xmas/sick, iggles, lil italy traffic, book, music, new year’s
Jason posted on December 28, 2006

In grade school, I had perfect attendance in six of eight years. I missed one day in third grade because I spent the night throwing up; when I woke up at 11 and realized my mom kept me out of school, I was furious (nerd alert!).  Then in fifth grade I got a nasty case of the chicken pox and had to take a whole week off.  That time around I was more forgiving of my mom for keeping me out of school, since I was just starting to figure out that yes, girls are pretty, and yes, maybe I’d like to touch some of them under their shirts, so no, it was probably not a good idea for me to go to school covered in red bumps and smelling like rice pudding.

(The red bumps were from the chicken pox, the rice pudding scent because I loved rice pudding - see below.)

Aside from those times, I never missed a day of school.  While this was in large part because I was - for the most part - a healthy child, it’s also because my illnesses had a way of timing themselves.  I got sick in summer more than anyone else I knew, but the real time that sickness reared its ugly head was during what should have been my favorite time of year: Christmas.

In keeping with 2006’s theme as "The Year of Nostalgia," I was sick over Christmas.  Kind of.  I actually didn’t sick until I woke up on Christmas night (technically the 26th) at 4:38am.  I’ve spent the past 2.5 days alternatively shivering and sweating, consuming nothing but Theraflu and ice cream.  Merry Christmas.

But today I feel better, if not tired, as my sleeping cycle is all screwed up.  And now my task is to write something (semi-)entertaining about a Christmas that was, by most accounts, pretty ordinary.  Yes, I drank until 5:30 in the morning on Christmas Eve, and yes, I was privy to an inordinate amount of drunk driving (which I don’t condone, by the way), and yes, I have to get my mom a new computer because her current one does not have the proper operating system to run her new iPod but also doesn’t have enough memory to hold songs, but for the most part, it was a lovely little Christmas.  Sorry, but that’s how it is.  Maybe I’ll do something more entertaining involving a missing puzzle piece and a Navy vet, but I can’t promise that.

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How about them Eagles, boy?  That’s the best Christmas present I could have asked for right there - a thorough whipping of the Cowboys.  I don’t want to push our luck so I’ll leave it at that, but I feel pretty happy.  Maybe that’s just the booze talking, but I feel pretty good. 

(Until Atlanta destroys us on New Year’s Eve and we get to go into Seattle, a city I like but a team I hate.  That’ll be awesome.) 

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Little Italy is absolutely unbearable this time of year. 

It’s not even that the streets are packed (which they are), but that the people packing the streets are unfamiliar with the basic concept of walking: place one foot in front of the other, repeat.  Traffic in my neighborhood has been heightened to two single file lines, each walking in step in the opposite direction.  So when you’re carrying your dry cleaning, a six pack of Sam Adams Cherry Wheat, and $40 worth of rice pudding (god I wish I was joking about that last one) and in the course of your three block walk home several of the tourists in front of you stop suddenly and turn around to look up at the street and restaurant signs, there results near-fatal accidents (the fatalities not arising from the accidents themselves, but from the vicious punches in the face and/or neck that you inflict upon the moron tourists after almost falling over them over and over again).

The only redeeming quality of the unbearable foot traffic from a social observation point of view is that you get a prime glimpse of guidos, past and future.  By this I mean that there are dozens, possibly hundreds, of Italian American families on a night out that contain: one late 30’s/early 40’s alpha male Father wearing leather jacket and jewelry (gold chain, rings), possibly showing chest hair and definitely with hair slicked back; one submissive female Mother, caked with every drop of make-up the Sephora has to offer, screaming after her children and occasionally getting yelled at by her husband about where the car is parked/where the restaurant is/"Let me carry the bag"; two Children - at least one male - wearing expensive sneakers and mini-versions of their parents jewelry, running roughshod on the street, and fighting each other. 

As much as I despise them, I don’t think I’ll ever stop being fascinated by Eye-tals.  And at least they walk faster than the other tourists. 

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Book pick

The Restless Sleep: Inside New York City’s Cold Case Squad by Stacy Horn
I’m going to make this really simple for you: if, like me, you like murder shows (Cold Case Files, Law & Order, The First 48 Hours, etc), then you’ll love this book, which is, as the title suggests, a look inside NYC’s Cold Case Squad.  The author follows around individual detectives working on cold cases and the result is fascinating: not only does she get in-depth into the specifics of the various cold murders, but she also provides insights into the bureaucracy of the NYPD and the Cold Case Squad and does a great job profiling the men and women involved in the cases. 

I guarantee that if you start this book, you will finish in under a week.  If you read a lot, you will knock it out in two or three days.  Highly recommended.

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Six Songs

"Hip Hop Is Dead"  Nas
As my frat boy friends in Seattle would say, this track is hella tight.  Actually, the whole album is pretty solid, and I admit that I’m very hot and cold with Nas.  The first time I heard this song I was in the passenger seat of a car driven by a drunk buddy, speeding around the streets of Philly at 4:30 in the morning.  Also it was raining.  And he was texting.  It was not a good scene.  But a good song.

"Everything’s Turning to Gold"  The Rolling Stones
I haven’t featured a random-but-awesome Rolling Stones song in a while, so here you go. 

"Slaveship"  Josh Rouse
I don’t know who I’m going to marry (if I had to guess, I’d probably say my old roommate Brian), but this song will be played four times at my wedding: twice during cocktail hour and twice during dinner - not in a row, but spaced out.  It is the sweetest and catchiest love song just about ever.  Last week I told you that "Sexy Sadie" was my favorite song; this is in the top five.

"Good Houses"  Madeline
My mom and I were driving back to NYC on Tuesday and as I lay sick and shivering in the car, this song came on one of the local college radio stations.  I nearly shit myself - and not just because I was sick.  I was pretty moved by it, so much so that I came home, googled the lyrics, found the name of the song, and bought the album on the spot.  That is some powerful stuff right there.  You can listen to the mp3 here.  Sad and spooky and sweet.

"Good Feeling"  Violent Femmes
I can feel myself getting lazier as I listen to this song.  I mean, no one is trying hard here.  Which is probably why I enjoy it so much. 

"Can You Please Crawl Out Your Window?"  Jimi Hendrix
Look, Bob Dylan is a genius and deserves every heap of praise, um, heaped upon him.  Most would agree that he is one of - if not the - greatest lyricist of all time.  But he’s not one of - if not the - greatest guitar player of all time.  So when happens when you put lines like:

He sits in your room, his tomb, with a fist full of tacks
Preoccupied with his vengeance
Cursing the dead that can’t answer him back
I’m sure that he has no intentions
Of looking your way, unless it’s to say
That he needs you to test his inventions.

With the guitar stylings of James Marshall Hendrix?  You get Jason, lathered up and half-masturbating in the shower, singing very loudly and sort of swaying, smacking his belly to the drum beat, maybe crying a little bit (but in a good way).  Yeah, it’s that powerful. 

(Oh, and Dylan’s original version is pretty solid, too.)

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Happy New Year to y’all.  If you live in the Philadelphia area, be sure to watch the Mummers Parade on New Year’s Day and look for Froggy Carr in the Comics.  Last year, I was interviewed on TV.  This year, I hope to be arrested on TV.  Wish me luck.

emails, AI, vacation notes, trannies, book, music, happy holidays
Jason posted on December 22, 2006

I have been getting so viciously spammed as of late that I haven’t been checking email as much as I usually do (read: I check now once a day instead of now…now…now…now).  

But I wanted to share two emails with you.  Here’s the first:

Hey i really like reading your blog.  You have some great stuff there.

Was curious about one post where you said you saw Sarah Michelle Gellar while waiting for her car.  Do you know what she was wearing or whether she was smoking?  I heard she does smoke but is pretty self conscious about it.  Also wondering whether she had blonde hair when you saw her or her new brunette style.

I get one or two emails a month asking me specific questions about when I waited in a valet line next to Sarah Michelle Gellar once in LA - and they never fail to creep me the fuck out.  They all ask questions like this: what she looked like, what she was wearing, what kind of car she drives, was she with anyone, etc.  I have no real comment on this except "Ew, gross."  Hey, if I have to feel creeped out, then you have to, too.

[I should add that this email, like the rest of the emails I've gotten asking for information about her, are not coming from 12 year old girls who like Buffy, but by men, probably men who live in basements of the houses in which they grew up.]

The second email made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside and even made me cry a little.  It comes from Justin in NYC:

I love your shit; seriously, I love it. Thanks for all of the laughs.

Side note: Muslim Ron and the Juggernauts is under your copyright being that it is featured content on your site. I have a brief query. I am in the process of forming a band; rather, I have formed a band. We gave a brief performance at Juilliard last year and are confirming details for another performance next year. In jest we referred to our ensemble as Muslim Ron and the Juggernauts, the result of further consideration and contemplation has created the desire in my heart to officially christen our musical endeavor with the title listed above.

Might I receive your gracious permission to name my band using your copyrighted text?

Wow.  I feel like a father giving his daughter away on her wedding day.  I’ve been in love with the band name Muslim Ron and the Juggernauts for years, but I always knew I’m too lazy to form my own band and use this name.  Since I can’t marry my own daughter, I have to give her to a good man, or, in this case, some guy named Justin who emailed me.

Yes, Justin, you can use the band name - consider this "express written consent."  I wish you and the rest of Muslim Ron and the Juggernauts success and stardom and I expected some serious returns in the groupie department should you hit it big. 

(And not cast-off groupies - sexy ones.  Dig?)

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The Allen Iverson trade…makes me sad.

Look, I know that he had to go.  I’m not mad about that.  Hell, if I were as talented as he is, I wouldn’t want to play for the Sixers either. 

And I’m thankful for everything he gave the city.  Through thick and thin, the city loved him because he had balls.  Philadelphians love balls.

This is why I’m sad to see him go.  The greatest Philadelphia sports moment of my lifetime was not when the Eagles beat Atlanta to advance to the Super Bowl in 2005, but when the Iverson-led Sixers beat Shaq and Kobe in Game One of the 2001 NBA Finals.  Iverson scored a whopping 48 points in that game and the Sixers won in overtime - in Los Angeles.  It was a stunner, since even Philly experts were predicting not just a Lakers victory, but a sweep.  And here comes Allen, bouncing around the room, freaking brothers every way like MJ…he was incredible.  I watched the game down the shore with my girlfriend at the time and I actually teared up a little bit, so close was I, was the city of Philadelphia, to a championship.  It was one of the best nights of my life, and then my girl and I had sex 1.5 times.  Shortly afterward, the Sixers lost the next four and the girl and I broke up.  Strikes and gutters.   

As for the trade itself, I’d like to point out something about those two first-round draft picks that people in Philly seem to be overlooking: THOSE PICKS ARE IN THE 20′S.  Yeah, everyone says it’s the deepest draft in years, but drafts are such a crapshoot that I saying this year is deep is not comforting to me at all.  And yet all my Philly friends are pointing to those picks like we’re going to land the next Tim Duncan and Steve Nash, when the odds of even one of those two 20-something picks working out are less than 10%.  Justifying the Iverson trade by saying that we got two first-round picks is like bragging to your friends that you’re dating a cheerleader who actually only has one eye.  Yeah, she’s a cheerleader and yeah, that’s kinda hot, but dude - she’s got one eye.  It’s important to keep things in perspective here, something Philly fans (myself included) often have trouble doing.

So how it stands now is that Allen Iverson, a stalwart of Philly sports and for years one of (if not the) best shows in town, is gone.  The Sixers are either the worst of second-to-worst team in the NBA.  The Flyers are either the worst or second-to-worst team in the NHL.  Pat Gillick’s big offseason additions to the Phillies have been Freddy Garcia (ok) and Adam Eaton (a fly ball pitcher going to Citizens Bank should work out really well) on the pitching side and Wes Helms (?) and Rod Barajas (???) for offense.  And of course, on Christmas Day, I’m going to get the worst gift of all: a 34-16 beating of the Birds by the hated Cowboys.

…

Can I switch allegiances?  I know it’s frowned about, but I think I can make a pretty good case for becoming a fan of another city’s teams.  I’m not asking you to answer now - just think about it.

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A belated, public thanks to the good folks at the Letter D, 1-2-3 I Love You, and Slack Lalane for holding down the fort while I was on vacation.  I thanked them privately already, but wanted to do so here once again.  Terrific job.

Also, some notes about emails I’ve gotten about the pictures from my vacation (Set One and Set Two):

- Yes, I know my friend Annie is hot.  Please stop MySpace messaging her, you lonely perverts.
- That applies to all of my MySpace friends.  It’s ok to be creepy to me, but leave my friends alone, please.
- I do not look like a lumberjack in some of the pictures.
- I’m sorry that you think my beard is gross.
- I like my hat.

That is all.

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I few weeks ago, I posted the video to Eric Prydz’s "Call on Me" and mentioned that it got me all riled up.  Then one of you jerks emailed me to say that all the girls in the video are actually transsexuals, that this was Eric’s like joke on the world.

Thus began the most confusing several minutes of my life.  I googled this like a mother fucker, searching just about every incarnation of "Prydz", "transsexual", "video", "call on me", and "is jason mulgrew gay", and couldn’t find any evidence to back this up.

(I even showed the clip to my friend Nicole, who exclaimed, "They have hips!")

So for now, we’re operating under the assumption that all the girls in the video are actually girls.  If they are, in fact, transsexuals, all I ask is that you not tell my dad that I enjoy(ed) this video.  It’s just too close to the holidays.  Thank you for your cooperation.

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Similar to Six Songs, I’ll occasionally be recommending a Book Pick to you all.  Perhaps it will be one I’ve read recently or an old favorite, fiction or non-fiction, but I’ll try to switch it up.

Book Pick

Road Work by Mark Bowden
An eminently readable book by the author of Black Hawk Down, Road Work is a collection of twenty stories written through the course of the journalist’s career, covering topics ranging from a day in the life of Saddam Hussein to crooked Philadelphia cops to Al Sharpton’s presidential run.  Despite its length (460 pages), I read this book on one cross-country flight and two days.  This is not a testament to my speed-reading ability, but to Bowden’s way of presenting a story.  A great fucking read, and one of the best non-fiction works I’ve read not just this year, but in a long time. 

Lazy reader’s bonus: The stories cover such a variety of topics that if you’re not interested, you can skip to the next one.  For example, I don’t give a fuck about Al Sharpton - I think he’s a major asshole - but I was so entranced by the way Bowden presented his stories that I read the piece anyway (which only strengthened my belief that Sharpton really is an asshole).

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Six Songs

"Sexy Sadie"  The Beatles
This is my favorite song.  It is absolutely perfect.  It is without flaw.  When I first listened to it, it was the most magical thing I’ve ever heard.  When I last listened to it, it was the most magical thing I’ve ever heard.  That is all there is to say, really.

"Poison Lovers"  Steve Earle and Siobhan Kennedy
Do any ladies out there want to sing with me?  We’ll put on cowboy hats, smoke a shit-ton of weed, do our music thing, then lay around eating pancakes.  Please don’t reply all at once. 

(Oh, it’s a really sweet song, too.  But sad sweet, not happy sweet.)

"Soul and Fire"  Sebadoh
My buddy Eric, who knows so much about music that it kind of scares me, recommended this song to me while I was out in LA.  It’s tremendous…it has this incredible sadness juxtaposed with these dirty guitars and power chords that leaves a feeling of, "You know what - it sucks now but it’ll be alright" taste in your mouth.  Or maybe that’s just hoagie.  Whatever.  

"Dead Funny"  Archie Bronson Outfit
The song was recently recommended to me by the girl with whom I had the worst sex of my life (and believe me, I’ve had a LOT of bad sex in my life, but this was the worst).  This is really her fault and not mine.  Not so much because she was bad, but because she didn’t give me the proper heads up.  If she had said early in the night of the copulation, "Hey, I think we should do it later," I probably would have tempered my drinking a little bit.  Instead, when she decided to make her move at the end of the night, I had already smoked a bunch of times; drank countless beers, a half bottle of vodka, some vanilla extract, and a liter of kerosene; and ate at least two whole chickens in the form of boneless buffalo wings.  So really, what was she expecting?  Antonio Fucking Banderas?

She and I were (and still are) friends and I’ve been begging her for ages for another chance to prove that while I’m bad, I’m not "caveman sex" bad (read: strictly to get the job finished, featuring lots of hair and gross noises, and maybe a stray punch of two before eating something undercooked), but she has resisted.  However, she recently sent me an email saying she might consider it if I were to perform a choreographed dance to this song.  For some reason, she finds this hysterical.

The point: if any readers in the NYC area are dancers, please contact me.  I need some help.

(I can’t have no one going around talking about how bad of a lover I am.  It’s ok when I do it - hell, it’s even charming - but not when anyone else does.)

"Une Annee Sans Lumiere"  The Arcade Fire
I hated this album when it came out.  Now I love it.  It’s so ambient it’s a little frightening (and I don’t mean that like "I’m frightened how much ambience this album exudes"; I mean "I’m frightened when I listen to this album").  This is probably my favorite track.  It’s dark, sexy, and desperate, just like me.

"Big River"  Johnny Cash
While on vacation, I listened to Johnny Cash’s "Complete Live at San Quentin" quite a lot and decided that I was going to learn the guitar parts for every song on the album when I got home.  Then I got back to NYC and my guitar and learned that I am the worst country guitarist in America today, and possibly in American history.  It’s frustrating because it sounds pretty easy but the timing is so weird…it’s really kind of infuriating that I can’t figure it out.  Not only is this track (probably) my favorite on the album but it’s also the first track, and is as great as an opening track on any live album there is - a real romper with a guitar line that gets you out of your seat and your fist in the air.  And there is absolutely no fucking way I can play it.  Crap.

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Once again, Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays.  Have a wonderful (and safe) weekend.  Remember, I both love and am in love with you. 

(We’ll be back next week.)

gifts, danger
Jason posted on December 21, 2006

As a 27 year-old pervert, drunk and egomaniac, the holidays don’t really mean much to me anymore.  Long gone are the days when I spent hours laying on my bedroom floor listening to New Edition, pouring over catalogs and writing down the serial numbers of the toys I wanted.  It seems like ages ago when I’d open the card from my Grandmom and clench that crisp $50 bill in my hand, which, to a high school student, is the equivalent to around $874 to me now.  Gone but still fresh are the times when I’d wrap up finals and head home for a month break from college, a time I’d take advantage of by playing eight hours of video games a day and making out with my girlfriend in my little brother’s bedroom (what wonderful times). 

Ever since I graduated college, Christmas has been more of a chore than anything else.  I have to take off work, commute home on trains packed with people, and try to convince my family that I’m doing more with my life than taking naps at work and getting drunk in dark bars four nights a week.  I mean, does that sound like fun?

(I mean, the taking naps at work and drinking in dark bars is fun, but explaining it…not so much.)

But the real reason that Christmas has sucked since graduation is that because for the first time in my life I was expected - nay, required - to buy gifts for others.

I don’t mean that I didn’t buy gifts for my family members before.  Of course, I did - I’m not an ungrateful child.  But before the gifts would be crappy, usually a box of chocolates for my mom and a pack of smokes of my dad.  So basically I spent the first 22 years of my life trying to fatten up my mom and kill my dad.

I don’t enjoy buying gifts because there is a lot of pressure in gift-giving.  Now that I’m working and expected to buy decent gifts, I want to buy my family (and in the past, previous lovers) gifts that are awesome and incredible.  I concede that this is more true in the case of previous girlfriends, as my mom would have the same reaction if I bought her a Lexus or flowers ("Oh - how nice! This wasn’t expensive, was it?") and my dad would give the same response whether I gave him a new wrench or the Philadelphia Eagles ("…") (then, "Thanks, Ron."). 

But in a way, gift-giving is a kind of competition, and I want to win.  I’m sure this is an unhealthy way to approach giving someone a present, but I usually don’t do things with either my physical or mental health in mind.  Besides, my desire to be the better gift-giving results in someone else getting a really sweet present, so it’s not all bad.

Gifts are dangerous because giving one is also a form of evaluating the recipient.  When you give a friend or a lover a gift, you’re saying, "This is what you’re worth to me."  Maybe an example will help.  Say you’re dating a girl long distance.  On her birthday, you take two days off work and fly out to spend a very long weekend with her, even staying in a swanky hotel.  One day while you’re at the hotel and she’s at work, you fill the room with flowers and get a birthday cake and wine to surprise her when she gets home.  Then you give her a digital camera (that you spent weeks researching and cost you more than a month’s rent in most major American cities) and take her out to dinner a few nights, all to celebrate her birthday weekend.  All this means that you probably like that girl, that you value her highly. 

Then, for example, say two months later as your birthday approaches, she keeps saying that she can’t fly out to see you but you think she’s setting you up for a surprise.  But when the day of your birthday rolls around, you get a FedEx tube in the mail that contains a 1) t-shirt and 2) a beer poster, two gifts that are perfectly acceptable to receive if you are dating a homeless person or high school junior.  But since you are dating a girl of means equal to yours, these gifts probably mean that the girl likes…your digital camera. 

(And it doesn’t make you petty to complain about this, because you know it’s not about the cost but the effort.  It makes you bitter, immature, pathetic, and ultimately impotent, but not petty.  And at least your friends get a kick out of reminding you about the $2000 beer poster rolled up in your closet, as they are dickheads.)

The point is that gifts matter more than most people will let on and should be considered very carefully.  While there is no objective standard to what makes a great gift, the perfect gift is the right combination of thought, effort, and to an extent, cost (what - don’t people like nice things?).   

Now the good news: this does not apply to me at all this Christmas, because I’m single (surprisingly, right?) and my family has told me exactly what they want.

My Dad: Sneakers
It’s always difficult to buy for my dad.  He has several likes, but I’m unfamiliar with many of them.  For example, we’ve already touched upon his devotion to cigarettes, which I partake of only in strip clubs.  He loves his truck and all things auto-related, whereas I know so little about cars that typically at gas stations I pop the hood of the car and spray the shit everywhere.  He also loves sports, but doesn’t like to go to games and isn’t into memorabilia.  So there’s not much to work with.

This year, my brother and sister and I asked my dad what he wanted.  His response?  Sneakers (me), socks and t-shirts (my brother), and a membership at the local firing range (my sister).  I’m not sure if it’s a good idea for a man who takes 15 pills a day to be firing a gun on a regular basis, but I guess we’ll see about this.  And my sister drew that one because, really, what better present can daddy’s little girl get her dad than a membership to a gun club?

My mom is a bit opposed to this:

Me: "So dad wants a membership to the firing range?"
Mom: "He’s crazy.  He can’t be firing a gun."    [Editor's Note: my dad has a very bad back, hence (most of) the pills]
Me: [making shit up] "Well, that’s not entirely true.  You can get, like, a small caliber weapon or something."
Mom: "Yeah, but it’s not like he’s going to be shooting…um…shooting…"
Me: "People?"
Mom: [frustrated] "No, Jas, but it’s not like he’s going to be hunting bears or anything."
Me: [incredulous] "Dad used to hunt bears?"
Mom: [completely exasperated] "I don’t know, Jas…" 

But hey - that’s my sister’s battle to fight.  I already got my dad’s sneakers - size 10.5, black New Balances, per his request.  One down, three to go.

My Mom: iPod
My mom actually did not say that she wanted an iPod; I convinced her.  She sees that all three of her kids have one and how much we listen to them and she’s always liked gadgets, so I got her the green nano.

The problem is that I’m entering a world of pain with this gift.  She’s already asked me four times if I can put music on it for her so she can listen to it right away, and each time I’ve patiently explained that you can’t just throw music on there, that it is a process.  Also, she asked me if she could somehow hook my sister Megan’s iPod up to her new iPod to get music.  When I told her that that was not possible, she then asked if she could hook up her new iPod to my iPod to get music.

(Quoth a brilliant man, "Parents just don’t understand.")

My brother Dennis: cash
Really, the sweetest gift of all.

My sister Megan: cash
The sweetest gift of all, part two.

[Quick aside: In college, my buddy Conor and I used to joke about getting each other a card with $1000 in twenties in it for Christmas.  It'd be like something out of "Goodfellas"; we say "Merry Christmas", hand the cards to each other, and count out the stack of 20's.  I'd still like to do this, but my friends are so untrustworthy that if I were in the same room as them with $1000 in my possession, I would probably never come out alive.]

——-

Right now, you’re probably thinking, "So Jason, what do you want for Christmas?"  Or maybe you’re thinking, "I don’t even know why I read this website."  Whatever.  Since the second wasn’t a question, here’s the answer to the first:

A sweet wallet
Though this isn’t the reason why I want a wallet, I once read somewhere that women in NYC look at two things to determine a man’s worth: his watch and his shoes.  I don’t wear a watch, as I think (for the most part) they are tacky.  As for shoes, I am way too straight to spend more than $150 on a pair of shoes.  Sorry.  This is non-negotiable.

I’ve been carrying a wallet since I was 12, so that’s 15 years.  In those 15 years, I’ve had maybe four wallets, which I carried until they’ve fallen into tatters.  All four wallets were purchased at rest stops along the New Jersey Turnpike or Mass Pike, and cost a combined $20. 

Since $20 for 15 years of wallets is not that bad, I think it’s time to splurge and get myself a nice new one.  Sure, I don’t even know where they sell nice wallets (maybe a nice rest stops?), but I’ll figure that out later.

A cleaning lady
My buddy Kyle came up to stay with me this weekend and gave me a serious talking to about the cleanliness of my apartment.  I personally think the apartment is pretty clean - it’s not like there are rats running around or pubes in the fridge or anything - but apparently, it’s not up to Kyle’s standards.  Normally, I wouldn’t care what Kyle thinks of my apartment, but then he said something that struck a chord: "Dude, there’s no way you could bring a girl back to this apartment."

Well, that raised a few red flags.

So I’m going to get a cleaning lady.  I figure, best case scenario I get a clean apartment and someone to have sex with for an extra $30 a week.  Worst case scenario, I get robbed.  I’m a little lonely right now (it’s tough around the holidays) and have been a gambling god lately, so that’s a risk I’m going to take.

A beard trim (possible)
Lisa from Philly, who’s totally awesome, wrote me an email when I was ranting about the steel wool-like rattiness of my beard telling me that I should go to a nice barber shop and get it trimmed, as it’s an ancient, manly art.  That is a perfect gift for me.

But there’s a catch: I’m pretty sure I’m shaving the beard.  I’ve threatened this before, but I was thinking of starting the New Year sans facial hair.  I mean, I can always grow it back in a few weeks and sometimes it’s nice to be clean-shaven, if only to make sure I haven’t developed any major skin rashes or deformities under the beard. 

So the jury’s still out on this one.  If I don’t shave it, I’m getting the barber-style trim.  Otherwise, no trim.  Although maybe it’d be nice to go someplace other than Supercuts for a haircut.  Whatever.

——-

But that’s about it.  I’m a simple man with simple needs.  And probably an STD.  But we’ll get into that later.

Good luck with any last-minute shopping and, if I don’t write tomorrow, Merry Christmas.  I love you all, but in very different ways.  And you know exactly what I’m talking about.

sunday, lovely sunday
Jason posted on December 19, 2006

There are very few things that I am unequivocally opposed to: cats, interracial relationships, the band Kiss, people who give attitude to waiters and/or tip poorly, and kissing women after blowjobs.  But there is something that I hate more than even these odious things: working hard.

(On second thought, I actually don’t mind kissing women after they give blowjobs, since at least that means I’ve gotten a blowjob.  Unless, of course, said woman – well, girl, really – gave my old roommate Brian a blowjob and then in her drunken state mistakenly wandered into my bedroom looking for a make out session.  But that only happened, like, four times.  And it cost me $27.  So it’s not like I didn’t do the right thing.)

Just as I got back from vacation last week, my manager went on vacation.  Since then, my life has fallen into a downward spiral of deceit, manipulation, dangerous sexual activity, and hard work.  This is why I’ve been MIA lately.  Not because I write this at work (how foolish would that be!), because when I get home from work at 10pm, I barely have the strength to undress myself, fill up the tub, and stick the bar of soap in my ass, let alone write a post. 

All this hard work is because my manager and I specialize in the same area, so when he goes away, the work of that specialization – and by default much of his managerial work – slides to me. 

(Think of is this way: my co-workers and I are like the superheroes in the League of Justice with our different areas of specialization.  There’s a Green Lantern, there’s a Batman, Wonder Woman, etc.  My manager is like Superman.  I’m kinda like Superboy.  So I have similar powers as my manager/Superman, but am far less effective and much less intimidating.  Did Superboy ever get a hold of the reins in the League of Justice?  No, because he would run that shit into the ground – which is precisely what is happening in my department right now.  I would not be surprised if when my manager returns to work, the whole building is on fire and I’m standing outside eating a cup of soup, wearing a blanket and watching fireman and people rush by, saying things like, “Man, that got out of control pretty fast!” and “I thought everything was going fine!” and “This chowder is delicious! It’s so rich!”)

What’s worse is that the hard work has been stressful.  Normally, I’m not phased by a couple of thirteen hour days.  But, despite the fact that it’s the holiday season, there’s been an unexplainable tension in the air, which I attribute to the fact that it is the holiday season.  Last week was a long, shitty week and this week hasn’t proved any better. 

But at least I had an awesome Sunday. 

On that glorious day, I woke up with a sexy broad in my bed, won $1400, watched a great football game, and finally conquered my nemesis: the Famous Bowl.  Now, let’s focus on the three of those facts that are true.

Woke up with a sexy broad
(Just checking to see if you’re paying attention – she wasn’t that sexy.)

Won $1400
I’ve mentioned before that this season I took part in the annual survivor pool run by my buddy Hal (who asked that I mention on here how awesome his pool is and tell the ladies that yes, he is single), along with 70 or so other people.  All one had to do is pick one team to win each week, no spreads.  If they lost, you were out of the pool.  If they won, you advanced to the next week.

The catch: you couldn’t pick the same team twice.  So that means that theoretically, as the season progresses, you will have picked the good teams first, so that by Week Ten or so you’re picking middle of the road teams to beat teams that are toward the crappy end of the road.

This past week, I was one of only three of the original seventy people left.  I analyzed which teams my opponents had yet to pick and guessed that this week they would both pick the Seattle Seahawks over the San Francisco 49ers.  This was the game with the largest spread that they had left.

(However, you don’t know who the other participants have picked until after the games have started.  Otherwise, it wouldn’t be fair.)  

So my choice was simple: on my assumption, I could go with my opponents and take the Seahawks, who I also hadn’t picked.  This would guarantee that I’d at least pass to the next week: if the Seahawks lost and all three of us had picked them, we’d all move on; if they won, same thing.  However, while taking the Seahawks would guarantee that I wouldn’t lose, it would also guarantee I wouldn’t win.

Enter option two: I could take a different team, hope for an upset by the 49ers, and hope even more my team won.  Since my balls, though closer to peas than to grapes, are hairy and full of life and danger, I decided to man up and take the Baltimore Ravens over the Cleveland Browns, as they were the best team I had left.  Fuck the Seahawks and playing to advance –  I was going all or nothing, baby!

Since I’m not a good storyteller and kinda gave it away, you can probably guess what happened.  I was correct in assuming my opponents took the Seahawks.  I took the Ravens.  The Seahawks were stunned at home by the 49ers, who scored 21 points in the fourth quarter to take the victory.  I spent half the Ravens-Browns game, which was not televised nationally, checking the scores on my computer, then the other half glued to a TV at the bar my friends and I went to to catch the late Eagles-Giants game.  Though it was closer than I would have liked, Baltimore won 27-17.  And I won $1400.

Fuck, yeah.  

While I can’t say I’m surprised, since I’ve been having a MONSTER gambling season and know pretty much everything about football (did I mention I’m in the championship game in my main fantasy league next week?), $1400 – cash – is a lot of fucking money (and yes, I realize that I shouldn’t be writing this because of tax considerations, but no, there’s no way I’m reporting it).

Aside from work, which as I mentioned has been a fucking disaster lately, things have been really good for me lately, a trend I thought was culminated in my win in the survivor pool.  So to stay on the good side of karma and to make my friends like me more, I bought all the drinks and food at the bar during the Eagles-Giants game.  I know, I know – you wish you were friends with me.  But be careful what you wish for.  Because I’m pretty lonely.  So if you want to hang out, just email me.  I just want someone to talk to.  Maybe I could sleep over your place.  Whatever. 

Watched a great football game
After the $1400 payday, I was certain that the Eagles would be crushed by the Giants in the 4pm game.  Having been a Philadelphia fan all my life, I thought this even before I won the survivor pool, but my win made me even more certain the Eagles were fucking toast.  

But I’ll be damned – the Eagles played rather not-so-bad and beat the hated Giants!  I can’t really get into much more in-depth analysis than this, since I was pretty well fucked up during most of the game, but it doesn’t matter!  They won!  Fuck yeah, again!

What’s more unbelievable is that now the Eagles – to use one of the most asinine sayings in sports –  “control their own destiny” (how do you control a destiny? isn’t it by nature beyond one’s control?).  If the Eagles beat Dallas and Atlanta, they win the NFC East crown.  Five weeks ago when Donovan McNabb went down, part of me was kind of glad – at least now I didn’t have to stress while watching games.  Yet now the Eagles are two wins away from the NFC East title and a major fucking collapse from missing the playoffs.

(And the way the NFC is this year, all you have to do is get in and take it from there.  What a fucking mess.  I’m fairly sure there are bar teams in major cities that, if properly inspired and soused, could give the any of the NFC teams trouble.  What a fucking disaster.)   

But of course none of this matters.  See, what God likes to do to Philly fans is give them just enough hope to keep them hanging on only to break their heart.  I’ve written before that what Daniel Patrick Moynihan said after the assassination of JFK – “To be Irish is to know that in the end, the world will break your heart” – could easily be applied to Philly fans, especially Eagles fans.  Well, guess what – I’m both Irish(-American) and a Philly fan, so I’m expecting some major bruises over the next two weeks. 

So I’d better enjoy this week while it lasts. 

Conquered my nemesis, the Famous Bowl
For those of you who haven’t turned on an American television in the past nine month, KFC is hawking something called the Famous Bowl.  Never mind the inherent arrogance in debuting something and calling it “famous”, but these bowls appear, depending on how much you weigh, either as an example of everything that’s wrong with America or heaven on earth.  Why?  Four reasons: a pile of mashed potatoes, corn, cheese, gravy, and fried chicken pieces.

(I count only four reasons because no one, at any point in time, can find anything wrong with cheese.  It’s perfect.  So shut up.)

For months, I’ve been both repulsed and intrigued by these bowls.  I’m still fat and celebrate all things fat, but this was pushing it even for me.  All that fatty food in a single bowl?  Why not put chicken fingers in milkshakes or butter on your cheesesteaks?  If I learned anything from that time in November ’99 when I tried to combine my three loves simultaneously – eating, having sex, and shitting – it’s that there is such thing as too much of a good thing.  The KFC Famous Bowl seemed like it crossed that line.

(Actually, that butter cheesesteak idea sounds pretty good.  I’m going to have to remember that.)

But flush with cash and victorious feelings and filled with nine pints of Guinness, the siren song of the Famous Bowl was calling me from 14^th and 2^nd, only one block from where my friends and I had watched the game.  We had been drinking all day and knowing that I had a miserable day/week or work ahead, I wanted to call it an evening.  Entrée KFC.

After consuming part of the Famous Bowl in the cab ride home and the rest from the comfort of my couch, kitchen, and tub, I have this to report: the KFC Famous Bowl deserves whatever fame and fortune it has, because it is totally fucking magnificent.  Sure, it looked like throw up even immediately after the angry woman behind the counter served it to me, but that didn’t stop me.  I was going to eat that Famous Bowl even if I had watched one of the poors in the kitchen scooping the mashed potatoes with his/her bare hands. 

And I was rewarded for my perseverance and daring.  Simply put, the bowl is dynamite.  I was a little scared at first, intimidated by what I was facing, but after a few bites I found myself standing in my kitchen, dancing, listening to “It’s My Life” by No Doubt, mixing the contents of the bowl all together so it looked like gruel, and happily eating away.  Fucking fabulous.  Bravo, Colonel – you’ve done it again. 

But be warned: this is not for the meek or faint of heart.  Just as it took serious balls to go for the win in the survivor pool was I when guaranteed not to lose, so it took real cajones to take on the Famous Bowl.  Lesser men, namely my friend Kyle, who was visiting from Philly, did not dare to attack the Famous Bowl, opting instead for the 10 piece bucket (which, for the record, I ate most of).  But to the victor goes the spoils, and I know I saw a look of jealousy on his face when I was dancing in the kitchen to No Doubt and eating the Bowl.  Jealousy or disgust.  Because I also had my penis out this whole time.  So probably the latter in retrospect.

—–

The moral of this story is that no matter how difficult life may be, either at work or with your significant other or your family or the government, as long as you womanize, gamble, drink, and overeat, everything will work out for you.  If you learn one lesson from this here blog, I hope this is it.  Because then I can die a happy man. 

(In three months.  Because I’m going to be eating a lot of those Famous Bowls over the next couple of weeks.)

vacation recap ii: los angeles (with crappier pictures)
Jason posted on December 14, 2006

Los Angeles was an entirely different animal than Seattle.  And I’m not saying this because in Seattle it was 45 degrees and rainy every day, whereas LA was 75 (though one day it got up to 80!) with lots of sun and cloudless blue skies.  You know, perfect weather to spend 20 hours a day in a hotel room laying in bed drinking beer (three of the remaining hours each day were spent walking 5 miles to the nearest In-n-Out Burger and then one hour a day in the bathroom dealing with the repercussions of said In-n-Out burger).

But while Seattle was a true "vacation" (if you can call what I did there a vacation), LA was a working vacation.  I use the term "work" very loosely; I realize it’s very different to spend nine hours a day doing M&A research (which is what I do normally) as opposed to sitting on a balcony overlooking the Hollywood Hills, laptop on the little table next to you, drinking wine, and having conversations like:

Me: "Can we say ‘jerkoff?’"
Writing partner: "No, but I think we can say ‘jagoff’ - do you have any interest in jagoff?"
Me: "I mean, I love the word, but I’m not in love with it."
WP: "You know, I’ve heard the word ‘douche’ a lot this season."
Me: "Douche?  Really?  I had no idea we could say that!  You just made my day!"
WP: "I like douche, too.  I mean, I really like ‘dick’, but I’m pretty sure we won’t be able to say that."
Me: "Yeah, I love dick.  And I mean that in every sense of the word."

So while I wasn’t really working in the onerous, god-I-want-to-shoot-myself way, I still had shit to do that required I have a blood alcohol level of no higher than .11 during the day, which was a major fucking bummer for me. 

[Quick aside: In senior year of college, my friends and I had a breathalyzer and we thought a fun game would be to see who could sustain a blood-alcohol level of at least .08 for the longest amount of time.  The only exception was that after you woke up, you had two hours to get your BAC to .08, which is the legal limit in most states.  Otherwise, you had to be at least .08 all day, every day.  Then someone, actually my girlfriend at the time, if I recall correctly, said that we might die if we tried that.  So we didn't.  I am very stupid when I am in love. 

A few years later, post-college, my buddies got me another breathalyzer for my birthday.  Sans girlfriend this time, I and my buddies came up with another plan.  We would take the breathalyzer out to bars and charge people $1 to blow in it.  We would then record their score and take their contact information.  At the end of a designated period of time - a summer, six months, a year - whoever had blown the highest BAC would win all the dollars we collected from people.  I told my dad about this and he thought it was the greatest idea he'd ever heard.  But then my roommates and I thought about it and decided that it wasn't.  Say, for example, the cut off was September 1 for the highest BAC contest.  Do you know how much fucking booze my friends and I would drink on August 31 to break the record?  I mean, good lord.  One of us would seriously have a 50/50 chance of dying from alcohol poisoning, and I am not exaggerating in the least when I say that.  I watched my old roommate Ben drink 23 beers and four glasses of wine - for fun.  I can't imagine what he'd do with $2300 at stake.  Goodness gracious.]

But aside from the work, that doesn’t mean that I didn’t enjoy my time in LA.  I truly *heart* LA.  I am moving there in 2007 (in some capacity - I might be bicoastal for a bit, so please insert your favorite bisexual joke here).  There are two things that LA so dear to me.

The weather
Yes, you’ve heard about how great the weather in LA is a million times.  I have, too.  But I’ll tell you, nothing prepares your body for it quite like being there.  I may be more unaccustomed then most, being born and bred in the Northeast, but my god - waiting for a cab at LAX at night in December when it’s 62 degrees with little humidity, I mean, just wow.

So yeah, the weather is great, even though it did rain like a mother fucker on my Saturday night.  But let’s move on to the better stuff.

The women
I know this is debatable - even though I don’t see how - but Los Angeles has the most beautiful women on the planet.  My LA friends, most of whom are ex-New Yorkers, say that NYC has the most beautiful women in the world.  To this I respond: you are absolutely incorrect.  100% fucking wrong.  Why?  Because it all comes down to numbers.

On the 1 to 10 scale of hotness, 1 being John Goodman eating beef jerky in a Turkish bath and 10 being Orlando Bloom, Kyan from "Queer Eye" or the guy who works in the Starbucks at Allen & Delancy (take your pick), I consider myself a 6.  I’m not the worst-looking guy in the world, and what I lack in upkeep of my body or a basic hygiene routine, I more than make up for with my willingness to spend hundreds of dollars on appletinis and cosmopolitans and my shameful obsequiousness to the opposite sex.

(I’ve actually always considered myself a 6, but polled my friends in Seattle when we were discussing the topic.  Brian said 6, Ben 5.5, and my buddy Matt gave me a 5.  However, he noted that the 5 only pertains to Seattle, where apparently people take care of their bodies.  Matt assured that in NYC I’m probably a 6 and in Philly I might be as high as 14.  So thanks, Matt.)

In NYC, a 10 is a rare sighting.  Hell, a 9 only comes along once in a blue moon.  Usually, there are plenty of 8’s roaming the streets, but because competition is so fierce for them, they are not only impossible to get but impossible even to approach.  Of course, I’m no expert on this subject, since in most social situations my friends and I find a corner to hide in so that we can throw beer cans at each other in peace, but trust me - the 8’s in NYC know they’ve got it goin’ on.  The result is that a guy like me usually goes home with a 2 or 3 (examples: girl with facial hair, girl with major speech impediment, pirate).

In Los Angeles, you can spot a dozen 10’s just by walking around on a Wednesday afternoon.  We’re talking legitimate 10’s - women that make you stop in your tracks, do a double-take, let out an audible "Wow", and make you thank the Lord and his son Jesus that you have a pair of testes.  I was shocked.  Totally fucking shocked - and I’ve been there a half dozen times before.  And it’s not like I hung out on movie sets or at porno shoots or anything.  Sure, there are beautiful women driving around in BMW’s and shopping on Rodeo Drive but there are just as many 10’s eating in Subway or working at the Cold Stone.

(Also, can you tell where I spent most of my time eating?)

The point is that because of the sheer volume of beautiful women, the social-sexual dynamic is all fucked up.  It’s the complete opposite of NYC: attractive women become more approachable, because they must adapt or die. 

Which is why I think I could really succeed in LA.  I could feed that niche market out there, since there aren’t a lot of guys like me in LA: Irish Catholic, chubby, pale, bearded and completely unwilling to drink and drive.  I imagine that the women out there get tired of the same tan, open-shirted, athletic, douchy guy who talks about how he once hung out with the jagoff from "Entourage."  I mean, that’s gotta get old, real quick. 

But I promise you that I will have no grand delusions about my future success with LA women.  Is the hot girl working in the Cold Stone waiting for Richard Gere?  Of course she is.  But is she going to meet him?  Nope - not working in the Cold Stone.  Do you know who’s she going to meet?  Me - standing there asking for a medium cake batter and oreo with a smile on my face, a $10 tip in my hand, and a lifelong promise that there is a less than 85% chance that I will cheat on her.  What more can a woman ask for?

The problem with love and our generation is that we have abandoned the lost art of settling.  I intend to bring this art back.  Los Angeles, 2007.  Let the settling begin.

(Here are my pics from the trip, including a grand total of two from Los Angeles – both from the hotel room.  I’m sorry but I’m not a big picture-taker, especially because my camera is only slightly smaller than my thigh.  So deal with it.)

happy wednesday!
Jason posted on December 13, 2006

Nothing like Pauly Shore getting punched in the head by a redneck to help get you through humpday.

[youtube]GtrBZJ9pYC0[/youtube]

God - comedy clubs have been gold mines recently!

(And thanks, Lara. Even though I’m puzzled as to why, exactly, this video reminded you of me.)

[UPDATE: I've learned that this is a fake, which makes me both sad and impressed.  Sort of how I feel about life in general.]

vacation recap i: seattle (with pictures)
Jason posted on December 12, 2006

My behavior in Seattle was absolutely despicable.  A gross display of obesity, drunkenness, and insensitivity.

Naturally, it was one of the best weekends of my life.

Travel, problems
The reason for this trip was a reunion.  2002-2003 were arguably the best years of my life, as I slogged through some treacherous post-break up/quarter-life crisis waters with the help of a nasty vodka addiction, my roommates, Ben and Brian, and my buddies Jeremy and Brendan.  The five of us made quite a crew together, getting drunk, smoking cigarettes, womanizing, and circle jerking (which, coincidentally, are the same themes harkened to by Bruce Springsteen in the song “Glory Days”).

Fast forward to 2006: Brian and I no longer live together (I’m in Chilita, he’s in Brooklyn).  Jeremy is still in NYC, as is Brendan (well, Hoboken), although the latter is a shell of his former self due to his many adult responsibilities.  Ben moved back to his hometown of Seattle in 2005.

A few months ago, Jeremy was contemplating a move back to the Seattle area, where he is also from.  At that time, Brian, Brendan and I decided that we would fly to Seattle for a weekend to celebrate a reunion (and circle jerk).  We selected the first weekend of December for this trip.

Jeremy ultimately decided not to move back to Seattle.  Additionally, because he would be in Washington State only the week before for Thanksgiving, he backed out of the trip.  Understandable, since four cross-country flights in consecutive weekends is a little much.  Jeremy: out.

That left Brendan, Brian and I heading to Seattle to go visit Ben.  Two days before we were to finally book the tickets, Brendan backed out, saying he couldn’t take the one day off required for the trip (being a grown-up stinks, apparently).  Brendan: out.

Instead of four of us flying together, it was just Brian and I.  Knowing that Brian isn’t exactly, como se dice ”on top of shit”, I took special care to ensure that he would not only book the flight, but book the correct flight.  I booked my flight and made him an itinerary consisting of the same outgoing flight (because I was going to LA after Seattle, we wouldn’t fly back to NYC together).  I haven’t flown with anyone for a while, so I was looking forward to spending a six hour cross-country flight with a friend, for a change.  He booked it and we were ready to go.

On the day we were to leave, Thursday 11/30, Brian and I had this conversation:

Me: “Dude, if you can get to my office by 3, I’m taking a car out to the airport so you can ride with me for free.”
Brian: “Nah, I don’t think I’ll be able to get out that early, so I’ll go on my own.  What terminal is it again?”
Me: “I don’t know - whatever Delta is.”
Brian: [three seconds of silence] “What?  Delta?”
Me: “Yeah, I think it’s like Terminal 3 or something.”
Brian: “I’m not flying Delta.  I’m on American.”

Somehow, despite the fact that I emailed Brian the itinerary, meaning all he had to do was enter his credit card number (I even offered to buy the flight for him and have him pay me back), he booked the wrong flight.  I was scheduled to fly on Delta leaving JFK at 6:00pm.  He was scheduled to fly on American leaving JFK at 6:10pm. 

Ever the optimist, I tried to rearrange my flight, but it would have cost me $600.  Brian is a good man, but $100 an hour for his company is a little much.

So instead of spending six hours on a plane getting drunk with my buddy, making the other passengers uncomfortable by talking endlessly about about how many women we’ve slept with, including rating them on a 26 point scale that includes such criteria as “Comfort Level with Semen”,  “Willingness to be Captured on Cell Phone”, and “Heiney Play: Yea or Nay?”, I flew to Seattle alone, next to (arguably) the world’s largest Hasidic Jew, ten minutes in front of Brian.

Great start to the trip.

Seattle: Strong booze…
Brian and I had both been to Seattle before, so there was no need to do any touristy stuff.  Still, Ben took the day off on Friday and the three of us headed downtown and to the

Pike Place

market to walk around.  FINALLY, it turned 1:30pm and we gave ourselves the go ahead to start drinking.

We ran into the closest beer-serving establishment, a restauranty place called Von’s.  There, they bragged about serving the world’s strongest beer, a dark ale that clocks in at 8% alcohol.  The three of us decided to try one.

Five hours later, we were getting a ride home from Ben’s buddy Jason (Ben couldn’t drive, as he had thrown up twice already by that point, so Jason had to come downtown to get us and Ben’s car, something he was thrilled about).  When we got back to Ben’s place, we tried to pull it together as well as possible, since that night we were joining my friend Annie to celebrate her birthday.  Thus, the red bulls (and vodka) flowed like wine.  

(Which, for the record, also flowed in abundance both then and later.) 

…and beautiful women
There are some very beautiful women in Seattle.  I knew this already, having been to the city before, but I re-learned it when out there most recently, specifically when we were out for my friend Annie’s birthday.  I don’t recall which bar we were at, since at this point I was focused on talking without spitting on people, but it was a nice low-key unpretentious place.

Some of the beautiful women in Seattle are also doctors.  Maybe, hypothetically, you spend much of the evening talking to a beautiful doctor, having a good time, fantasizing about how your life is now set because you have finally found someone who can both provide you with drugs and sleep with you (well, give you drugs and sleep with you without you feeling ashamed and waking up on a couch in Queens the next morning).  But even though you are enjoying the conversation with the beautiful woman/doctor, you still have to pee, so you excuse yourself to take care of your burgeoning bladder.

And then maybe when you come back from the bathroom, you notice that your doctor-bride is now talking to your buddy Steve.  You think nothing of this, because even though by your own admission Steve is devastatingly handsome and quite successful, he has a very serious girlfriend.  So you let them talk and play it cool.

But what you underestimate is Steve’s ability to talk the balls off a bull.  You also underestimate the importance that women place on looks, and as times passes, as you try unsuccessfully to catch your doctor-bride’s eyes which are locked on Steve’s like tractor beams, you realize that your doctor-bride is falling in love with the fitter and handsomer but ultimately harmless Steve.  Perhaps you try again and again, at first subtly and then not so subtly, to win her attention back, but can not do so.  You have lost.

So maybe then you spend the rest of the evening getting so drunk that you pee the bed.

I peed the bed
At the end of the night, I was very drunk and tired and beaten because of a woman issue that I’d rather not get into.  I could either sleep on the air mattress on Ben’s living room floor, laying inches away from Brian on the couch and his wolverine-like breathing, or spend the night in the guest bedroom of Annie’s nice-smelling and clean house.  In the easiest decision I ever made, I went to Annie’s. 

Then at some point during the night, as I lay unconscious on the bed in her guest bedroom, I pissed all over myself.

I normally sleep in a boxers and t-shirt, so when I woke up at 10am completely naked, I knew something was amiss.  At first I thought that perhaps Annie had slipped into the bedroom and had her way with me, but I knew that was not the case; whenever I make love, the room often smells of watermelon and sulphur for days afterward, and this room did not smell like that at all.  It smelled more like piss. 

I sat up in bed and with bloodshot eyes saw my boxers and undershirt strewn in the middle of the floor. It was at this point that I knew what had happened.  Now it was just a matter of telling Annie, which I really, really didn’t want to do.

The good news was that it seems that the boxers and undershirt took the burnt of the storm and the bed was pretty dry, almost surprisingly so.  It’s possible - and the guys in Forensics are still working on this - that in the middle of the night I stood up and peed on myself, because the bed was just that dry.  But I didn’t think that would matter much to Annie.  What’s worse: “Um, I peed in your bed” or “Um, I stood up in your bedroom, pissed all over myself, stripped down, left my piss-covered boxers and undershirt on your floor, and then slept naked in your guest bedroom”?  Kind of a push.

Thank God and baby Jesus that I know Annie so well, that she has a sense of humor, that we’ve made out before, and that I have enough money to buy her a significant Christmas present, because she was understanding when I told her what happened.  Of course, prior to coming clean, I called Ben, told him what happened, and asked him to come and get me from Annie’s place before she woke up.  This plan was foiled when Annie walked out of her bedroom and caught me - balls-ass naked - standing in her living room looking for a piece of mail for her address to give to Ben (for whatever reason, I thought finding the mail would only take a second and so didn’t need to put on my jeans or shirt).  I probably would have told her what happened even if she didn’t catch me in all my glory shuffling through papers on her coffee table.  Although, I probably would have done it differently, like maybe approaching her in the kitchen and calmly explaining what I did, as opposed running into the bedroom and shouting it through the closed bedroom door over her shouts of “Oh my god, Jay!  What are you doing!  Why were you naked!  Oh my god, Jay!”

Let’s just move on.  It’s still way too soon to talk about this.

(I realize that this snippet just made me about 38% more unmarriable, so for the record, that’s the first time I peed the bed since December of 2003.  I am not a bed-wetter.  I had been drinking strong beer all day long, suffered a defeat in the woman department, and was in an unfamiliar place.  That’s the perfect storm right there.)

New bar tab record
I spent Saturday watching football back at Ben’s, being hungover/pissy, and getting made fun of, which I took in stride.  There is nothing to report about Saturday day expect eating an inordinate number of tortilla chips.  I would conservatively put the number of tortilla chips consumed around 220. 

Plans were a mess for Saturday night, but it appeared that we would be going out in the Belltown neighborhood of Seattle.  Brian, Ben and the others took one cab into the area to scope out one bar, while Annie and I took another cab there and stopped at the Belltown Bistro, another restauranty place, one that I am apparently required to visit every time I go to Seattle.  Our plan was to wait there to hear back from the others.

Ben and Brian returned from the other bar and said it was like the opening scene from “Miami Vice.”  I have never seen “Miami Vice”, but I imagine I would not do well in a place that reminds one of that movie.  So we decided to have a few drinks at the Belltown Bistro and review our options.

Five hours later (again), after some friends had joined us and as the bar was closing, the bartender brought over my bar tab.  I had been buying some drinks for friends but didn’t think I was being ridiculous about it.  Worth nothing is that I had been drinking whiskey all night and was basically turning into a werewolf, but still, how much could the bar tab be?  This was Seattle, after all, not New York. 

Bartender: [handing me the check] “I like to ask - how much do you think you tab is?”
Me: [pondering]: “Um, I don’t know - maybe $120?”
Bartender: [shocked] “God, I’m sorry.”

The damage?  $274.  Two hundred seventy fucking four dollars.  My previous record was some time in May of 2003 and in the $260’s.  But that was in New York, where drinks are more expensive.  Spending $274 in Seattle is like spending $390 in NYC.  Just unbelievable.

This set off a series of strange events during which I tipped the bartender $46 (meaning the tab was $320 total), sent my friend Claire a series of unintelligible text messages (including a number of pleas for a genre of erotica I invented on the spot called “text sex”), and then almost got in a fight with a random black guy at the bar who that night Brian had met, befriended, and told to spray me with his cologne (which he did).  Just weird, weird shit.   

The wine drinking contest
But then it really got weird on Sunday.

Brian was leaving Seattle on Monday, whereas I was staying until Tuesday.  We should have been content to spend the day watching football and nursing our hangovers, but then Brian made a fatal error.  He mentioned something about a wine drinking contest.  I picked up the idea and ran with it and shortly we were at the local liquor store, buying eight bottles of wine (four for each of us, two red and two white).

The competition was not a contest per se.  Brian described it thusly: “It’s more of a presentation - look at us, look at the lives we lead, look how we enjoy luxury and the finer things in life, like this wine here.”

And really, we didn’t expect it to be too big of a deal.  Looking at it, four bottles of wine - especially if drinking all day - didn’t seem like that much booze.  Brian and I are nearly professional drinkers, so we didn’t think we’d have a problem with it.

Big mistake.

There is no way that I can accurately recollect or portray the events that took place that day.  Not only because I was very drunk - probably one of the top ten drinking performances of my life - but because things just got so fucking weird. 

To wit, Brian, who almost finished his third bottle, spent the night at a hotel near the Seattle airport.  His flight wasn’t leaving until 2pm the next day.  Yet at 8pm, bombed, he said, jokingly, “That’s it - I’m finished”, put on his jacket, gathered his things, and then left.  We thought he was kidding until he called us from a cab en route to the airport, and then again from his room at the SeaTac Airport Doubletree.  The next day he had no idea why he had done this, nor why he had ordered the 24 hour porn pass at the hotel (the latter is more explainable than the former, I think).

But at least he didn’t harm or involve others.  Previously, I used to think that my most dangerous accessory when drunk was my penis.  But it has now been surpassed by something much more devious (and also much, much larger): my cell phone. 

When I’m drunk, I like to text message and call people.  I have a very short attention span, so when I’m not talking to someone or the center of attention, I go to the phone.  Also, I’m your typical Irish Catholic drunk in that I get maudlin and sentimental when drinking and miss people when I’m not with them, so I like to check in and say hi.  This gets especially dangerous when I’m on vacation and in a time zone three hours earlier than most of my friends. 

On this particular night, I unleashed a torrent of communication the world has never seen before, which I am both alternatively embarrassed and proud of.  I don’t even want to get into it, but the crown jewel of the evening was when I spent almost an hour talking on the phone to an ex-girlfriend from six years ago WHO IS NOW MARRIED.

I want to stress: it’s not like I wanted to hook up with her.  That would have been a geographical impossibility (also, she’s MARRIED).  It’s not that I’m still in love with her, since she wasn’t that serious a girlfriend in the first place (I would say mildly serious).  It’s just that she responded to one of my gazillion text messages and after we messaged a bit I called her.  And from what I remember, we had a lovely conversation and she’s doing very well (and probably reading this right now).  But the point is, I don’t remember much.  Probably for the best.

(Author’s Note: Last night, my phone was not working.  I called Sprint to figure out why.  My phone bill was $391.  I don’t even know how this is possible, since I was talking on Sunday night, but that mother fucking phone was definitely shut off last night for several hours.)

In the end, Brian and I learned an important lesson: no one wins the wine drinking competition.  Which is why we can only have it once a year.

(For the record, I almost finished my fourth bottle, but passed out before I could bring it on home.  I haven’t had wine since.)

(Well, I haven’t had too much wine since.)

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

After Brian left, things wound down.  I spent most of Monday eating, reading the paper, and writing in the 14 Carrott Cafe, a little place near Ben where I ate breakfast every day (the special Lake Union Scramble was tremendous, as were the pancakes).  Then on Monday evening, Ben and I went to the Ram, a nice little sports bar where we had beers and burgers and I screamed like a lunatic while watching the Eagles beat Carolina (seriously, people looked at me like I had some mental deficiency - I thought Seattle had passionate fans?).  On Tuesday morning, I took a cab to the airport, where I spent seven hours because of a canceled flight, but let’s save that for later.

Seattle is a lovely city.  Great bars, good vibe, attractive women - and I have a lot of friends there.  I would almost move there, if it wasn’t so fucking far and the weather wasn’t so terrible.  But I certainly will be back.  And I can only hope that when I do return, Annie will have fitted her guest bed with plastic sheets (which will be her Christmas gift this year).

[For some pictures of the trip, please see Ben's website.]

[Next, Los Angeles recap.]

[Also, it’s good to be back.]

Vacation Blogging - Take 3
Jason posted on December 8, 2006

While I’m on vacation, I’m letting some associates, friends, and two lovers steer the ship for me.  That means there will be guest bloggers this week.  Today’s is from Ace Cowboy of Slack LaLane.

I’m not sure where The Artist Formerly Known As Tubbs Muldoon is today, though I’m betting he’s some place where hoooagies are sold. But when Uncle Jase asked me to fill in for him on this here vanity exercise of a website in his absence, I immediately obliged. I mean, a chance to bring my brand of attempted humor to a built-in audience of millions? Well, accepting the gig was just a no-brainer, a total Schiavo.

But then I started to panic, my brow beading up in sweat, my hands shakier than Muhammad Ali operating a jackhammer. Not only did Jason ask me to fill in for him during my worst period of comedic writer’s block (I’ve been slacking on my own blog really badly of late, much to the dismay of my reader), but I’ve also just recently accepted the fact that I’m not very funny in a traditional sense. By any typical humor rubric — with a 1 being rectal lesions and a 10 being hooker rape — I’m about a Richard Marx’s Hold On To The Nights. That’s no gouda. So I started to freeze up backstage at the thought of this cameo…

Then things got even worse: The Letter D kicked off Mulgrew’s guest-blogging extravaganza by setting the bar pretty damn high. How on Earth am I gonna follow this cat’s lead? But I soon realized that I’m a white man, and if The Letter D can do something well, I can and will succeed at this endeavor as the superior being I am. That train of thought switched on the cartoon light bulb, making me realize that what I’ve been looking for has been staring me in my pale face this whole time, the common denominator, the tie that binds us all together: casual-to-mildly overt racism.

So I know the following humorous anecdote may seem like filler to some of youse, but rest assured, it’ll contain a bigger payoff than if you had simply read my completely original drivel. This is a joke my father sent me via the electronic mailing system about a year and a half ago, and every once in a while I read it to remind myself how funny it is that I get e-mails like this from my pops all the time. But, hey, it totally beats the off-color jokes about blowjobs that my grandmother sends out from time to time, no joke. So without any further (Freddy) ado, I present to you this joke about robot caddies…

———————————————
A man goes to a public golf course. He approaches the man behind the counter in the pro shop and says, "I would like 18 holes of golf and a caddie."

The man behind the counter says, "The 18 holes of golf is no problem, but all of the caddies are out on the course. What I will do for you is this. We just got 8 brand new robot golf caddies. If you’re willing to take one with you out on the course and if you will come back and tell me how well it works, your round of golf is on me today."

The golfer obviously accepted the man’s offer. He approached the first tee, looked at the fairway and said to himself, "I think my driver will do the job." The robot caddie turned to the man and said, "No sir. Use your 3 wood. A driver is far too much club for this hole."

Hesitantly, the golfer pulled out his 3 wood, made good contact with the ball, and the ball landed about 10 feet to the right front of the hole on the green. The golfer, delighted, turned to the robot and thanked him for his assistance.

As the golfer pulled out his putter, he said, "I think this green is gonna break left to right." The robot then again spoke up and said, "No sir. I do believe this green will break right to left."

Thinking about the last time the robot corrected his prediction, he decided again to listen to the machine. He made his putt and birdied the hole, thanks to the robot and his advice. But his luck didn’t end there. His entire game was the best game he ever played, thanks to the assistance of the new robot golf caddie.

Upon returning to the clubhouse, the man behind the counter asked, "How was your game?"

The golfer stated, "It was, by far, the BEST game I ever played. Thank you very much for letting me take one of your robots. See you next week."

A week passed, and excited, the golfer returned to the pro shop. Upon entering the pro shop he turned to the man behind the counter and said, "I would like 18 holes of golf and one of those robot golf caddies, please."

The gentleman from behind the counter turned to the man and said, "Well, the 18 holes is no problem. However, we had to get rid of the robots. We had too many complaints."

Confused, the golfer cried, "COMPLAINTS? Who in the heck could’ve complained about those robots? They were incredible."

The man sighed and said, "Well, it wasn’t their performance. It was that they were shiny silver metal, and the glare from the machine was blinding to other golfers on the fairway."

The golfer said, "So then why didn’t you just paint them black?"

The man nodded sadly and replied, "We did. And then four of ‘em didn’t show up for work, two filed for unemployment, and the other two robbed the pro shop."
———————————————
 
Mulgrew will be back shortly, and soon you’ll return to your regularly scheduled programming of food, dick and body hair jokes. Me, I wait around for the weekly Six Songs, the only redeeming quality about this blog or Jason in general. See I dig music, dig it like Russell Hammond on a Topeka rooftop, and since the segue door is closing here, allow me to do what I did on the [redacted] blog this week and cash in my favor from Muldoon right now.
 
If any of youse enjoy live music — rock bands, GoodGod funk, [in Cosby voice] the jazz music, classics, the popular rock band Phish — head on over to a fairly new blog we recently launched called Hidden Track. Like Men’s Wearhouse, our slogan is also "You’re gonna like the way you look." Nah, I wish. But go there anyway.
 
Have a good weekend, and if anyone wants to send me pictures of their boobs like they do Jason, I can be reached at slacklalane@yahoo.com. I’m just kidding…I only like cock shots.

I just pray that it has a vagina
Jason posted on December 6, 2006

While I’m on vacation, I’m letting some associates, friends, and two lovers steer the ship for me.  That means there will be guest bloggers this week.  Today’s is 123 I Love You.

When Jason asked me to guest post I was immediately in. I wrote back to him as quickly as possible, letting him know how glad I was that I finally had a massive audience to see the mind-blowing nude pics that I had my cousins take of me over Thanksgiving.

I’m sorry, was that too much too fast? We’re just getting to know each other here, so why don’t we start slow. Let’s start with the words first, and then we’ll move on to the pics.

(You just scrolled down to the bottom of this post to see if the nude pics were actually posted, didn’t you? I appreciate your interest, and I would have done exactly the same thing, but I decided that I just have far too much respect for the internet to post naked images of myself on it.)

I am a high school teacher. This supplies me with a lot of material for blogging. For example, I’ve devoted quite a bit of space to describing the complex series of emotions that I go through when my students walk in on me when I’m sitting on the toilet. I really should expect it by now, because just before the student barges in, I always hear giggling voices outside the bathroom door saying "Do it! Just do it! It’d be hilarious!" I’d always thought that they were just encouraging me to wipe properly.

I should really consider getting that lock fixed. This and finding a suitable kidney donor for my mother are my number one priorities at the moment.

It just struck me now that perhaps I should use this opportunity to ask for the kidney donor, but since my life motto is "live, laugh, love," I’ve decided to post something on the lighter side. But if anyone out there has a spare kidney kicking around, get in touch.

I try to use dating as a source of blog material, but it’s hard to meet women, and not only because I am plain-faced and poor. I work mainly with men, and there are only three women who teach at my school - one is the lesbian gym teacher, the other is a very religious woman who is trying to convince the other teachers that I am the devil, and the other is another lesbian who is also trying to convince the other teachers that I am the devil.

There is also a person who works in the cafeteria who may or may not be a woman. I’m not sure. It’s an Asian person who is either a guy with an exquisite pair of breasts or a girl with a 5 o’clock shadow à la Bruce Willis. I’m not ruling this out as a romantic possibility, however. At the moment, this individual is the best thing I have going for me. I just pray that it has a vagina.

Now, I haven’t written about dating for a while, but this doesn’t mean that I’ve been too busy to go on random dates with strange women that I’ve turned up after hours of scouring the internet. That’s not true. I’ve met plenty of strange women over the past couple of weeks. Today I thought I’d describe these women (well, if you want to nit-pick, one technically wasn’t a woman, but it was still a date, so I’ve included it).

I have a 1-to-10 scale that I use to rate the quality of the dates. 10 means that the conversation is so good that I end up spontaneously combusting into orgasm, and 1 means that the date goes so horribly wrong that someone ends up dying, losing a limb, contracting the rabies virus, or a little bit of all three. I’ve never experienced a 1, but I have gone as low as a 3 (the police are called and a restraining order is later filed). I’m not going to say which one of us filed the restraining order though. I’m tricky like that.

Here we go:

Date #1:

Ranking: 7
Looked like: The saucy, outspoken white woman from "The View" (not Rosie)

A very nice girl. Nice personality, nice looks, nice laugh. She and I seemed to hit it off. Unfortunately, having only a double-digit IQ, I thought I would appeal to her more if I waited for her to send me the first post-date message, and then wait for a week before sending a response. I did this, and she still hasn’t written back. Oh well. I hope she’s found a handsome and muscular man to satisfy her sexually.

Date #2:

Ranking: 3
Looked like: Laura Ingalls from "Little House"

Looked like Laura Ingalls. Wore a cape and a blue and white cameo brooch. Said "oh dear" a lot. Seemed to have a skin-flaking problem. She got so nervous after one of these skin flakes drifted onto my Starbucks brownie that she accidentally spilled her coffee onto my lap. The burn and the tenderness remain. She won’t stop e-mailing.

On a side note, the burn is beginning to look a lot like the Toyota logo. Maybe eBay has a market for this kind of thing?

Date #3:

Rating: 6
Looked like: Chris Hansen, the famous host of television’s "To Catch a Predator."

I say this date looked like Chris Hansen because it was Chris Hansen. I happened to stumble onto the set of "To Catch a Predator." I watch the show regularly, and who would have thought that they’d go to Murphy, Texas twice! Anyhow, I gave this date a 6 because even though I was humiliated in front of an audience of several million people, I got to meet a major celebrity who really seemed to take an interest in what I thought!

Date #4:

Ranking: 7
Looked like: A goddess

Gorgeous and extremely interested in me. This always makes me very suspicious. But before we get any further, no, she was not actually a man, and no, she was not gay. Let’s just say that she was extremely experienced. Her dating history - which she constantly talked about - sounded like the resume of a seasoned diplomat. She spoke of her experiences with Iranians, Nigerians, Italians, Canadians, and she even had a story about an Eskimo. She never actually told me that she’d slept with all of these guys, but her stories about meeting them nearly always ended with the words, "And then we went back to his place, you know what I’m saying?"

Now, I’ve fantasized about this kind of woman before. A lot. But I’ve