the night before an early game, I figured we would be hurting come morning.

And I was right.  We were out until 2am on Friday night and when that alarm went off at 8am, I contemplated blowing the whole thing off, turning over, and spending the next several hours lying on my buddy Bill’s futon, wondering how often his naked ass is on it.  But since was the last BC home football game of the season, I sucked it up, showered and soon was tailgating.

And then I made miracles happen.

My friend Meg used to rock this concept called a "glorious day."  It’s a pretty simple concept: spend one day, one whole day from morning until night, getting bombed for no reason.  Basically you just clock in and go to work.  Obviously, it’s a travesty that she has not yet won the Nobel Prize for coming up with this idea.

And while Saturday wasn’t a glorious day because there was a reason for the drinking (the BC game), it was glorious in just about every other way.  As a matter of fact, it was probably one of the top ten performances of my life.  I drank from 9am until after the bars closed at 2am.  Seventeen fucking hours - straight through, no breaks, no nap, no dinner, not even really any food.  There was not a ten minute stretch of time in those 17 hours that I did not have an alcohol beverage of some kind in my hand.  This is not an exaggeration.

And it’s not as though anything incredible or story-worthy happened.  It was a workman-like performance: "I’m here to get fucked up and that’s what I’m going to do.  I don’t need to eat or even talk to anyone, as long as I have my booze."  Magical.

I did have a little help in the form of five well-placed (sugar free) red bulls throughout the day, which provided a nice lil’ kick in the ass to keep the party going.  But that’s not cheating.  And it could have been worse.  It’s not like I was huffing or anything.  Or at least it’s not like I was huffing a lot. 

And I realize that this might sound a little scary and/or sad – that I’m reveling in the fact that I got completely bombed without anything exciting happening.  But I don’t care.  Sometimes one needs little tests to prove his worth, little reminders that he was once and is still capable of great things.  That is exactly how I feel about Saturday.  And I have no qualms about this. 

Then there was Sunday.

The Down

To paraphrase Jerry Maguire, I’m not going to do what you think I’m going to do, which is flip out and maybe tear my own beard hair out.  Not on here anyway, since I already did that yesterday and it made me tired.

Instead, a few issues about the Eagles’ game before I get to the big one:

- When a team makes fundamental mistakes (i.e. tackling, dropping passes, penalties, bad snaps, etc), it is the fault of the coach.  These players are, in the parlance of our times, grown-ass men.  They did not make it to the NFL without knowing how to tackle, how to catch, how to not commit fouls.  It is the job of the coaching staff to whip them into shape, so that errors like these don’t happen.  This staff is not doing their job.

- I can not say this enough: the Eagles have the largest offensive line in the league but can not convert on a 3rd and 3 or under on the ground.  That is kind of a big problem.  Worse, there is no obvious solution (is it that Westbrook is just too small? Are they a bunch of 330 pounds pansies on the line?).

- Teams that can not stop the run are teams that do not win championships.  I don’t have the energy to get too into it, but think about it on the most basic level: running plays eat time off the clock, they keep defensives honest, and they are not reliant on one person (meaning if your QB isn’t "feeling it", which is the case for McNabb 20% of the time, the team can still move the ball).  Also, as someone who has played professional football for years, I can tell you that when a defense is getting run on, it’s demoralizing.  It’s one thing to get lucky and complete an 84 yard bomb for a TD; it’s another to get your mouth smashed for 5 yards a carry, over and over again on long, sustained drives.  If you can’t stop the run, you can’t win.  The Titans had over 200 yards rushing – three minutes into the second half.  Not very good.

But of course, none of this matters now.

I am destroyed by the events of Sunday’s Eagles game.  There is no other way to say it.  It is disconcerting that this season is now lost.  But what is more damning is that the window for an Eagles championship may potentially be closed.  Donovan McNabb will be 30 on Saturday.  He has eight to twelve months of recovery on the knee which he throws off.  Oh, and not to mention that his greatness, while no longer based on his running, is still in large part because of his mobility and elusiveness.  So that might be a problem with the knee.

Now we have (I’m assuming) Jeff Garcia coming in as a backup.  Better than Mike McMahon?  Sure.  Better than Koy Detmer/AJ Feeley?  We’ll see.  Optimists will point out that Garcia is a three-time Pro Bowler.  But Jeff Garcia is a Pro Bowler like I was once one of People’s "50 Hottest Bachelors" - they further away we get from it, the more we ask ourselves "Did that really happen?  My god, that must have been a mistake or some sort.  That just doesn’t seem right at all."

(By the way, my apologies again to Katie and Lisa, who didn’t know me, didn’t read this site, and didn’t know what I look like, but were dragged out to hang out with me by a friend who I do know on the assurance/based on the incentive, "But he was one of People’s "50 Hottest Bachelors!’"  The poor girls figured they’d get a night on the town with a good-looking guy.  What a mistake.  I will take to my grave the look of disappointment on their faces when they met me and saw what I actually look like.  The closet analogy I can think of is you as a virgin getting a handjob from Jenny McCarthy in her prime, only to have her stop just before you’re finished and pull off a mask to reveal that she’s really your dad in disguise: abject and unfathomable horror, shock, and sadness – and whole lot of nausea.  A small part of Katie and Lisa died when they saw me and were so profoundly let down, and for this I will never forgive myself.  Know this, Katie and Lisa.  Know this.) 

The problem is that the Eagles’ offense thrives (or rather, thrived) on the big pass play.  No one in the NFL throws the deep ball better than Donovan McNabb.  Now we have Jeff Garcia, who can throw the football maybe 10 yards farther than I can.  Even in the prime of his career, his was known for his weak arm.  Now he’s 36 and has played in seven games in the last two years.  Hmmm…

But again, none of it matters.  Optimists will point out that we’re only one game out of the division lead, while rational people will say: at Indy, Carolina, away at the NFC East, Atlanta.  Before, I would have been happy with 3-3 in that stretch.  In order to make the playoffs, we need at least 4-2.  Realistically, I say we go 2-4.  You know, if we’re lucky.

The good news is that my Sundays have just gotten a whole lot less stressful.  I will still continue to watch Eagles games of course, but it’s different now.  The McNabb-led 2006 Eagles seduced me into thinking that they could be a very good team.  I don’t think I will be able to say the same about the McNabb-less 2006 Eagles.

(But who knows?  God really, really owes us.  Big time.)

Once a month, my friend old college friend Nicole and I go to a fancy dinner.  The excuse is that we’re both young, successful and good-looking New Yorkers, so we should treat ourselves once a month to a nice meal for being so awesome.  We alternate, so that one month she picks the place and I pay, the next I pick and she pays.

(In the interests of journalistic integrity and full disclosure, yes, Nicole and I have made out before.  But it was a long time ago in college and only happened two or three times over the course of two years and there was no funny stuff.  Plus, I’ve pretty much made out with every single one of my female friends at least once, so there’s no weirdness in that for me.  They might have weirdness about it, as well as a great deal of shame, anger, and self-loathing, but that’s really not my concern.  But I think it’s important to make out with your friends, not only because making out is fun and totally awesome, but also because you need to find out if there’s anything more there than just being friends.  Thankfully, since I have about as much sex appeal/boyfriend potential as most modern day pirates, I’ve been able to make out with my female friends and remain friends.)

(God, making out really is awesome.  It’s a shame I’m so fucking terrible at it.  I mean, does this look like someone who is good at making out? 



I don’t think so.)

(The saddest thing about that picture: it’s not posed.  At least, I don’t think it was posed, but I did a lot of drugs that weekend in Maine.)

Last night was my turn to pick and Uncle Jason was in the mood for some good ol’ fashioned red meat.  Even though I was a month-long (kind of) vegetarian, I am a confirmed carnivore.  There is nothing – nothing – like a nice hunk of dead animal, still slightly bleeding, simmering before you in its own juices, begging to be consumed.  Protein, baby, protein.

Since I know about three restaurants in New York City (and two of them start with "Ye Old") and Nicole is a borderline foodie, I asked her to recommend some steak places.  She did and I spent a glorious afternoon perusing websites and menus, contemplating which we’d go to.  But then when I saw our eventual restaurant, I knew it was the one immediately – you can’t walk away after reading "crisp goose fat potatoes" without making a reservation.

So Nicole and I dined last night at the fortuitously named Strip House.  And the verdict?  Wow.

I’m not going to be able to describe how good the food was with any flair or accuracy, but I think you people know that.  So let’s just go with it.

I got the shrimp scampi appetizer, which was good but didn’t make me pee my pants.  Nicole got the lobster bisque, which tasted like a giant bowl of lobster-flavored butter.  This is a good thing.  A very good thing.

We each got a filet, hers 10oz, mine 14oz.  In retrospect, it was probably the fourth best steak I’ve ever had in my life, although at the time I thought it was number two. (In case you’re wondering, number one was at Ruth’s Chris in NYC, number two was at The Palm in Boston, and number three was at El Gaucho in Seattle.)

Being my number four steak of all time is nothing to slouch about and it was fucking delicious.  But what got me most (aside from the lobster bisque) were the side dishes.  In addition to the crisp goose fat potatoes, which were good but didn’t quite live up to their incredible name (though I can’t blame them), we got creamed spinach and creamed corn.  Know that I do not exaggerated when I say that because of these two creamed dishes, I am a different person.  The creamed spinach was so wonderful that I’m convinced that if one were to bathe in it once a month, he or she would become immortal.  It’s that fucking powerful.  And the creamed corn…good lord.  It comes in a small casserole dish and has a baked top, but underneath is the wonderful goodness of corn, cream, and lil’ chunks of pancetta, which I have recently learned is fancy bacon.  I never knew so much could be done with corn.  Tasting that creamed corn was a high, not unlike the feeling you get after you sneeze or after you’ve held in your pee for a while and then peed.  That kind of high.  Like sneezing or peeing, but in corn form.  I know – I’m blowing your mind right now. 

But these dinners are about more than just food.  And no, I’m not talking about the booze, although there was plenty of that last night (I am on a huge red wine kick right now).  You see, Nicole sees me as sort of a charity case and is trying to class me up (or maybe "gay me up").  I think that Nicole realizes that God didn’t bless me with a loaded deck, and so she’s trying to smooth out some of my rough edges.  I’ve repeatedly told her that what I lack in social graces I more than make up for in my paranoia, but she’ll have none of it. 

So during these dinners, she and I typically spend a lovely evening talking about our relationship problems; hers going something like, "So what does it mean when a guy [does/says/emails/texts/looks a certain way]?", while mine usually start, "So I’m getting really sick of normal porn – what do you think about people dressed as cowboys and Indians having sex?  Would you still be friends with it if I liked that stuff?  Oh, and the cowboys and Indians are in wheelchairs.  That’s important." 

Specifically, one of last night’s lessons was about giving and taking compliments.  Nicole says that I don’t take compliments very well, and she is correct.  I don’t know why this is, but it makes me uncomfortable and sometimes defensive and even angry:

Mike: "Hey, cool shirt."
Me: "Geez – just remember to zip me up and you’re done blowing me, Fagbert.  Christ.  Have you told your parents yet or are you going to wait until you bring Bruce home for the holidays?"

or

Mindy: "You look nice today."
Me: "Show of hands – how many people here gave Mike herpes?  Raise it higher, Mindy, raise it higher!"

Maybe this is a self-esteem issue, but I’m not a psychologist.  But what I’m apparently supposed to do is say "Thank you" and move on, so I’ll work on that.

However, I think that I give compliments very well.  Well, that’s not exactly true – I think I give compliments very well because I give them like a person with mental disabilities.  For example, I very rarely say "You look beautiful" to a woman.  Instead, I will say something like, "Your hair smells like raspberries."  I will mean this sincerely and as a compliment, but often times this makes me look a little weird and possibly dangerous.  Nicole knows of my struggles firsthand, since once in college while very drunk and in the presence of a bunch of guy friends, I told her that she has "nice colors" (her hair is dark, her skin is light and she has green eyes).  I meant this completely seriously and innocuously, but to this day I’ll be around buddies and one of them might say, "Dude – check out the colors on that girl!"  But what’s better: for a guy to deliver some cheesedick line and probably not mean it or for a guy to blurt out the first thing that comes to his mind and completely mean it, even if that first thing is "Your perfume reminds me of carrot cake" or "When you touch my hand, it makes me want to plant a flower" or "I feel warm because you look so nice"?  Yeah, I thought so. 

Finally, Nicole and I ended the meal with cheesecake.  But not just any cheesecake, but the biggest fucking slice of cheesecake the world has ever seen.  An article framed on the wall of the restaurant from Forbes said, "The cheesecake may just be the most monumental, unforgettable serving of anything anyplace" and that’s a pretty accurate description.  Gigantic and creamy, it tasted like having sex with a beautiful Scandinavian women who has a very pretty face but is morbidly obese.  But she’s also very nice.  A little needy, but very nice.   

Then we went out, had a couple of drinks, I got drunk, begged Nicole to stay out drinking, she said she couldn’t, I walked home listening to my iPod and almost threw up on the way.  So pretty much it ended like three or four nights of every week end.

But another successful dinner is in the books.  I laughed, I learned, and I had a good meal – a terrific night be any standards.  Next month, Nicole picks the place, so I’m sure it’ll be somewhere where I have never heard of 60% of the things on the menu.  But I’ve already picked out a discussion topic: "So, long story short, I was dating this girl and one night after we hooked up very drunk, she passed out and woke up to find me drawing a map of Europe on her back.  She was so freaked out, she never talked to me again.  She’s gay, right?  Also, I was wearing her bra when she woke up.  But I don’t see how that’s relevant."

Because Friday was a bad day, things got a little out of control on Friday night.

And the sad thing is, I’m not exactly sure how.  The only thing I remember is waking up on Saturday morning with a random blonde in my bed and one of the top ten worst hangovers of my life.  The rest – the night before, the afternoon after, hell, everything up until about 24 hours ago – is blurry.

If you were able to trudge through the nine pages of sports stuff I posted on Sunday, you may have read that I did not go to Boston this weekend, despite having every intention of doing so.  I packed on Thursday night, lugged my suitcase and 30 pound laptop to work, dropped an egregious $110 on a 6pm train ticket, and was very much looking forward to Beantown.  Knowing that my train would put me into Boston at 9:30pm and I’d have to hit the ground running, for the train ride I bought some little bottles of alcohol which I call nips (but I think that might be racist): three of Maker’s Mark (since they sell ginger ale on board) and three of vodka (to split among the two cans of Red Bull I had in my luggage).  I was going to get a little, maybe a lot, loose on the train.  All day I was sending emails and talking on the phone with my Boston buddies about the weekend’s activities.  I was getting excited.

I was busy at work on Friday but manageably so.  And by about 3pm, it appeared that I had cleared my plate and would be able to sneak out 15 minutes early to make sure I’d catch that 6pm train.  Boston here I come!  Fathers, lock up your daughters!  And maybe any very feminine-looking animals, just to be safe!

And then disaster struck.

Without getting too into it, I was ordered to reorganize a project that I thought was finished at about 3:30pm.  I wound up working until 7:30pm.  The last train to Boston left Penn Station at 7:30pm and wouldn’t get in until midnight, so that was out.  I debated taking a bus, but then I realized: what’s the point at arriving at 1am on Friday night, only to come back on Sunday?  New York to Boston is around 4 hours, usually more.  That’s a lot of traveling for one day in the city.

(Also, buses are for poors.)

So, disgusted with myself and my job, I bagged the trip.  I intend now to go to Boston this weekend, and am taking a half day Friday to ensure I’m out of the office and on a train.  Instead of leaving for Boston at 6pm on Friday, I should be there at 6pm (hopefully).  Now that Boston is back on this coming weekend, I won’t have a weekend in NYC again until January 6 (with jaunts to Boston, Philly, Seattle, and LA coming up, then three consecutive weekends in Philly, one for a drinking tour and two for the holidays), which makes me a little sad, but whatever.

On Friday night, after this great Boston defeat, I was determined to get fucked up.  Like, really fucked up.  I had two vodka red bulls, a bottle of white wine, and then three cans of PBR – and then I went out.  It was my buddy’s 27th birthday "bar crawl" (read: we went to two bars) and things got really out of control: beers, shots, possibly some pain pills, whatever.  I don’t remember much of the evening, but I had a fucking blast.  To wit, the next day, sometime in the afternoon, I found a bar tab from a bar at which I put my card down.  The bill was $35.  For whatever reason, I decided to tip $25.  My math skills weren’t on point that night however, and under total I wrote "$80."  I have no idea what I was actually charged.  Also, I don’t remember going to this particular bar.  At all.  So there’s that.

I was so hungover on Saturday that I did not go out on Saturday night and instead stayed in and watched six hours of shows about prisons (which was actually pretty awesome).  Just before bed I had a glass of a nice Chilean red (in honor of Pablo Neruda, whose memoirs I am reading right now), a half milligram of Xanax (in honor of my father, whose love of pills I inherited), and a shot of NyQuil to wash it all down (that was just for me).  I slept for 11 hours.  It was fucking incredible.

But the missed Boston trip, my hellacious night of boozing, and my downright dangerous and bizarre consumption of sedatives the following night are not the issue.  The bigger issue, the one which concerns me most, is that my employer is trying to turn me into a real employee, not just someone on the payroll who makes personal phone calls, checks his fantasy teams all day long, and writes scurrilous poems about his future ex-wife during staff meetings.  And nowhere is shift from work slacker to professional stud better exemplified than the electronic leash that is now at all times around my neck.  Yes, I, Jason Mulgrew, have been given a blackberry.

Make no mistake: though I love shiny things, I did not want this blackberry.  Not only because I already have a Treo, but because I understood the implications on the blackberry – if you have one, your employer can contact to 24 hours a day and expect you to answer.  My co-workers and I were asked if we would like blackberries and I subtly protested, trying not to sound too much like a slacker, saying that I didn’t think I needed one (which I really don’t) and voicing concerns about the departmental budget (which, on my list of things I’m concerned about, ranks about as high as "I hope my ex-girlfriend is having consistent, non-self-induced orgasms"). 

But there was no resisting, since every member of my department was "rewarded" with a blackberry.  Not only that, when the IT guy brought me the blackberry for the first time, it was though I was expected to start squealing like an five year old on Christmas who just got "Grease" on video (you know, like I did in 1984).  Oh, ok – so you expect me to be happy now, Mr. IT Guy?  Is that it?  I’m supposed to be glad that I will literally carry my work with me all the time now?  Really?  You know what will make me happy?  Making out with someone who’s not after my money.  Or just making out with someone.  Whichever comes first.  Asshole.

As I type this, I have a blackberry clipped to my belt.  Yes, I am rocking a beltclip.  I know, I know – you’re probably thinking, "My, how the mighty have fallen!" or "Man, is this post almost over?", but please, believe me, I have no choice in the matter.  Everyone at work wears their blackberries on their belts.  Company man that I now am, I must to.  Judge if you must, but know that it pains me.

(And the beltclip blackberry is only an in-work type of thing; as soon as I leave my office building, I take the blackberry off and bury it (and the beltclip) somewhere on my person.  Although I can definitely see myself taking the blackberry out at bars and typing away on it, trying to look important in front of women.  And then I can see myself taking out my Treo and typing on that at the same time as the blackberry, making myself look doubly important.  And then I can see some guy coming over and punching me in the face, because I’m acting like a fucking douche.)

The good news is that so far I haven’t received any emails that required urgent attention while I was out of work.  The truth of the matter is that I do not expect to receive such emails, but just the thought that my employer expects to be able to get in touch with me at all times and wherever I am, well, it just really fucking pisses me off. 

(By the way, if any of my co-workers or superiors are reading this, I’m totally kidding.  I love the job.  Seriously.  And not just because it’s bonus season.)

And there are some positives, aside from being flashy, to the blackberry.  For one, it has a game called Brickbreaker on it, which is some sort of Pong-type derivative.  This is great because it allows me to both look busy and do nothing at the same time.  In meetings and lunches, I’m sure I’ll whip out the blackberry and play away, while everyone around me thinks I’m just really busy.  I’ve actually already done this twice, with great results (top score: 5450).

But this blackberry thing is going to take some adjusting.  I’m not really a good worker.  This blackberry might force me to become one.  And what’s that whole thing about what happens when an irresistible force meets an immutable object?  That’s right – fire.  I don’t mean as in "to lose one’s job", I mean, real actual fire.  As in, I’m going to light one.  Soon.  So watch out.   

(Except if my co-workers and/or superiors are reading this.  Then by "fire" I mean "passion to excel."  Excel for that holiday bonus.  Which I really need, since I’ve decided to surprise my family by putting in a pool.  Also, I need it because I apparently spent $80 at a bar on Friday night that I don’t remember even being at.  So gimme that bonus.  Please.)

Because Bill Simmons is a hero of mine, because the game is on national TV and so my friends and I aren’t going to Red Sky to watch it, and because I’ve never done it before, below is a running diary of the Redskins-Eagles game.  I have no idea if I’ll post this or even complete it, but I’m sitting alone in my living room and feeling a little lonely.  This should keep me occupied.

Dick Stockton, Moose, and Tony Siragusa on the field will be our announcers.  Let’s get into it. 

1:04pm:  And we’re off – the 3-5 Redskins vs. the 4-4 Eagles.  Simply put, the season is over for the loser of this game.  60 degrees, thunderstorms, and wind should make for a hostile environment.  Dick Stockton has just pointed out that Mark Brunell is 4-0 against the Eagles.  Funny, I still like our odds against Mark Brunell.

1:05pm:  That was nice: Antwaan Randle-El just looked like Barry Sanders, with the Birds missing three tackles on third down.  Way to go boys.  Glad to see we’re improving right away from the problems from our last game. 

1:07pm:  Nice stop of a third down screen pass, forcing a punt.  It seems in the few plays I’ve seen that the front seven are breaking the Skins line, but it’s early.  Very, very early. 

1:09pm:  Pretty cool Heisman commercial for Nissan, with animals chasing the truck with the Heisman Trophy in it.  It took me about two full minutes to realize those animals were college mascots.  Did I mention I took Xanax last night?

1:11pm:  McNabb just threw a pass directly at Redskin Marcus Washington, which he dropped.  First heart palpitation of the day.

1:11pm:  McNabb runs for the first and a gain of ten.  No idea why he doesn’t do this more.

1:12pm:  Westbrook runs for a gain of seven.  Very niiiice.  How about a shot downfield on this first down to keep the D honest.

1:13pm:  Wow – I think they were listening, as a flea-flicker goes downfield, but into triple coverage and incomplete.

1:14pm:  Beauty of a play action pass to Westbrook which he takes to the house, brought back because he just stepped out of bounds around the 30.  Mother fucker.  The Birds are moving the ball well and the announcing team is correct – the Skins aren’t swarming to the ball and look lackadaisical.   

1:16pm:  I’ve seen two Jessica Simpson Direct TV commercials and I want to kill myself.  Watching her mouth in those commercials makes me want to do one thing: punch it.  Yeah, she’s hot, and of course, I’d fuck her, but…well, there is no “but.” 

1:18pm:  3^rd and 1 on the Redskins 22 and the Birds can’t get the first.  It’s horribly frustrating that the Eagles o-line averages 330 pounds and I have no faith in any situation that I shorter than 3^rd and 3.

1:18pm:  Akers drops a 37-yarder, Eagles up 3-0.  Good for my fantasy team and my real time, which is nice. 

1:20pm:  After the first score, I start thinking about food options.  Two things I can’t get off my mind: nachos and fried calamari.  I would go with wings but with the beard as scraggly as it is, I’ll be picking caked on sauce out of my beard until Wednesday.  Hmm…

1:23pm:  These KFC famous bowls, which are layered mashed potatoes, fried chicken, gravy, and cheese…I mean, who are the ad wizards that came up with that one?  And more importantly, how much do they weigh?  Nothing says “I’ve given up” quite like “Can I please have two of the famous bowls to go?”

1:24pm:  Just learned that that is a possibly that the game might be delayed because of “thunder.”  Yeah, you have to watch out of that thunder, with all that noise and such.

1:26pm:  The Skins come out for two runs and get a first, then Darwin Walker is tagged for a 15 yard facemask.  The Skins are into Eagles territory.  Yes, Mark Brunell in Eagles territory.  Steel yourselves.

1:28pm:  Birds bite on the fake sweep, Brunell bootlegs and passes to Cooley for a wide open first down.  Skins inside the 30.

1:30pm:  3^rd and 18 from the 37 for the Skins.  22% chance the Eagles fuck this up.

1:30pm:  Michael Lewis comes untouched on a blitz, Brunell throws it away.  Punt team comes on.  Nice stop of the drive there for the Eagles, sloppy early on but tightening up.  To celebrate, I’m going to have my first beer of the day. 

1:32pm:  Mmm..Sundays are made for cans of PBR.  In a related story, I’m not wearing pants right now.  And I’m leaning toward calamari.  I should probably mention now that I didn’t go to Boston this weekend, but we’ll get into that later.

1:34pm:  OH BABY!  McNabb hooks up with Stallworth for an 84 yard touchdown!  I am standing, cheering, and I have a half-erection!  10-0 Eagles!

1:35pm:  That’s what I like about this team – their big play capability.  BUT you can not live and die by big play capability, just as you can’t live and die by the 3 in the NBA.  At some point, you have to be a bruiser.  And yes, I know we’re up 10-0.  I’ll stop now.

1:36pm:  Third Jessica Simpson commercial.  How can a girl from Texas do such a bad Southern accent?  It’s like a black person with a little dick and a college degree.  

1:38pm:  Just showed troops in Iraq, Eagles fans, celebrating.  God I love Eagles fans.

1:40pm:  As the Packers go up on the Vikings, it’s time to review my picks for the week: Chiefs +1, FALCONS +8, Ravens +7, Saints -4, VIKINGS +5.5, and Cowboys +7.  If the Vikings had won by 6 last week, I would have won $1600 (went 5-1, needed to go 6-0), a big reason I got bombed by myself last Sunday.  This week, not looking so good early on.       

1:42pm:  Wow – once again, the Skins convert on a third down and are into Eagles territory.  This team is so inconsistent with tenacity it hurts my heart.  Or maybe that’s just the booze.  

1:43pm:  End of the first, 10-0 Eagles, Skins driving. 

1:46pm:  Uh-oh, Clinton Portis was just taken into the locker room with a hand injury.  Not a problem for the Skins, since Ladell Betts seems like he’s doing just fine.

1:47pm:  Inconsistent – great stop by the Birds on a 3^rd and 3.  Now 4^th and 4 at the 35.  Skins going for it.  71% chance Skins make it.

1:47pm:  First down Skins, passed to Betts in flat for 6.  Didn’t see that one coming.

1:48pm:  Randle-El almost gets tackled in the backfield, then throws the ball to Cooley in the end zone, which is broken up at the last minute by Brian Dawkins, who’s down as we go into commercial.  Let me take a moment to pray for his health.  Gorgeous play and the reason why he’s probably my favorite Eagle.  

1:51pm:  Dawkins back in.  Whew.  Portis’ return is questionable.  Whew.  Dick Stockton has just told us that the Skins have already rushed for 71 yards.  Yikes. 

1:52pm:  Skins go for 48 yard field goal on 4^th and 10.  No good.  Nice to see Novak’s right back to his old sucky self after last week.

1:55pm:  With the ball back, Westbrook makes a bruising run for 11 yards.  Prior to this year, I was down on Westbrook, precisely because he isn’t your typical north-south runner.  And while I still, like I said, don’t trust him in a 3^rd and 3 situation, it seems like he’s made a number of north-south runs this year, which I like.   

1:57pm:  TOUCHDOWN EAGLES!  McNabb hits Reggie Brown for a first down, who gets hit and flips it to Corerll Buckhalter, who takes it in for a 55 yard touchdown.  My only question: is that a pass, i.e. does McNabb get credit for that?  I have a big fantasy matchup this week.  Either way, you’ll be seeing that on ESPN quite a lot over the next 48 hours.   

2:01pm:  It’s at this point that I might start thinking about gloating, but I only have two friends who are Skins fan.  One is my buddy G-Wop, who moved to Egypt three days ago.  The second is my agent Joel, who basically controls my career.  So it doesn’t look like I’ll be sending any “good game so far” text messages today.

2:03pm:  Cincy up 21-0 on the Chargers.  Great news for my survivor pool (my pick this week: Carolina).  Cleveland up 14-0 on Atlanta, also good.  I’m one of 19 or so left out of 80 and the pot is a cool $1600.  And Uncle Jason needs some new shoes.

2:04pm:  Redskins have to punt after a snoozer of a drive.  Thinking a lot more about the calamari, but realized I only have $7 in my wallet.  Since the calamari place doesn’t take credit cards (I think), I might have to wait until after the game, which is about as devastating as it gets.   

2:07pm:  Westbrook runs for 12 yards, Sean Taylor hits him four yards out of bounds.  What a fucking criminal.  Have I mentioned that I hate DC?  I really do.  I hate that city.  Sorry, DC peeps.   

2:08pm:  Portis out with a broken right hand.  Normally I would be on my fantasy site before even typing this, but Betts is one of the most owned backups in the game.  Speaking of fantasy, McNabb is listed as having one TD, so the hook and ladder doesn’t count.  Fuck. 

2:09pm:  Eagles go three and out, looking lazy.  This is what I don’t like – there’s a lot of time left, the Skins have been moving the ball well, and the Eagles come out for this drive looking flat.  They have to continue to ram the ball down their opponents’ throats, and they simply don’t do that.

2:11pm:  Lot of hype this week about the Saints.  I’m starting to think Pittsburgh wins that game outright.  Not liking my pics for this week right now (Miami up 13-0 on KC).

2:13pm:  Brunell connects to Brandon Lloyd for 43 yards, their biggest play of the game.  Ball on the 18.  Not concerned.

2:14pm:  Fourth time in the first half the Skins have been in the Eagles territory.  Maybe a little concerned about that.  By the way, beer #2 is more delicious than beer #1. 

2:17pm:  On 3^rd and 6 from the 18, Mark Brunell throws a pass into three Eagles, his first “What the fuck?” moment of the game.  I can’t wait for the next one.   Novak comes on for the field goal. 

2:17pm:  The 32 yarder is good – 17-3 Eagles.  Yawn. 

2:22pm:  My dad and I usually talk over halftime about the game, but he just called me early, with about four minutes left in the half.  He, like I, feels good about the game, but we are both concerned about them playing soft.  They haven’t played a whole game all season and tend to get lazy.  After giving up a field goal, they just went three and out after getting great field position thanks to a nice runback and 15 yard facemask.  Not enjoying this right now…

2:26pm:  3^rd and 22 for the Skins from the Eagles 12.  Chance of success: 4%.

2:26pm:  Betts run goes nowhere and the Skins are forced to punt.  After the punt, the Birds get the ball on the Skins 45 with 2:31 left and one timeout.  I like our chances for some points before the end of the half. 

2:30pm:  McNabb is 3-11 for 121 yards.  And we’re up 17-3.  And the Skins have 81 yards rushing in the half, most without Clinton Portis.  What the fuck?

2:31pm:  The crowd boos as the Skins blitz, McNabb gets hit and throws the ball away.  The Eagles hold the ball for 20 seconds and go three and out.  That was pretty fucking disgusting.  Take away an 84 yard pass and a 55 yard freak play and this game is 3-3.  I’m starting to feel a little ill.   

2:36pm:  After a great tackle in the open field by an Eagle (couldn’t see who) that would have brought up fourth down, Darwin Walker gets called for another face mask that is OBVIOUSLY a five yarder but is called a fifteen yard personal foul.  This is great.  Redskins now on the Philly 40.  Thank god we’re talking about Mark Brunell here. 

2:41pm:  Skins can’t convert on a 4^th and 6 and the Eagles take over at their 40 with 48 seconds left.  The way the Eagles have been moving the ball, the Skins definitely should have punted.  My guess: we walk away with a field goal.  But McNabb is not exactly known for his clock management skills.  

2:42pm:  Reggie Brown picks up a first and the Eagles spike it in Skins territory.  Alright baby – let’s move here.

2:44pm:  After the spike, incomplete, incomplete, punt.  Good job, boys.  Way to go into the half with momentum (three consecutive three and outs from midfield or Skins territory).  Getting disgusted.  Big time.  Also, I’ve put on pants.  It’s getting cold in here. 

2:45pm:  Skins take a knee and we go into the half.  Time for a break. 

2:59pm:  Second half under way and we’re into the third beer.  The Eagles get the ball and I’m hoping Andy gave them a tongue lashing for their sluggishness.  Also, it’s now pouring in Philly.  We’ll see how that affects the game.

3:00pm:  Reno Mahe with another great runback, ball on Skins 49.  One thing that’s unique about this game is that there have been no turnovers.  Perhaps the rain might cause of fumbles or picks.  And I think I’m getting a little drunk.  That Xanax is still in my system, I think. 

3:03pm:  On 3^rd and 4, McNabb goes to the endzone for Brown and there was NO WAY that wasn’t pass interference, with a Skins defender punching over Reggie Brown’s shoulder a full second before the ball arrives.  The call is incomplete.  Nice pickup, refs.

3:05pm:  God, how fucking good is Wendy’s?  They are definitely my favorite fast food burger, with Burger King in a distant second, and McDonald’s in a very, very distant third.  However, when drunk and looking to hang out with poor people, nothing beats White Castle.  Can you tell that I’m hungry?

3:06pm:  Coming back from commercial, Eagles go for it on 4^th and 4 and get six in a pass to Stallworth.  That’s very unlike the Eagles.  Ball on Skins 18.

3:07pm:  On the run, McNabb dumps it to Westbrook near the sidelines on the two, which is either complete, incomplete, or a fumble.  Hard to tell.

3:08pm:  The play is called a complete pass and Gibbs challenges.  If anything, it looks like a completed pass and a fumble to me.  I certainly hope the refs don’t agree.  We go to commercial while the refs review.

3:13pm:  After an eternity, Westbrook is called down by contact before the balls comes out.  Play stands and Skins charged with a timeout.  I still think it looks like a fumble, but that’s why I’m drinking on my couch and not reffing this game.  1^st and Goal at the 2 for the Eagles. 

3:15pm:  After Westbrook is stuffed and McNabb can’t get it to Schoebel, 3^rd and Goal.  Not liking this…

3:16pm:  Buckhalter loses a yard, 4^th and Goal from the 3.  Again, good job Eagles.  They should have gone pass-pass-pass, as they don’t have the personnel and the field is too wet to run on.

3:17pm:  Akers hits 21 yard field goal, 20-3 Eagles.  Officially a three score game now.  Drinking beer very fast and feeling a little sexually aggressive.

3:21pm:  After a weird and delayed illegal formation call, Akers has to re-kick, now a 26 yard field goal…

3:21pm:  …and the Eagles call a timeout before the kick gets off.  For whatever fucking reason.  I think Andy just likes to use one timeout a game just for kicks.  Love that clock management, Andy.  Keep it up.   

3:23pm:  Akers hits the FG, 20-3 Eagles with 9:13 left in the third.  This game is getting interminably boring.  If I had DirecTV, I’d be flipping to other games now (at least when the Skins have the ball). 

3:27pm:  There’s a Mike Sellers in the NFL?  I thought there was only Larry Sellers.  And of course, there’s always Arthur Digby Sellers, which will be the name of my dog if I ever get one.

3:28pm:  After Mike Sellers picks up the first, Cooley picks up a 19 yard reception and the Skins are once again in Eagle territory.

3:28pm:  Santana Moss makes his second catch of the game, a slant for 8.  He now has 11 yards receiving, so he’s really helping my fantasy team this week.  I’ll just wait for the week he has 200 yards and 4 TD’s.   

3:30pm:  OH BOY!  Sheldon Brown takes a interception for 70 yards for a touchdown!  I knew that there’d have to be some turnovers!  After the extra point, 27-3 Eagles with 6:10 left in the third.  Time to open beer #4 and possibly text message agent Joel.  Possibly.

3:32pm:  But now here’s the problem: with such a big lead, the Eagles are going to play JV ball for the rest of the game, save for a drive or two.  So while I’m happy that they have such a big lead, I’m about to be treated to a real snooze-fest and a lot of three and outs coming up.

3:35pm:  In other news, Chad Johnson has 9 catches for over 220 yards and at least two touchdowns.  Wow.  Hope I’m not playing against him this week (in fantasy, not in real life).

3:37pm:  Skins don’t convert on a pretty important 3^rd and 8 on their own 42 with 4:04 left in the third.  The punt rolls to inside the Eagles five. 

3:38pm:  I really don’t care about McNabb’s line of clothing, “Super Five,” thank you very much.  Still, it was a fairly non-obvious plug.  And yes, I’m feeling pretty good and there is a greater than 30% chance that I will go out boozing after this.  Hopefully not alone, like last Sunday. 

3:42pm:  After getting the ball at the 3, the Eagles are now at the Skins 45 and moving the ball well after an 18 yard grab by Stallworth.  He and McNabb seem to be very in sync.  The third quarter ends with the Birds up 27-3. 

3:45pm:  SD, Atlanta, Jacksonville, New England, and KC are all creeping back…no good for the Survivor pool.   

3:48pm:  On 3^rd and 6 near midfield, the Eagles had the ball to Westbrook for a lame 4 yard gain.  They’ll punt.  I’m pretty much daydreaming now and focusing on getting drunk – and there’s still 13 minutes left in the fourth quarter. 

3:51pm:  The SD-Cincy game is now 42-38 Chargers.  I don’t know what the over/under on that game was, but I’m guessing it wasn’t 80.  LT has four TD’s today, 18 on the season.  Again, I hope I’m not playing him.  And I told you to take him if you had the first overall pick in your draft.

3:53pm:  Dick and Moose are saying that Dhani Jones is “celebral” and “cut from another mold.”  I think this means “gay.”  They just played his voicemail message and it’s so awkward and weird I’m not even able to make a joke about it.  Dhani, maybe you should focus less on your weirdness and other activities and stop being a sucky linebacker?

(Actually, he hasn’t had too bad of a year.) 

3:55pm:  By the way, 4^th and 14 and the Skins are punting.  Nine minutes left.  It’s going to be a long nine minutes.   

3:56pm:  I gotta say, I like the Bud Light commercial with the rubber floors.  However, I don’t know any attractive women who drink Bud Light, so that kinda irks me.  I know more attractive women who drink PBR than I do Bud Light. 

(OK, so I don’t know any attractive women.  Don’t be a dick.)

3:57pm:  Dick and Moose are calling Tony Siragusa their staff meteorologist and Tony’s acting so offended that I’m pretty sure he doesn’t know what “meteorologist” means.  Now he’s bitching about how cold and wet he is, and doing it with a serious chip on his shoulder.  Just hang in there Tony – you’ll be eating some cheesesteaks in no time.

3:59pm:  Cheesesteaks!  That’s what I should get for dinner!  I am more than a little excited about this. 

4:02pm:  (And yes, that’s really all I have to say as the Eagles are marching down the field through a series of runs.  Nothing much going on in the actual game.)

4:02pm:  The Jets have beaten the Pats.  Two people are gone from my survivor pool.

4:03pm:  Westbrook makes a nice 22 yard run to the Skins 31, making sure to stay in bounds for the second consecutive play.  I’m developing a crush on him.

4:05pm:  McNabb makes a nice shuttle pass to Westbrook to move the ball inside the Skins’ 20.  Two minute warning.  At least the lame duck time is moving quickly. 

4:08pm:  Dick has informed us that LT has15 touchdowns in his last five games.  Wow. 

4:09pm:  The game will end inside the Redskin’s 16, with the Eagles kneeling on the ball.  Eagles win, 27-3 and go to 5-4.  The Skins fall to 3-6.  Thank you for sticking around and I promise I’ll never do this again.

(But hey – 3500+ words on a Sunday ain’t that bad.)

Now, tonight, I will be the #1 Bears fan in the country.

To quote Dave Attell, the whores have spoken: I got about two dozen emails from ladies after Tuesday’s post telling me that sex in a pool is not all it’s cracked up to be.  Some of them went into very graphic detail, explaining lube issues and such, which alternatively turned me on and made me feel a little gross.  But all of them had the same point: pool sex is not enjoyable to ladies.

The key phrase there is "to ladies."  I did not get a single email from a guy saying that pool sex was bad (I didn’t get any emails from dudes about the subject either way).  Which means that the male readers of this site either:

a) are having sex in pools but do not care whether or not their lady partner is enjoying it;

b) are not having sex in pools;

c) are not having sex at all.

If hope it’s a or b.  Because some dudes reading this site have to be having sex.  Otherwise, I’ll just be sad.

(To clarify, some dudes reading this site have to be having sex - but not with each other.  Not that that’s not cool, but I felt like I left that a little open and wanted to clear it up.)

Also, speaking of emails received from Tuesday’s post, I got a, um, lovely email from the ex whose office we had sex in.  That was unexpected; I’ve been used to writing personal things on this site for a while now and not getting called out on them.  But I deserved it, and I just want to say, Honey, it was only a joke.  It’s all in good fun and it was truly a lovely evening.  And my bird was not comparable to a wet dish rag that night.  That is a device we writers use called hyperbole, which is not, I learned recently, pronounced hyper-bowl.  At any rate, I hope all is well and again I’m sorry about the whole you-not-having-an-orgasm-in-five-months thing.  But you know how I fear what I don’t understand, and the whole women and orgasms thing both confounds and scares the hell out of me.  So it’s really not my fault; it’s more yours and God’s.  I’m glad we’ve settled this.  And if you want to get a cup of coffee or something, let me know.  I’m a little lonely right now.  But not any better at giving orgasms.  Just so you know. 

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

I was in a meeting this week in which I’m pretty sure I heard someone use the phrase "scatological development", as in a "scatological development in the M&A landscape of Europe" or some similar boring work talk.  I did a double take.

When I got back to my office, I went to dictionary.com to make sure my understanding of what "scatological" meant was correct.  And it was.  The word "scatological" means one of three things: of or relating to the study of excrement; marked by an interest in excrement or obscenity; or of or relating to excrement or excremental functions.  Hmmm…

Not be a vocabulary snob, but methinks the person speaking did not mean to refer to the M&A landscape of Europe as marked by an interest in excrement or obscenity.  I’ll admit that I’m not 100% sure that the word scatological was used, but as a connoisseur of poop-related words, my ears certainly perked up after it (or something like it) was said.  I looked around the room and no one batted an eye, but that’s not unusual – no one really bats an eye in these meetings.   

So while it is awesome someone may have accidentally referred to mergers and acquisitions as poopy, this is a sad story, since I will go to my grave never knowing the truth and always wondering what really was said. 

Trouble.  Scatological trouble. 

(And if I’m wrong and there’s another interpretation of the word or a word that sounds similar to scatological could have been used more appropriately, please let me know.)

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

I will be taking this show on the road over the next few weeks.  I’m heading to Boston this weekend to hang out with friends and get drunk in a field during a BC football game, which I will not watch one second of.  The good news is that it’s a night game, meaning we tailgate from 4 to 7, then once the game starts, I go to a bar with my other buddies who don’t care about BC football, and we get housed.  It’ll be great.

(Then of course there’s the matter of me arriving in Boston via the Acela at 9:30pm on Friday night and starting the drinking somewhere around Stamford, CT so I can hit the ground running.  I love Fridays like those.)

Over Thanksgiving, I’ll be in Philly and I face one of more difficult stretches of drinking in recent memory.  I have the second annual "Whacked on Wheels" drinking tour on Wednesday night, Thanksgiving on Thursday (duh), the third annual "Black Out Friday" pub crawl on Friday night, and then my friends Jimmy the Muppet and Danielle’s wedding on Saturday.  Woof.  What’s the over/under on pounds I can regain and points I can add to my blood pressure?  Right now I’m at 195 and 120/90.  I wouldn’t be surprised if at the end of that bender I’m 208 and 140/110.  Mark it down.

Then, the first weekend of December, I’m making my triumphant return to Seattle, where I’ll be from Thursday, 11/30 to Tuesday, 12/5.  My old roommate Brian and I are flying out to hang out with our old roommate Ben, who now lives in Seattle and may never come back to NYC again.  Originally, my friends Jeremy and Brendan were to come as well, but Jeremy, who is from the West Coast, will be out there the week before and Brendan is too grown up to take a day off from work to have fun with his old friends.  So it’ll just be the three roommates, getting drunk and saying weird things to each other and complaining about the weather. 

Finally, from Tuesday, 12/5 until Sunday, 12/10, I’ll be in my third favorite city: Los Angeles.  God, I love LA.  This is a partial business trip, but the good news is that I’m much funnier when I’m hungover.  Therefore, my plan is to have meetings and do work during the day and then get shitcanned at night and tell every woman within earshot that I have a development deal.  Because, this time, I’m not leaving LA without a wife, or at least an aspiring actress girlfriend with fake boobs. 

There you have it.  Wish me luck, because I’ll need it.  This is going to be a true test.

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

If you live in the NYC area, are thinking of growing a mustache, and would like to hang out with some cool guys (and gals) and help kids in the process, I urge you to check out Mustaches for Kids.  All the info in on the website, but November 16 is clean shaven day, so check it out fast.  All you have to do is grow a mustache for four weeks (the rules clearly stipulate no Hitler mustaches) and get your friends to support you with a couple of bucks for the Children’s Hospital of New Orleans.   

I was asked to participate last year but was already growing a mustache for a different project.  I have to say that I don’t think I will participate this year, only because I’m growing my beard out and have been for some months.  However, I hope that by pimping the charity on here my karma balances out.  So check it out. 

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

I don’t really have a fifth item here, and I need six (including music below), so let’s hand it over to a guy who’s a pretty good writer, Vladimir Nabakov.  Here is one of my favorite passages not only of his, but of anyone’s:

There are some beloved women whose eyes, by a chance blend of brilliancy and shape, affect us not directly, not at the moment of shy perception, but in a delayed and cumulative burst of light when the heartless person is absent, and the magic agony abides, and its lenses and lamps are installed in the dark. Whatever eyes Liza Pnin, now Wind, had, they seemed to reveal their essence, their precious-stone water, only when you evoked them in thought, and then a blank, blind, moist aquamarine blaze shivered and stared as if a spatter of sun and sea had got between your own eyelids. Actually her eyes were of a light transparent blue with contrasting black lashes and bright pink canthus, and they slightly stretched up templeward, where a set of feline little lines fanned out from each. She had a sweep of dark brown hair above a lustrous forehead and a snow-and-rose complexion, and she used a very light red lipstick, and save for a certain thickness of ankle and wrist, there was hardly a flaw to her full-blown, animated, elemental, not particularly well-groomed beauty.

If you’re saying "Wow" to yourself right now, there is a chance we may marry.  If you’re saying, "What the fuck?" but are hot and willing to sleep with me, there is a chance we may marry. 

Alternatively, if I had to describe the fictional Liza Pnin, now Wind, I might write something like:

She was hot, with a corpulent bosom that set ablaze the hearth of my loins.  Chubby ankles notwithstanding, I longed to look deep into her eyes of blue, blue like a bottle of Bombay Sapphire gin, while I laid on top of her during love making, my chest hair steel wool, her breasts two mounds of mashed potatoes caked on a old dinner plate I was destined to clean.  After I had ejaculated and removed myself from her skin, she would pull her brown hair back into a tail of pony, shake her head, and look at me with those Bombay Sapphire eyes, full of sadness and murder and softness.  Often when I was high, I thought she was a cat.

Eerily similar, right?

(This passage is from Pnin, by the way.)

(That is, Nabakov’s passage is from Pnin.  In case you couldn’t tell, I just made mine up.  Surprisingly, it’s not published anywhere – yet.)

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

Six Songs

"Someday Some Morning Sometime"  Wilco and Billy Bragg
Wow.

(That’s really all I can say, aside from we may have a new favorite – yes, favorite – song.  Find this now.)

"Goods"  Mates of State
Whoa – oh!  I have to admit, I hate the ending of this song, but that’s probably only because the first half is so awesome.  I’m becoming a big fan of the boy-girl singer groups (Mates of State, New Pornographers, Stars, etc).  If you know of any more, send them on over. 

"Rise Up With Fists!!"  Jenny Lewis and the Watson Twins
There is no other way to say this: I think I’m in love with Jenny Lewis.  I’ve been in love before and I know what it’s like and I’m pretty sure this is it.  I mean, she is, just…spectacular.  I just want to, I don’t know, be around her.  Isn’t that what stalkers say just before they get serious? 

(I’m a little concerned that one of the most popular Google image searches bringing people to this site is "jenny lewis tits", since I wrote about how hot she was here.  I hope that doesn’t hurt my chances with her.  And yes, I realize I’m delusional.  But I’m harmless.  I think.) 

(And by the way, I didn’t mean to ruin this song by being creepy.  It’s a really beautiful song.  The first word that comes to mind to describe it is "rich," even though I’m not sure why.)

"Shining Star"  Earth, Wind & Fire
If you listen to this song while you get ready in the morning, your day will be at least 61% better.  My goodness, does this get me going.  Why aren’t there more bands like Earth, Wind & Fire, the Jackson 5, and Sly and the Family Stone these days?  Seriously, can a bunch of black people, preferably related, get together and start making some dance-friendly funk?  I mean, I would buy that and a lot of other people would, too.  This kind of music never goes out of style.

Christ. I should work in the music industry.   

"You Part the Waters"  Cake
If I had to make a list of my top ten albums, Cake’s first album, Motorcade of Generosity, would be on that list.  There are some real gems on that album, and this probably isn’t even my favorite song on there.  Still, this gets my hips shaking and I love the lines, "You’ve got your grand piano/You don’t even play piano!/I’m the one who plays piano!"  Nothing sums up a spoiled bitch of a lady quite like that (aside from maybe the title, that is). 

"Sweet Leaf"  Black Sabbath
Fuck yeah.  This is especially appropriate since I heard this week that Christopher Walken has agreed to play Ozzy Osbourne in the film adaptation of Motley Crue’s (kind of) autobiography, The Dirt.  The thought of Walken as Ozzy nearly gives me fits – especially having read the book – so I don’t think I’ll be able to seriously offer any insight on this for the next two or three months.  Right now, let’s just rock out.  And imagine Christopher Walken singing this song.  Wow. 

I’m having a really shitty day today, mostly because my computer keeps crashing and I keep losing work.  While this is clearly not my fault, I am to blame to a certain degree. 

My dad used to have a dog named Mugsy (which was actually my dad’s nickname growing up, which is weird; that is, naming a dog with your own nickname, the equivalent of me having a dog called Larry Awesome or Nass or Boner or HD or That Guy From the Dorm Who Masturbates in the Laundry Room).  Mugsy was the dumbest dog in the world, and when we were kids, in an act that now seems like animal cruelty but back then was good ol’ fashioned fun, my dad would light his lighter in front of Mugsy.  The dog, a mixed black German Sheppard, would saunter up to the flame, sniff it, burn himself, and then run away whimpering in pain.  Seconds later, he’d come back into the living room and the scene would repeat itself again: dad ignites lighter, dog sniffs it and burns himself, dog runs away.  Over and over again.  And we laughed and laughed and laughed at the dumb dog.  In a related story, I think this was just about the time the God decided to turn up my bodyhair growing meter to 11.  He hasn’t turned it down since.

Apparently, I have a little bit of Mugsy in me.  I’ve been balls deep in data today with shitloads of spreadsheets and word docs open on my computer.  As soon as I turned the pc on today, I knew something wasn’t right.  Still, I barreled ahead, taking care of business.  Because that, and making personal phone calls, is what I get paid to do.

(Well actually not so much that second one.)

And then the computer crashed for the first time and I lost a bunch of data, since I didn’t save it.  I yelled, or rather yelped, restarted the computer, and continued working.  And then it crashed again.  And I lost a bunch of data again, because I didn’t save it again.

Then guess what?  Crash-lose-yell-restart once more.  Then crash-lose-punch the air-restart.  It’s getting to the point that I think I have a serious mental condition or some sort of block that prohibits from hitting CTRL+S while I work.

Anyway, I realize that was a horrible fucking story, but that’s just the point – I’m in a horrible mood now because of my computer problems.  So in an effort to cheer myself up, I started trolling YouTube and found one of my all-time favorite Chris Farley’s SNL skits, which I wanted to share with you all, since I care about you (now don’t you feel like a jerk for thinking, "Will he shut the fuck up about his stupid computer problems already?").

So here’s the clip.  I hope it makes your day a little bit better.  It has helped me, but only momentarily until I lose another hours worth of work.  Fucking broke-ass computer.

[youtube]ghcbIx-3KAQ[/youtube]

Because I have no girlfriend or nothing much to do, I spend a lot of my time thinking and strategizing.  This is how I pass most of my days and nights. 

For example, last week I set an important goal for myself: before next summer is over, I will have sex in a pool.  For as many virgins as I’ve had sex with (“Jason Mulgrew’s Genitals: Custom Made for Virgins Since 1979”), my list of crazy places I’ve had sex is woefully inadequate.  I’ve never had sex in a car or on a beach or on a roof or in a bar bathroom or anything.  Weak, I know.  I did have sex in an ex-girlfriend’s office once, but that was so thoroughly planned that it became something more to survive and get over with than something to enjoy.  Also, I couldn’t get an erection, so I’m not sure if it even counts.  Although technically, I was in there for a little bit, but it was kinda like stuffing a wet dish rag into a shot glass.  But I digress…

[I should clarify about one thing: I don’t mean that virgins are typically kinky and willing to do it in the parking lot of a Walmart, but I mean that my best sexual bragging point is that I’ve had sex with many more virgins than any of my friends, which I attribute to my less-than-intimidating genitals.  Add to that that I’m all nice and funny and most women are pretty sure that I have no STDs, because, you know, you need to have sex to have a sexually transmitted disease, and all these factors combine to mean that I’ve been with more virgins than most Shahs.  Which I am more than cool with.  Because really, from the girl’s point of view, it can only get better after doing me, as that’s about as low as it gets, you poor thing.  You poor, drunk, non-English-speaking thing whose brother is waiting outside in the hallway to shiv me.]

But hear me now: by the end of next summer, I will have done it in a pool.  Of course, there are several obstacles to this.  First, I have to find a pool, which are typically hard to come by in New York City.  Then I have to actually get in the pool, something I haven’t done since 1987, the last year I had more hair on my head than on my back.  And lastly, I have to find a woman willing to have sex with me in a pool, which will probably be the most difficult part.  My only hope is that by next summer I will have won the lottery or have killed someone famous, making me fuckable to someone.  Keep your fingers crossed.

Another thing I’ve been thinking about lately is whether there is any song that could give me an orgasm while listening to it without touching myself.  If you know me at all, you know that music really gets me going.  And also if you know me at all you can probably guess that I have an issue with what doctors call “hair-trigger ejaculation.”  Logic would then follow that out of the millions of songs out there, one could probably get me off, just by hearing it.

After much thought, I decided that if I were on mushrooms and the wind was just right, I could probably get off to The Format’s “Time Bomb” without touching my bird.  It’s not that this is my favorite song or anything (although it is most awesome), but there is a lot of stuff going on in this song (harmonizing, yelling, cymbals, piano, etc) and it’s all good.  Also, and I don’t know if this will make a lot of sense, but it is paced at about the same rate that I make love: it start outs with a yell, then gets moderately fast, there’s there a small break, then it’s faster than before, then it repeats (which I can not do immediately but definitely a few days later after I’ve recovered).  Of course, this song doesn’t end with some mozzarella sticks, but otherwise it’s nearly identical to my love-making steez.     

[Nevermind that the lyrics repeat: “Oh no/Was it worth it?”, the answer to which, in my case, is invariably, “For $60?  Not really.”]

But unfortunately, I don’t have any way of getting mushrooms, since I haven’t done them in forever (it’s been over two months).  Therefore, I decided late last week that getting off sans touching to “Time Bomb” must remain a hypothesis for the time being and I should refocus my energies on the sex in the pool thing, while keeping an ear out for other songs that might make me climax without any physical interaction.

[Do I focus on finding the pool first or the woman first?  Since I’ve been focusing on finding a woman for, oh, fifteen years and have not had much luck, I should probably look for the pool first.  It’s about time I change course.] 

But then on Friday night, with the sadness of my “Time Bomb” defeat still fresh on my mind, something strange and magical happened.

On that night, I went all the way out to Brooklyn to see Joseph Arthur in concert.  I typically don’t go to shows for a number of reasons that I won’t get into right now, but I was so moved by his latest album that I figured I should go (you’ve heard this before).  Also, my buddies Brian and Jeremy wanted to go and I was assured in advance that the place, Southpaw, sold Bud bombers for only $4.  Jason and Larry are very into Bud bombers right now (photographic evidence here).

I had just about one of the busiest and most stressful weeks of my life last week (which should be topped by this week) and by Friday I was a disaster: hungover, tired, and miserable.  Work itself on Friday was almost unbearable and I did more actual work between 5:30pm and 7:30pm than I typically do in a month.  Ugh.

It is becoming more and more clear to me that if I am to survive the next two or three months, I am probably going to have to start doing some serious drugs, namely cocaine.  I really don’t want to start becoming a cokehead, for a number of reasons.  First and foremost, I should (theoretically, finally) start getting paid for my projects very soon.  Picking up a cocaine habit just as I’m getting an influx of cash is probably not the best idea, since I am horrible with money (three weeks ago I came close to buying an apartment in Brooklyn before I realized that – wait a minute – I have no fucking money, and if I bought the apartment I would be legally bankrupt in under a year).  Not to mention there’s my ego, which would only be fueled by the cocaine.  And lastly and most damningly, people over the age of 25 who are not famous and do cocaine are just fucking gross. 

(For the most part.)

(But on the other hand, if I were to immerse myself into a circle of cokeheads, I’m pretty sure I’d be able to find a girl who’d had sex with me in a pool.  Hell, I might even be able to find a girl who would have sex with me in a burning car, depending upon the cokehead circle.  Maybe I should reassess…)

So instead, I’ve turned to an equally dangerous drug to keep me afloat and focused: diet coke.  I know, I know – you should probably start praying for my soul tonight before you go to bed.  But the good news that it’s working.  The diet coke is free in work and keeps me alive and functioning all day, until I get home and replace the diet coke with red bull and vodka.  I now have between four and six diet cokes a day, in an effort to make my heart the size of a watermelon.  On the Friday before the Joseph Arthur show, at the end of a most exasperating week, I had so many diet cokes that I lost count, but historians put the number conservatively at fourteen.        

The point is that when Brian and I arrived at Southpaw for the show, I was so filled with caffeine that if you listened closely enough you could hear my body humming.  And after a shitty week, I was looking to get fucked up – really fucked up.  And then Joseph started playing.  And the perfect storm was upon us.

I can’t say this any clearer: this guy fucking rocks.  I went into the show knowing only his latest album Nuclear Daydream and most of the songs from another of his albums, Our Shadows Will Remain.  So while I consider myself a fan I’m no die-hard by any stretch.  Yet by the third song, between the music and the caffeine and the booze, I was basically hypnotized.  By the fifth song, if Joseph had yelled, “Hey everyone – let’s shave our heads!”, I would have been bald in under three minutes.  By the ninth song, he could have asked, “Who wants to eat some glass?” and the bar would be out of beer bottles in no time.  This is the only way I can explain how awesome this was. 

And as I said above, with each song, I – and the rest of the crowd – got more into it.  To be clear, all of these songs weren’t rockers either; there were a number of slow songs mixed in, something that usually bothers me at shows (when I’m rocking, I want to keep rocking).  But it was almost like the band knew when to slow it down for a song or two, lest certain members of the audience start spontaneously combusting.

But when the band went into the rockers, they doth rocked.  All night I found myself growing increasingly agitated, excited, and most importantly, aroused.  During the encore, my eyes were closed, I was double fisting Bud bombers, and I was feeling it – without the use of any psychotropic drugs.  Amazing, simply amazing.

And then it happened.  To start what would be the last song of the night, Joseph’s keyboard player busted out a familiar riff, one that I’ve known for years.  The guitar immediately followed, and then his extremely sexy bass player started pumping it out.  Oh dear, I thought, this is gonna be something.  The song was that sexy bitch of a song by Rolling Stones, “Miss You.” 

Within seconds, the crowded was in a frenzy, sexily strutting their stuff, almost as though they were trying to impress the band.  Once the sing-along part arrived after the first verse, everyone was “whoo-who-whooing” along with the band, freaking the fuck out, engrossed in the music and the moment.  Joseph was soon standing on the edge of the stage, screaming at the crowd, getting them all riled up. 

And it was working.  The scene was almost primal.  I don’t know much about animals, but the closest you might come to the vibe on the dance floor during “Miss You” was if you took a bunch of monkeys, gave them a ton of cocaine, packed them in a cage that was way too small, and then started shaking that fucking cage like a motherfucker and maybe firing some guns in the air.  That may come close to the craziness on the dance floor.  It was unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before.  And I was loving it.

And then it started happening.  Things started to get blurry.  I felt confused, but in a good way.  My heart rate increased.  I started to sweat (well, sweat more than usual).  My face became flushed. I began to tremble a little bit.  My breathing increased, faster than increasingly rapid bass line.  I clenched the Bud bombers in each of my hands and felt a tingle that started in the bottom of my spine but quickly spread like lightening through my body; it felt like a sneeze, but 1000 times better.  My body clenched, I made a noise similar to that of a German Shepherd that has been punched, and then it was over.  And I felt tired, a little hungry, and a lot self-loathing, three familiar feelings usually reserved for my work bathroom, strangers’ parked cars, and the girls’ junior varsity basketball games at PS 191. 

Then I realized that I had done it.  I done spooged in my pants, without touching my bird, because of music.  And it was good.

Per my typical post-orgasm behavior, I don’t remember much of the rest of the night, but if I had to make a guess I’d say that something violent probably happened.  The only thing I do remember after spooging at the concert was the mozzarella sticks that I ate on the cab ride back to Manhattan.  Which were delicious. 

And now I have one less goal in life and need a new one.  I’m thinking the next one will involve eating in the nude, but I’m not sure in what capacity.  I’ll let you know.

(And if you know of any good pools in NYC, please let me know.)   

Congratulations are in order to Site Guy Brendan and his lady Liz, who completed the New York City Marathon yesterday, in one fell swoop making them more accomplished than I’ll ever be.  This was Brendan’s second marathon.  He ran the Boston Marathon a few years back and immediately retired from marathoning, but was lured out of retirement by Liz, who wanted her first marathon to be the NYC one.  I have to be honest – I’m a little disappointed that neither of them won, but it’s a great accomplishment nonetheless.

After the race, Brendan and Liz had a little get together at a bar on the Bowery, a nice lil’ place called Slainte that I can only imagine is overflowing with B&T assholes on Friday and Saturday nights.  It was nice to see them both, but a little strange because usually when we hang out, it’s in Boston (where I will be this coming weekend).  And Brendan is usually so drunk that he’s running around chasing pigeons like a mentally-challenged but hyperactive five year old. 

But last night there were no pigeon chases, as Brendan was tired.  I went over to the bar and joined the two of them as well as their family and friends for some beers, which were tasting delicious.  I was a little late getting there and shortly most of the people were gone.  Then everyone was gone and it was just Brendan, Liz and I.  And then, tired from all that running or whatever, they too left, just as I had gotten by third beer, a pint of Guinness that tasted like God.  

I couldn’t begrudge them for leaving – they did run quite a bit that day – but I was just hitting my stride and wanted to keep drinking.  I think that I have a problem: I love getting drunk when I’m not supposed to.  I think that beers taste much better on Sunday nights or Tuesday afternoons or than they do on Friday and Saturday nights.  I have no doubt that the naughtiness of it has something to do with it - while the rest of the world is settling in for the start of their week, I’m pounding pints of Guinness and feeling like a million bucks - but I’m ok with that.  Because I’m naughty sometimes.

(Ugh – I just grossed out myself by writing that.)

Of course, I wasn’t going to leave with them and leave my full beer at the bar, but I knew that none of my friends weren’t doing anything last night, so I figured I’d call it quits after that beer – even though it was only just 8pm.  Besides, I could have one beer at the bar alone.  After all, I’m a grown-ass man, more than capable of and secure enough to enjoy a beer by myself and watch some football.  I’d have my beer, check out the pre-game show for the Colts-Pats, then head home.  Not a big deal.

FOUR HOURS LATER, the bartender brought me over another of a few free Guinnesses that he treated me to that night, as well as a pint of water, "just in case [I] want it."  Friends, I was shitcanned.  And alone.  And the bartender was bringing my sad, drunk ass water.   

I’ve never before been brought water by a bartender when I didn’t ask for it, so I can only guess that "just in case you want it" really means, "You’re bombed and making me sad, because I’ve been listening to you beg every person in your phone book to come out and drink with you and have been watching send about 500 text messages, I assume imploring the same.  Drink this water so you’re not too hungover tomorrow and then get the fuck out of here.  Christ."

Taking the water offering as my cue, I stumbled home and passed the fuck out, not before sending a few more last-minute text messages, asking anyone – anyone – if they wanted to have a drink.  But by now it was just after midnight and my lame ass friends were not interested.  I contemplated taking the plunge and going to this place by MSG for a handjob, but I was too tired.  Also, I didn’t have the cash on me. 

At 5am, I woke up because the heat was coming out of my radiator so angrily that it felt like my apartment was on fire.  I was covered in sweat, which for about four half-conscious minutes I thought was piss, before realizing that my hair was matted down and knowing that there was very little chance I could piss all over my head.  This latest heat explosion was the worst ever and there is a very decent chance that as I write this my apartment is, in fact, burning to the ground.  Because something ain’t right with that heater.  I had sweat so much that this morning that I dropped off all my sheets and blankets at the laundromat this morning – and it’s not even that time of year!

(Ladies, again, I’m single and coming to a city near you.)

Anyway, long and short of it is that I’m a defeated man today.  No one to drink with last night, got bombed by myself.  Took comfort in that at least I’d get a decent night’s sleep, but was woken up by my own sweat and couldn’t fall back asleep.  Being trying all day to tell you about it, but am so tired that I’m practically slapping my hands on the keyboard and ian sfp9qhi”’oN inndpgoij i’s. 

And the moral is that I need new friends here in the city.  Just a piss-poor performance by everyone I know in NYC last night – I couldn’t get one single person to come out and have a beer or two with me, so I had to get rocked by myself (which I’m still not sure was awesome or sad).  If interested, please send a cover letter and resume to jason@jasonmulgrew.com and you’ll be hearing from us soon.  Like, next we’re drunk at a bar on a school night.

 

No real post today (busy, hungover), but an update from the jasonmulgrew.com family.

Site Guy Brendan and his lady friend Liz will be running the NYC Marathon this Sunday.  Since Site Guy Brendan spends most of his time answering my frantic calls – none of which have anything to do with the site but more about women and how messed up on pills I am – and Liz, well Liz is a lovely gal, I ask you to send them some good vibes on Sunday and join me in wishing them the best of luck.  I am sure both of them will win the marathon and then afterwards we will get messed up on beers and then I will say something mean to Brendan like, “So when are you going to get started on those messageboards?” and he’ll say something like, “So when are you going to start paying me?” and then we’ll start rolling around on the floor, pulling each other’s hair.

Anyway, good luck to Brendan and Liz.  I’m looking forward to buying each of you a drink at the bar afterward.*

(*As long as the drink is under $3.  I’m sort of hard up for cash right now.)

My apologies a thousand times over for my lack of good posting over the last week or whatever.  There’s a fundamental problem we have here: I’m busy on stuff that you don’t want to hear about and I don’t want to talk about.  I try, as much as possible, not to talk about working on the book or tv show (at least, I think I try), because I feel like a douche.  However, sometimes this is unavoidable, as a blog is supposed to be a diary of daily events and I work on the book/tv show on a daily basis.  It’s just a big part of my life right now, taking up much time.

But I know that you don’t want to hear about this.  And I know that I don’t want to talk about it.  So, things suffer.

That’s all I’ll say about it, but at least you know where I’m coming from.  And sure, my next post will probably be titled "Jason Mulgrew: Author, Writer, Memoirist, Television Champion and Writer (Seriously, I’m a Fucking Writer)" and be a 4,000 word expose about the dangers of TV writing, book editing, anorexia, and cocaine.  But hey – at least it’ll help you kill time at work.  And that’s what we’re going for here, right? 

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

My Halloween blew, thank you for asking (see above "work").  But I’m ok with this, because I think Halloween sucks.  Especially Halloween in New York City.  You see, there’s a big parade on

6th Avenue

in the Village, where all sorts of freaks dress up, party, and prance around (though there is drinking involved, police fairly strictly interpret the no open container law and issue tickets).  And that’s about it, aside from all the hubbub.  I think it all sucks.  Suckiest bunch of sucks who ever sucked.

Why do I feel that Halloween sucks?  Because I think it’s just so damn…nerdy.  Halloween was cool when you were a kid, when you got to dress up like Captain America and get lots of candy.  But now, as an adult, what purpose does it serve?  I no longer have the desire to dress like Captain America (not in the fall, at least) and since I’m anorexic I don’t eat candy. 

(Have I mentioned I’ve kept the weight off?  Have I also mentioned that my teeth are falling out and sometimes it’s hard for me to hold a pen?)

But there’s the whole fantasy element of Halloween, people might argue.  Guys and gals get to act out their deep-seated fantasies and pretend they’re someone else.  They put on a wig and a costume and get a rush from getting out of their work clothes and being unknown.  They get to act out and carry on in ways that they normally wouldn’t.

F that.  That sounds like theater, and we all know that theater is gay [spits dip into solo cup].  I feel like I should stop this rant now before completely turning into a frat boy or pulling the "What kind of grown man gets dressed up like a tomato?" card, so I’ll just move on.

[Another reason I hate Halloween - if you'll allow me to be even more egotistical for a moment - is the air of expectation.  Because I make fun of myself all the time, my friends automatically think that my Halloween costume will be better than that time Jesus walked on water, when really all I want to do is grab something from my closet, throw it on, hide in a corner, and drink so much punch I get heartburn.  Fucking asshole friends.] 

I went out with some friends to "celebrate" Halloween on Saturday night.  My costume was one that several of you recommended, but one of two ideas I was batting around: I was Gene Frankle, Will Ferrell’s cowbell playing character in the "Behind the Music: Blue Oyster Cult" skit.  To complement the costume, my old roommate Brian was the Bruce Dickinson, Christopher Walken’s character in the skit.  I bought a cowbell (which, by the way, is a really fucking loud instrument) and some tight jeans and rocked the top of my leisure suit (no shirt underneath, of course) and my sunglasses.  Brian slicked his hair, but on some purple shades, a leather jacket, and all black.  We may not have looked like the characters, but at least we looked sexy.  And at least we were recognized; at the bar we were at, people kept calling for more cowbell.  Naturally, I didn’t oblige and retreated into my beer. 

[And no, I don't have any pictures because I'm a moron.  I sent an email around to friends who were out that night asking for a picture, but all I got was the picture below with the dog.  Oh well.]

The night was nothing spectacular, just some friends standing in a bar getting rocked.  That’s really all I have to say about that.

But thank you much to all of you who wrote in suggesting beard-friendly costumes.  The other idea I was thinking about was going out as a rapist: black shoes, sweatpants, sweater and cap, and generally acting creepy.  But, for some reason, I think that might have led to bad karma.  Several of you suggested James Lipton, which I thought was a good idea until I realized I’d only be in a suit with glasses and slicked hair (as opposed to last year as Daniel Baldwin, when I, uh, forget it).  The most popular other suggestions were a fat Chuck Norris, an Amish guy, a Jew, and a lumberjack (in that order, I think).  So thank you again for the suggestions.  I owe you one.

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

Speaking of beards (and you guys helping me), I’m growing my beard out and I turn to my bearded readers for some help.

Is there anything I can do to tame the wild animal growing out of my face?  Perhaps I should be clearer – as it gets longer, my beard is getting awfully scraggly-looking, even though I trim it.  Is there any beard mousse or something that I can put it in so that it doesn’t look like a used brillo pad?  I brush it, shampoo it, and trim it, but it still looks like roadkill. 

I’ve had a beard for years, but it’s always been very short and existent only to cover up my double chin and fleshy jowls.  Now it looks as though I’m keeping it for warmth, as rough as it is (not that you can really tell in the picture below, but trust me).

So to those of you out there with long beards, have you any tips on keeping it tame or grooming?  I do have a beard trimmer but like I said, it’s too long for it and doesn’t make it look too much better after I’m through trimming.  I’m tired of my female friends being disgusted by my face, as it’s starting to hurt my feelings.  Any attempt to help salvage my self-esteem would be most appreciated.

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

Moving on, once a week, when I either go up or down the stairs in my subways stations, I see a woman carrying a stroller with a baby in it by herself up or down these stairs.  And I never help her.

This isn’t because I’m not a nice guy, since that’s not the case at all.  The other day I gave a homeless guy a high-five – just for kicks.  I think it made his day.  I also think he had cholera, but I only went to med school for one year and am unqualified to make this diagnosis.

But I don’t help the women with the strollers because I’m afraid, afraid that I will somehow mess up and drop the stroller causing the baby to fall out and roll down the metal and concrete stairs in the subway station while people near me scream in horror and look at me like I’m a murderer, which I may be, because there’s no way that baby survived that fall. 

I mean, I’m not the most coordinated guy to begin with.  And I don’t think I should test how coordinated I am by helping a stranger carry her child up or down stairs first thing in the morning or after a long day at the office. (And anyway, have you ever lifted a stroller?  They are very cumbersome and heavy.) 

So I explain this to you in order to absolve myself of the guilt I feel whenever I see and ignore a woman, typically Mexican, struggling to carry a stroller up or down stairs.  I feel terrible about turning up my iPod so that I don’t hear her pleas of "¡Ayudarme! ¡Ayudarme!" but I do it for her own sake, and the sake of her child’s.

Now that this has been cleared up, we can move on. 

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

My dad watches CNN all day long.  Or at least, CNN is on his television all day long.  Which is kinda weird, because I wouldn’t describe my dad as a news junkie, nor is he very political (though he did tell me at a young age that we were too poor to be Republican).  Still, it’s CNN all day, before giving way to murder and/or science shows in the evenings, except of course when the Eagles or Flyers are playing.

But I realized why my dad watches CNN all day long – for stories like this one.  While I have faith in your ability to read on your own, I’ll summarize: a guy killed a little girl.  The murderer was in the same prison as the victim’s cousin.  The victim’s cousin attacked the murderer, saying, "I’m going to kill you or tattoo you."  So the murderer got "Katie’s revenge" tattooed across his forehead. 

Stories like this one also work out well because they give my dad and I a topic to discuss other than "So what’s going on in Philly?" and "The Eagles stink" and "For the last time Dad, I like girls."  So my dad and I were talking about this particular story:

Me: "Did you see on CNN the guy who got ‘Katie’s revenge’ tattooed on his head?"
Dad: "Yeah." [smoking cigarette] "Oh yeah.  That’s a good one."
Me: "I mean, that’s pretty good revenge, but the girl is still dead.  That guy can easily get that tattoo removed."
Dad: "Uh uh.  Those prison tattoos – they’re hard to get off."
Me: [silence for three seconds] "Really?"
Dad: "Yeah." [smoking cigarette] "Oh yeah."
Me: [silence for three seconds] "So what’s going on in Philly?"

Good talk, Dad.

(I bet your dad doesn’t know how difficult it is to get prison tattoos removed.  I win.  In this category, at least.)

************* 

Six Songs

"Please Call Me Baby"  Tom Waits
There is a touch of romance in insanity.  This applies especially to relationships – men and women are drawn to "crazy" members of the opposite sex.  I am personally guilty of this, in love as I am with Fiona Apple and forever searching for my Zelda, who I am certain I will marry in under three months after finding her.  And then she’ll divorce me, leaving me penniless and impotent.  But, as an old Jansenist who looked kinda like my buddy Conor once said, the heart has its reasons the mind cannot know.

Tom Waits is a genius.  It took me 26 years to agree with this, but this song proves it.  If you like your loves crazy, you’ll like this song.  I’m tempted to quote some lyrics here, but you’ll have to find them on your own.  I’m just really tired right now.         

[Also, I'm kinda learning that craziness in women sounds great in theory, but in practice is decidedly not awesome.  Really, I just want a girl who likes me and will make me chicken parm.  I don't think this is asking too much.  But more on this some other time...]

"One Rainy Wish"  Jimi Hendrix
This is not my favorite Hendrix song (that honor probably goes to "Bold As Love," though "Remember" is up there), but the 47 seconds from 1:13 to 2:00 minutes into the song might the finest goddamn 47 seconds in the history of recorded music.  Take it to the bank, muthas.

"I Want a New Drug"  Huey Lewis and the News
I am only mildly ashamed to admit that the other night this song came on my iTunes while I was sitting at my desk and it so moved me that I dug out my ol’ electric guitar, plugged it in, and basically went the fuck off.  Not so much with my playing, but more so with my dancing and harmonizing.  If someone had managed to videotape me during this little "show", I’d have to kill him or her.  Because it surely would destroy me.  But that’s just what Huey Lewis does to me. 

(Did you know that Huey got a perfect score on his math SAT and went to Cornell to study engineering?  So he’s not your average sexy rock hunk.  Not that he was average to begin with, but you get what I’m saying.)

"Midnight Moon"  Smoking Popes
Such a lovely band.  Such a lovely song, which reminds me of my junior year of college.  What an awesome time.  But let’s not dwell on that, lest I get too sad and nostalgic.  I want to go into the weekend with a head of steam, not feeling down.  Thanks for understanding. 

"Love Foolsophy"  Jamiroquai
Allllrrrriiiiight!  Everybody get up and let’s start movin’, baby!  I’ve been listening to this song in the mornings recently and have practically danced my way to work.     

Also, I love the line, "She shivers like a California suntan."  Which makes me want to stress how incredibly sexy it is when a girl can dance.  I remember being a teenager and watching girls from the neighborhood dance at dollar nights in Philly and being blown away at how incredibly sexy they were.  Then I went to BC and most girls danced like a live-feed was being beamed into their parents’ bedroom.  And I don’t go to clubs in NYC because with my nasty beard, I’m not the type of guy that girls who know how to sexy-dance are attracted to or even like to walk by, so I miss sexy-dancing women. 

Though some of my ex’s might disagree, I have never dated a girl who can dance sexy-like.  My promise to you is that I will.  Mark it down.  And please help me attain this goal.  Because I have no other recourse.  Thank you.

[Well, the sexy-dance girl and I don't have to start dating, but we have to sleep together a bunch.  Because I'm not really looking for a relationship right now.  As a matter of fact, I'm not sure if I'll ever be looking for a relationship again, but maybe I'm just saying this right now because I'm crying.  Whatever.]

"Post-War"  M. Ward
If you have a make out mix like I do, this song needs to be on it.  However, you should not call your mix "The Make Out Mix" or "The Ultimate P-ssy Crushing Mix" or "If You’re Hearing This, I’m Inside You."  Because if the intended target of your making out discovers this, she may be offended.  Therefore, I call mine "Mood" and say that I often fall asleep to it, which is not true.  Of course, by this point in the night, I’ve usually already told the woman about a million other lies, like "My great-great grandfather was Franklin Roosevelt" or "The most important things in my life are tolerance, safe sex, and family – in that order" or "I usually never met women on craigslist – I’m sorry, is it ‘woman’ or ‘she-male’ or ‘shim’ – which do you prefer?", so a lie about whether I fall asleep to a playlist does not bother me. 

[It's a shame I was such a dick because this song is really lovely.  And great for both making out and/or sleeping.  Honest.] 

Since the words aren’t coming, let’s have some multimedia fun, eh?

Here’s the trailer to the Borat movie, due in theaters Friday, ready to change your life forever.

[youtube]yJf74qvAPNk[/youtube]

Next is Borat’s interview on Letterman, which was forwarded to me by four different friends today.

[youtube]NvQScRuZj9s[/youtube]

Wow.  "Sleeve of wizard."  Well, we’ve all been there.  Right, guys?

And finally, since I have no pictures of me in my Halloween costume, here is a recent picture of me, blowing off some steam.

(Photo courtesy of The Lovely Meredith)

A Bud bomber, some comfortable tube socks, and a little dog in a pink coat. That right there is heaven, if I ever saw it.

(Also, the silhouette from the light behind me kinda makes my face look like a witch’s, so that’s sort of like Halloween, right?)

I got absolutely nothing.  Not a damn thing. 

I just wanted to check in to say that I’m alive and let you know that I’m working on it, but damn.  Blank.  Nothing.

(I’ll tell you now that Halloween sucked but will try to provide a more detailed analysis soon.)

So some public service announcements to at least help you kill a little time until I figure out what is wrong with me:

1) Go to your local newstand and pick up the latest issue of the magazine Cracked, which I again contributed to.  Not much, but enough to pay for a night of boozing, which is ok with me.

2) If you have nothing to do tomorrow (Thursday) night, I strongly suggest you head down to the Village and Kenny’s Castaways at 8pm to check out my friend and very talented musician Charles Ramsey.  Go to his MySpace page, have a listen and come on down for a lovely evening.  I am greatly looking forward to it.

3) For another lovely evening, come to Brooklyn on Friday night to check out Joseph Arthur at Southpaw (doors open at 7pm).  Second verse same as the first: check out Joseph’s MySpace page (you can also listen to songs on his site), rock out with your cock out, and get on over to Brooklyn.  And for further reading, please see here. 

In the meantime, I’ll get better – I promise.  I haven’t forgotten about you and I still care about you very much, but we all have our dry spells.  Send me some good vibes.  That will help.  So will naked pictures.  But my aunt (a reader of this site) recently asked me in front of my whole family to stop asking for naked pictures on here.  So I’ve stopped.  I hope she’s happy.  Because I am not.