awesome three
28 November 2006
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.
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.
