Articles Archive for Year 2007
Until the flight home when I got a Hot Whopper.
(Story time!)
After graduating college in 2001, me and two buddies – Joe and Dave - took a 17 day trip to Dublin, Northern Ireland and Copenhagen. Our buddy Bill was a bike tour guide in Dublin for the summer, so we’d spend the bulk of our time there, but would shoot up to Northern Ireland to visit my uncle’s family (my aunt married an Irish guy) and then over to Copenhagen to see some women who were actually good-looking.
On the red-eye over, Joe, Dave and I sat together and as we were finally landing, Dave said that he was feeling some weird pain in his head. No sooner had he said these words when he doubled over in intense pain, unable to even speak. He couldn’t explain and we didn’t bother him, hoping he’d get over it. After we landed, he felt slightly better, but he could only say, "This is the worst pain I’ve ever felt…I’ve never had a headache like this," wobbling around the airport, clutching his head. We thought one thing: what a pussy.
And we continued to call him a pussy for several days when his "headache" severely limited his sociability in Dublin. There we were, in one of the drinking capitals of the world, and Dave could only sip his beer and wince at the loud noises, ultimately retiring early each of those first few nights. Rather than being sympathetic, this made us very, very angry. This was a once in a lifetime trip, we said, so get over your little fucking headache, you pansy.
Dave’s headache was only relieved when we went to Northern Ireland to visit my uncle’s family, and my uncle’s mother took Dave to her local doctor for some codeine. Under the influence of codeine, Dave was able to deal with the pain and thus was able to stay out drinking with us until last call every night, and the pain eventually went away. The lesson as always: Painkillers. Wow. If they can’t make your life better in some way, you’re already dead (or you’re Hugh Hefner, Tom Brady or Justin Timberlake and are all set in the whole "good life" department).
We continued to break Dave’s balls about his headache after it subsided, but he didn’t even want to talk about it. Back in Dublin he was fine, and the night before we had an 8am flight to Copenhagen, we drank until, well, just about 8am. The flight to Copenhagen was only a little more than an hour, but while in the air, I felt something strange in my head. "Did you guys feel that?" I asked, feeling like the plane had suddenly dropped. Joe and Dave said they hadn’t, and I said, "I feel…uncomfortable."
What happened next was one of the most traumatic experiences of my life (that did not involve showing my genitals to a woman and/or subway car full of people). Suddenly, my face exploded; it felt like someone had put a balloon inside my head, pushed a button, and immediately expanded it as far as it would go. The pressure in my head - above my eyebrows, under my eyes, and near my temples – was nearly literally crushing; I honestly felt like my head was going to cave in on itself, unable to take the strain of all this pressure. Like Dave had, I doubled over in my seat, clenching my body so hard that I began to shake. I could do nothing but hit the stewardess call button, in the hopes of getting some water or perhaps a gun to end this pain. I lost all control of my facial fluids; tears, snot and drool were pouring off of my face, so that when the stewardess finally showed up and I recoiled from my fetal position and asked for water, she did a stutter step, so alarmed was she by my red complexion, bloodshot eyes, and face covered in tears, snot and drool. As I convulsed in my seat, I hadn’t said a word to Dave and Joe, who were looking on in a concerned manner, but seeing me Joe blurted out, "Oh my god – he’s turning into a fucking werewolf!"
I collected myself a little bit by drinking the water, and through the mucus (in my throat and on my face), I garbled out the words, "Dave, give me the codeine!" Dave was taking a perverse joy in the moment, as I finally was experiencing what he had, what we had called him a pussy about, and he said no. Never in my life have I been so close to murder than I was at this point and would have killed the entire plane full of passengers and various heads of state to get that codeine. I think that Dave realized this and he gave me some of his magic pills.
Soon, but not soon enough, the pain relented. We talked about what happened all the way into the city center, where we stopped at a nearby Burger King and delighted in the fact that we’d get the first Whoppers of the day, fresh off the grill and nice and hot. So it was that in that Burger King in the middle of Copenhagen that we were able to give a name of the most intensely painful experience of my and Dave’s lives: the Hot Whopper.
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For the rest of the trip, I recovered and, as you might guess, visited a prostitute to celebrate. My first call when I got back to the States was not to family or friends, but rather to my doctor, to find out exactly what the hell had happened. He told me that it was a sinus block or a sinus attack or something and that it’s a fairly common thing that can range from "mildly uncomfortable" to "I’d cut my dick off to make this stop." His advice was that one hour before boarding I should use a nasal spray like Afrin to make sure my nasal passages are free and clear, especially if I was flying with a cold.
Since that time, I’ve been more likely to fly without a shirt on than without my Afrin. Every flight for six years, dozens of flights, I’ve used that Afrin religiously. Until, that is, Sunday, when I forgot my Afrin, was late for my flight, and couldn’t find any in the terminal.
I was nervous, but hadn’t gotten a Hot Whopper in so long that I wasn’t overly concerned. Besides, though it was snowing quite a bit in the Midwest and on the East Coast, my flight left on time, and no one was sitting in the middle seat between me and a hot girl. Not only that, I recently fixed my computer’s DVD drive, so for the first time in weeks I was able to watch a movie on my laptop. For the first 5 hours and 21 minutes, it was the best flight I’d ever had.
And then we started descending.
And then the Whopper, she cometh.
I felt it immediately, just like I had before, that uncomfortable feeling like the plane was rising and falling, starting small, then growing. Though we were officially in our final descent – everyone was seated and strapped in – I jumped up from my chair and into the overhead luggage compartment. Though I didn’t have any codeine, I did have some Bayer, and taking it was the only thing I could think of to try to ebb the inevitable Hot Whopper tide.
It didn’t work. The Whopper hit. Unlike last time, which was focused on my eyebrows and around my eyes, this one stayed on the right side of my face. It was like being hit with a jackhammer; I could almost feel the bones of my skull straining not to crumble under the pressure. What’s more, my teeth experienced a blinding pain, real seeing-white-light-type pain, shooting, stabbing pain that I had never felt in my mouth before; imagine sitting in a dentist’s chair with a cavity in the back of your top row of teeth, and imagine your dentist sticking a pick directly on this cavity, then imagine him viciously ripping you out of this chair by the cavity with his pick. I’m not ashamed to admit that when this part of the HW was occurring, I was whimpering, actually whimpering, so much so that the girl next to me asked if I was ok (read: I probably wasn’t going to F her in the bathroom once we landed).
I could do nothing to stop the pain without the codeine, so I sat in the back of the taxi from the airport, trying to will myself out of it. Whenever something hurts, I think of my dad. He’s had his neck broken, been stabbed, lost most of his teeth when he was hit in the face with a piece of wood, and now has seven herniated vertebrae and can’t walk normally until 2pm everyday, until his body loosens up. Meanwhile, I’m afraid of thunder and people with dreadlocks. So I sat in the taxi, telling myself, "You pussy – get over it! It’s just a Hot Whopper! Be a man for once!" As you might guess, this didn’t (and usually doesn’t) work. Somewhere, my dad shed a single tear. Or smoked a cigarette. Whatever. God, I’m ashamed.
I got home and retreated to the shower, and by the grace of God (and further proving my theory), the steam of the shower, along with slow controlled breaths, helped ease some of the pain. That I was home and that the Bayer was maybe kicking in helped, too. After about an hour, since it was now 2am, though I was still hurting, I figured I could try to go to bed.
Then a funny thing happened when I stepped out of the shower: I noticed my nose was bleeding, a thick rivulet of blood running out of my right nostril down my moustache. I wiped it, rolled up a piece of toilet paper, stuck that up my nose, and started getting ready for bed.
But soon, that piece of toilet paper was saturated. So I rolled another. And I unpacked my bag a little bit, waiting for my nose to stop bleeding.
Soon, that piece of toilet paper was saturated. So I rolled another.
Soon, that piece of toilet paper was saturated. So I rolled another.
By about the fifth piece, with no sign of my noise stopping bleeding, I did the ol’ pinch method, timing myself as I held it for ten minutes. This didn’t work, since as I was doing this, blood continued to come out, unencumbered by my pinch. So then I decided to ice my noise, knowing cold is the answer for many an injury. I timed myself as I held the ice on my nose for ten minutes. Still bleeding.
I’ll spare you the suspense and tell you that I was up until 11am the next morning with my nose bleeding profusely, so badly that I actually had to call out of work sick. By the time it stopped the next morning, I had pinched and iced several times, going through a box of tissues and a roll of toilet paper, and had covered my shirt, my pillowcases, my sheets, my magazines, and the pages in the second half of Steve Martin’s "Born Standing Up" with blood. I couldn’t sleep lying down, because I would feel the blood going back in my throat, and I’d nod off at 6am or so while sitting up and wake up to find my moustache, mouth and goatee covered in blood, looking like I just got beat the fuck up. I had had a bloody nose before, but nothing ever close to this.
But, praise Jesus, it did stop, just before noon. I took a nap for a few hours and then spent Monday is a groggy state, still feeling out of sorts, the pressure still clogging my head a bit. Not only that, but my teeth were hurting badly now as well, something like a cavity or a wisdom tooth feeling. Not good.
Three days later, I still feel out of sorts. My nose hasn’t bleed any more, but my teeth are now bleeding (sweet). This morning, I woke up at 4:58am and couldn’t get back to sleep because my teeth were throbbing. I did, however, clean my apartment at this time. Which was nice.
And still, something is not right – in my head. From my right ear to my right nostril, I feel like someone has lifted up my skin, stuck their hand under it, and is holding my skull in a death grip. I can’t sleep, I’m woozy, and ten times a day I stop whatever I’m doing, rub my face in an exhausted and exasperated manner, and say, "Oh man." I’m taking decongestants, but I might as well be popping tic tacs.
The bottom line: I am fucked up right now. I mean, I am a shell of man. My week, and potentially my holiday weekend and beyond, has been ruined by the ruinously ruinous Hot Whopper, which shows no mercy. I can’t sleep, I can barely chew, I’m constantly tired, and every morning I hock a loogie with so much blood in it I have to check to make sure it’s not a piece of brain. Not good for me right now. Not good at all.
The morale: For the love of God, please use Afrin. Don’t even get within 50 miles of an airport without it in your pocket. No, this post is not sponsored by the makers of Afrin, but I am a man with great hate in my heart – and I still wouldn’t wish the Hot Whopper on any one of my numerous enemies. All I can say is that one minute I was smiling wide, happy to be home, refreshed after a great trip to LA, and now four days later I’m a complete physical and mental mess (more so than usual, that is).
The Hot Whopper. Heed my warnings, friends. And take care.
(And happy fucking holidays.)
I was excited for this because Jean-Georges Vongerichten is not only my favorite NYC restaurateur, but also my second favorite Frenchman (a distance second behind Guy de Maupassant, who was made insane by syphilis and began telling people he was the younger wealthy son of the Virgin Mary, which is just about the craziest and awesomest shit I ever heard). And sure, I’ve only eaten at two of his (Jean-Georges’) places, Mercer Kitchen and Perry Street, but the food was excellent at both and the latter is among my top five restaurants in NYC. Also, I just feel so cultured saying his name: Jean-Georges. Jean-Georges. Croissant. God, I’m classy.
[Side note: One of the funniest times of my life involved a random night in college when a bunch of my buddies and I were high and went to our local IHOP, in the middle of the night and in the dead of the New England winter. We ordered from the poor waitress by saying, "Yes, I'll have the country omelet and on the side, I would like a...CROISSANT!", screaming "croissant" in our loudest and most awful and obnoxious French accents, each guy trying to out-do the one before. The rest of the table would burst into the uncontrollable laughter of the stoned, real tears-pouring-out, grabbing-of-sides, saying-"I can't breathe! I can't breathe!" laughter as the waitress went from one of us to the other, each of us ending his order with a thundering faux-French CROISSANT! And yes, I got laid more back then than I do now. So I ask: Where is the justice, people? WTF?]
What you need to know about JoJo, aside from that it’s Jean-Georges first restaurant and is so named because "JoJo" was his nickname is a child, is that’s a beautiful converted townhouse. That means it’s very small and intimate. That also means that if every month at dinner you find yourself defending your theory about how you believe that when you’re drunk, your sperm is also drunk, and therefore you and your sperm can’t impregnate anyone while drunk since, I mean, the sperm has to work and find the egg and all, this is not the restaurant for you. Also, it’s filled with UES old people – men in their 70′s in bowtie and women who put on so much lipstick you feel uncomfortable around them.
Nicole and I sat down and she ordered a vodka drink and I ordered a bourbon. I should have taken it as a sign when I was brought my bourbon, which cost $12, and saw that it was probably measured out by a teaspoon. Honestly, I have accidentally snorted more bourbon in the course of a night than the amount they gave me for $12, and I could easily wring more bourbon out of my work pants than was in this glass. I was tempted to scream "Oh my god – look over there!", pound the bourbon quickly and ask, "What is this, some kind of joke? I mean, you bring an empty glass? I want to speak to your manager!"
We started with the special appetizer, some leek-type flaky tart with some type of cheese, and the sweet potato ravioli with marjoram and balsamic brown butter. Both were excellent and complemented each other perfectly; the flaky pastry and cheese going perfectly with the warm sweetness of the sweet potato, encased in arguably the most delicate pasta I’ve ever had (seriously). Say what you want about J-G’s portions, but Nicole and I were blown away.
We finished our drinks and ordered a bottle of wine and our entrees. Nicole went with the lobster, poached, with lemon risotto and caramelized fennel and I got the short rib vinaigrette, with carrot puree and hon shimeji mushrooms. We split a side of chick pea fries.
Again, say what you want about J-G’s portions, but the mother fucker really brings it. I tried only a little bit of Nicole’s dish due to my aversion to all foods with lemon, but the lobster was silky – smooth, delicate but fleshy, buttery, rich. Decadent. When I tried it for the first time, I actually blushed, because it felt like I was doing something I shouldn’t.
Here’s all you need to know about my short ribs: They were so tender that I didn’t have to cut them; instead I merely looked at them, shook my fist in an angry manner, and said, "Yoouuuuu!!!" and they immediately feel apart into perfect pieces. The vinaigrette was rich and maybe (maybe) a little (a very little) salty, but the quality of the meat was breathtaking – literally, I stopped breathing for four minutes while eating. I can’t remember eating any meat of any kind as tender as those short ribs, which were easily the best ribs I’ve ever had.
Now is where I say something about the sides, but as mentioned, I didn’t try Nicole’s lemon risotto (I like lemon in my drinks only, thank you). My mushrooms were good, I guess, but were in a small portion and I could have eaten all of them by pinching them between my thumb and pinkie and picking them off the plate. The carrot puree was good, but again, it was the size of about one-fourth of the amount of cream cheese an average person puts on a bagel. The chick pea fries were nice, but there’s only so much you can do with fries, I think, and they were basically used to sop up the vinaigrette that came with the short ribs.
Next came dessert, and after mulling it over, Nicole and I went with our standard: the warm chocolate cake with vanilla ice cream. I know, it’s a total p-ssy move, but it’s a guaranteed delicious dessert; you can’t fuck up warm chocolate cake with vanilla ice cream at an expensive restaurant. And we were right – the cake was spectacular, it’s warm chocolate gooey center oozing out over the spongy cake, which was paired each bite with a dollop of ice cream. But again, I could have eaten four of these things. Splitting such a small dessert between two people could easily end some friendships, but Nicole and I managed (and by “managed” I mean I rub the chocolate cake on my beard as soon as we got it and Nicole then didn’t want any).
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Here’s my final verdict: JoJo was delicious. Absolutely, 100% no doubt about that. But – and maybe this is my not-quite-luxurious-enoughness talking – if I drop $300 on a meal for two, I want you to have to roll my ass out of that restaurant. I want some sort of pulley and/or slingshot system needed to help me up from my chair. I want to have to take a Bayer to prevent a possible heart attack. I want, while telling the cabbie my address on the way home, food to roll lamely out of my mouth, because there was just no room left in my body. And hell, for $300, I want all this – and leftovers to take home.
(I’ll be the first to admit that I’m a fattie, but I’m not that much of a fattie. I think.)
So if you’re a 65 year old banker, rich, or have a small appetite, JoJo is the place for you. Otherwise, while it’s still a very good restaurant, there are a number of other options I would choose. And Jean-Georges does not have to worry about falling from his number two spot on my list of favorite French people. Although he might want to get syphilis, just to be safe.
Six Reasons Why I’m Not Good (Life in General edition):
1) I have been washing myself with handsoap for the past four days. Since this began when my regular soap ran out five days ago, I have walked by numerous Rite Aids, Duane Reades and other pharmacy-type stores, and each time thought to myself, "You know what? I should get some soap." But each time, I immediately dismissed this idea, because I was either carrying rice pudding or rocking out to my iPod or, I don’t know, whatever it is I do when I walk around.
I predict that I will eventually get regular soap, but only three days after the handsoap runs out (the first and second days I’ll use shampoo, and then someone will make a comment about a "really strong Head ‘n’ Shoulders smell", then I’ll buy the regular soap).
2) I got my annual review this week at work, which was [confidential and potentially job-ending comments redacted]. My manager came to office to get me when it was time for this review. When he knocked on my open door, I was standing over my chair, picking up a large chunk of jello that had fallen onto my chair – after bouncing off my lap – lifting it, and preparing to eat it. Since my manager caught me, I did not eat it, and instead apologized and threw out the jello.
I was more upset about the discarded jello than the review.
3) My apartment is filled with static cling. It’s everywhere. Every time I walk by my couch, my shorts will pull toward it and when I’m in bed masturbating, I’m afraid I’m going to start a fire. But still I have done nothing about it, because, frankly, I don’t know what to do and I really don’t care that much.
But it’s also on my jacket, which is a problem. It’s a problem because I walk a lot, usually with my gym bag on my shoulder, and my iPod in my pocket on the same side as the gym bag. Twice a day while walking, I’ll shift the gym bag, so it rubs against the coat and the iPod headphones, and this will send a small surge of electricity through my headphones and into my ears, causing me to scream "Fuck!" at various points in Chinatown/Little Italy/Soho. For such a little shock, it’s not only surprisingly painful (I mean, it’s shooting in my ears, after all), but also incredibly annoying, kinda like getting stung by a bee. And yet this happens to me every day, at least twice a day, and I do nothing to stop it. And I probably won’t.
4) My last time in LA, without getting too into it, I fell down a flight of stairs and landed on my computer, which I was carrying at the time on my shoulder. I was late getting to work, so I got up, dusted myself off, and went on my way. When I got to work, I turned the computer on and was relieved to find that nothing was wrong with it and it worked fine.
I didn’t realize what was wrong until the plane ride back to NYC when the DVD in my DVD drive would not come out when I pushed "eject." I tried everything: pushing the eject button, dragging the DVD icon into the trash, ejecting through the file menu, even trying to pry the drive open with a plastic knife. Nothing.
This happened almost two months ago. Since then, I’ve taken a number of train rides during which I could really have used a working DVD player. This Sunday I leave for LA and I still haven’t gotten it fixed. The worst part? The DVD that’s jammed is "An Inconvenient Truth." I will be watching "An Inconvenient Truth" (which I got from NetFlix) for as long as I have my computer.
5) Prior to this morning, you could have killed a cockroach in a corner with my toenails. Goodness gracious. They looked like the toenails of a llama and were simply fierce. And to be honest, I only cut them this morning because I didn’t pick up my laundry yesterday (worked until 10pm, which was great) and I’m down to my crappiest socks, which are worn at the toes, and I was concerned that my toenails would pierce through the socks like bullets through a practice jersey.
6) I usually walk to and from work, but recently it’s been so cold that I can’t make the 28 minute walk. This is a shame, because I love the walk – it gives me time to think, time to prepare for the day, and time to rock the fuck out. This morning, after not making my walk for several days, despite temperatures in the 20′s, I decide to say "F it" and walk to work. Not a good idea.
It’s the afternoon and I still can’t feel several of my toes. I blame this entirely on the fact that they didn’t have my long toenails to shield them from the cold.
I mean, fuck.
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Six Bets
It’s official: I’m the worst gambler in the world. Great year last year, witness-protection-inducing year this year.
So I’m not going to make any bets this week, even though I can only improve on my 3-15 record (not sure if it’s exactly that, but it sure feels like it). I will only say that Browns seem like free money to me, and the fact that the Eagles are giving 2.5 makes me chuckle a little bit, but that’s it. Good luck and godspeed.
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Six Songs
"Drive My Car" Two Gallants
The intro sounds like being fucked up and having sex in winter on the cold sand below a (still open and operating) boardwalk amusement park. The rest of the song is pretty good, too.
"Red Rabbits" The Shins
I’ve pimped this song before, but it’s worth doing so again. And I’ll say the same thing I said last time: This is a key song on my “Let’s Make Out or Something” playlist, not because it’s romantic (I don’t even know what the hell this song is about), but because it’s genuinely disorienting. But it’s not disorienting in a creepy way (you know, like the way that I typically make out); it’s got an ethereal quality to it that’s quite soothing. I’ve never heard anything quite like it, and I strongly recommend you give it a listen, if only perhaps to email me to help me figure out exactly what I’m trying to say. Fun fact: This is the second most played song on my iTunes. The first? See answer below.
"You Only Live Once" The Strokes
Party song. Perfect. When I hear this, I need either get my hands on a beer or start dancing in under two minutes, or else things will get ugly.
"Every Time I Try" That Dog
I know they’re a bit girly (and by that I mean, a lot girly), but I love this band and its sound; songs that are either catchy (like this one) or very sad, with gorgeous harmonies, piano, strings, and electric guitars. They’ve been broken up for a long time, but more people should know about them.
"Loving You" Paolo Nutini
Acoustic-based jam about doing it that’s easy to play and sing (not as good as Paolo, but still). If this doesn’t put you in the mood, I mean, you probably have no genitals.
"All That I Want" The Weepies
Another re-pimp, but a perfect saccharine-sweet love song for the holidays due to its liberal use of sleigh bells. I hope that it snows before Christmas so that I can curl up with a pint of ice cream, listen to this song, then switch to whiskey and water, put on “Love Actually” and sob like a mother fucker. I love the holidays.
[The most played song on my iTunes is Joseph Arthur’s “Echo Park.”]
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This weekend is the last weekend that I will spend in NYC with my friend and old roommate (for four of my six years in NYC), Brian, before he moves to LA after the New Year. Many of you know Brian, as I’ve written about the antics we’ve shared over the years so much that, with apologies to Site Guy Brendan, he’s probably the second main character in this here blog. I will more properly eulogize his time later, but, without any having any expectations for a great or wild weekend, I will say this: I think we’re going to drink a lot of beer this weekend. Wish us luck.
[Have a good weekend]
I think that I could be a professional guest bartender.
Not a bartender, mind you, but a guest bartender. The guest bartender has, arguably, the greatest job known to man, as I learned over Thanksgiving when I guest bartended in Philly at my local bar back home, Mick-Daniel’s. My responsibilities on the night I guest bartended included:
- Arriving to work at 7:30pm
- Drinking casually while working
- Watching sports while working
- Talking to drunk girls while working
- Eating six mozzarella sticks while working
- Serving beer and (easy) drinks to my family and friends, with a stranger or two thrown in for good measure
- Telling the other bartender (in this case, my buddy David, who has a lot of bartending experience) what hard drinks/shots he has to make because I have no idea how to make them
- Telling the other bartender that he has to fix the registers because I mistakenly rung up $97.50 for three bottles of Miller Lite on the register by the door and the one by the front is on fire a little bit
- Eating four chicken fingers
- Finishing work at 11pm
- Getting drunk for very cheap at place of employ for three hours after work
The best part: I don’t what to say exactly how much I made (for tax purposes and all) but it was more than I make an hour at my real job – and it was cash! Usually when I’m done working, I have to wait for the 14th or the 28th to roll around, then I have go to the ATM, and only then I can take out the money I need to buy pot. With guest bartending, I get paid immediately when I’m done working, I make one phone call and step outside my work and boom – I’m getting high in an alley within minutes! It’s genius!
[Alright, I have to calm down here.]
[Also, I love smoking pot. I haven't done it too much lately and think I've forgotten how incredible it is. You get an A+, marijuana, an A+.]
My shift, fortunately, went without any major disasters. I arrived at 7:30pm and was given the rundown by my buddy Brian – where the beers, liquors and glasses are; how to clean the glasses; how to work the registers; etc – and when David showed up just before 8, we were ready to go.
My first order came from three girls, maybe two years or so younger than me, who wanted two Miller Lites and a Coors Light. Like a pro, I slid open the freezer or fridge or steel container with the slidey lid that holds the bottled beer, put the three beers before them, popped off their tops with my bottle opener, and smoothly said, "That’s $9.75." One girl gave me a $20, I rung up the order, made change, and gave it to her. I was now officially a bartender.
Soon, my friends and family started filing into the bar, included both of my parents and my brother and sister, and an unprecedented ten of my cousins (I have, I think, 30-35 total cousins). The drink orders got more varied, but were nothing I couldn’t handle: bottle of Yuengling, pint of Smithwick’s, vodka soda, even cherry vodka-sprite-cran (!). Through it all, I handled the drinks orders professionally, with grace and aplomb, saying "Go fuck yourself" only once to my buddy Wick who seriously wanted a Tom Collins.
[It was good to see my dad there at the bar, who, prior to a dinner I took him to in NYC last month, hadn't had a beer in 15 years. Being at the bar for the my guest-bartending gig was the first time he'd been in a bar in 17 years, and he drank approximately 14 beers that night. The next day, before I left to head back to NYC, my dad bought a case of Miller Lite, saying, "I forgot how good beer is." So it looks like I'm responsible for making a 52 year old gun owner whose already on a steady regimen of painkillers start drinking again after 15 years of sobriety. Um, whoops.]
[He's proudly up to eight guns now, by the way, as he's bought two more in the last five weeks. I think one more and we've officially entered "arsenal" status. Way to go, dad.]
As the evening progressed, the bar got more crowded, both with strangers and friends. But rather than get frazzled, I felt myself getting more steady on my feet; if anything, I was doing worse in the first half of the shift when the bar wasn’t as crowded and I was watching college football and chatting with what people were there. Toward the end, I went from one customer right to the next, filling drink orders, gaining momentum and confidence. Also, the bar has Red Bull on the gun, so I basically had the equivalent of twelve to sixteen cans of Red Bull during the shift. Which would explain why my hair started falling out toward the end. But I digress.
But though I had fun (and got a little bit drunk), the best part of the night, aside from the 4am French onion soup and broccoli puffs at the Oregon Diner, was when I finished my shift at 11pm. That’s when things start getting crazy at the bar, as more people started filing and patrons got drunker and drunker. This is the reason why I could only ever be a guest bartender: I have neither the athletic ability or the stamina to move that quickly, nor could I possibly contain my jealousy and rage at having to give out hundreds of drunks in a night while only being able to have two or three. That, moreso than the lack of agility, would be the major dealbreaker for me.
Still, I hope to guest bartender again at some point, probably when it’s tax time and the IRS comes calling. If you have the chance to do so, I encourage you to try it. Free drinks, mozzarella sticks and chicken fingers, while making three figures in less than four hours…well, that’s the American Dream realized, right there. This spreadsheet stuff is for chumps.
When I was a child, during rainstorms I would take my mom’s car keys and escape from the house, so that I could sit in her car, alone, listening and watching the rain fall on the windows around me and the hood above. After my mom put the kibbosh on that – because, you know, it’s pretty fucking weird – I’d settle for sitting on our outdoor porch while it rained, in warmer weather smelling that "rain smell" – the oil rising from the asphalt in the street as the barometer drops just before a rainstorm in the city.
But this obsession was not limited to rain. Growing up, we only had one bathroom in our house, and many times when my dad would shower, I’d knock on the door and tell him that I needed to come in to go to the bathroom. From behind the shower curtain he’d shout for me to come in and I’d sit on the toilet, pretending to go to the bathroom, listening to the water hit the shower, breathing in the steam.
As I grew older, I stopped doing these things – because, you know, they’re pretty fucking weird – and my love for rain/falling water only manifested itself in constantly wishing for rain while I slept so it would tap-tap-tap on my window and/or air conditioner and taking extremely long showers. The next chapter in my love for falling water – and creepiness – would not be written until the day after my 21st birthday.
My 21st birthday fell on a Monday in the middle of July between my junior and senior years of college. I was living in a disaster of an apartment with some friends in Brighton, MA, an apartment from which we would be evicted four weeks later, working at the Boston College library dusting books and checking fantasy sports with my buddies Joe and Jon. On the day of my birthday, our boss, a wonderful Russian man named Michael, knew it was my 21st and so dismissed me, Joe and Jon at noon so that we could grab some beers.
It is customary to have 21 drinks on one’s 21st birthday, but I made it clear to all my friends that I was not going to do this. Instead, I made it my goal to have 42 beers – double the amount, but no shots or hard alcohol of any kind. Given a full day, I figured I had a shot at 42 beers, but didn’t stand a chance against 21 beers, shots and drinks.
The three of us spent the day on Harvard Avenue playing pool, before heading back to my apartment (I was maybe 12 beers in) to grab some dinner. That summer, I slept on a mattress that was so uncomfortable it was the equivalent of sleeping on 500 sets of keys every night, so Joe, whose best man I was this past April, considerately bought me a new mattress pad and egg crate for my bed (he probably got sick of me complaining every morning at about how poorly I slept and how much my back hurt) and gave it to me during our little mid-load break. After a dinner which I can only assume consisted of ramen or pasta, we were off to MaryAnn’s, the unofficial dive bar of BC that at the time offered $1 draft beers. Though attendance was sparse (it was a Monday and I am very unpopular), this is where the wheels quickly came off.
Suffice it to say, I did not reach my goal of 42 beers. Ten minutes after getting to MaryAnn’s, I was doing shots. Thirty minutes after I got to MaryAnn’s, I was doing shots with Tabasco sauce in them. Sometime between forty-five minutes and four hours (no recollection) after I got to MaryAnn’s, I was being led out the door by my arm.
The next thing I remember was waking up in my bed, which was thoroughly soaked with urine. The egg crate and mattress pad that Joe had gotten me for my birthday, that I had put on my bed only hours before, was now less an egg crate and mattress pad and more a sponge saturated with my urine. I’ve peed the bed a few times before while drunk, but this was exceptional. I think that I must have pissed the bed not once during the night, but several times, and never woke up once, spending the night rolling around in my own urine, occasionally adding another layer of pee during the night/morning.
My hangover, as you might imagine, was gargantuan. After cleaning myself up with a quick shower, I sat down in my living room alone, as all my roommates were at work (I didn’t make it in that day and didn’t call out sick; Joe and Jon explained the situation to our fortunately sympathetic boss Michael). I sat in a chair with a newly opened gallon of water and the chocolate cake that the girls who lived below us had baked me for my birthday (what sweethearts), and ate the whole fucking thing in one sitting. It wasn’t a giant birthday cake that you see at kids’ 5th birthday parties, but maybe an 8×8 square one, yellow cake with chocolate icing. And it was delicious.
The cake filled my belly with something aside from alcohol, but I was still feeling miserable. I took aspirin, but it didn’t work. I tried to sleep, but couldn’t because my head was pounding. I sat for a while on our shitty deck, but the July heat and the stench of the garbage pile below the deck made me wretch. Faced with no other alternatives, I chose the only option I could think of: the bathroom.
I had showered quickly when I woke up, but I was still in a haze and, you know, covered in urine. So it was not exactly relaxing. With nowhere else to go and no one home to disturb me, I headed back to the shower. I stripped down, turned the water on ice cold, and stepped in, away from the stream of water so as not to get wet by the icy water. I stood there, dry, the cold water bouncing off the floor of the tub and onto my feet, with the bathroom window next to me partially open, the summer air warming the chills that the water gave me. I grew tired and more than a bit dizzy standing there, so I sat down – not in the tub, which I shared with six other guys and so was covered with a fine layer of spooge, hair, and HPV, but on the ledge of the tub, and I put my head in my hands.
I sat there for over an hour and in that time, my condition greatly improved. Listening to the water, taking deep breaths, closing my eyes, half the time feeling chills for the water and the other half feeling blasts of the warm air from the window, I could almost feel the hangover leaving my body with each passing minute. Despite the unsanitary condition of the bathroom (seriously, HPV was everywhere), this act of "showering" was incomparably cleansing, restorative and relaxing. I didn’t realize it at the time, but the Fantasy Shower had just been born.
Since that day, I have spent a ridiculous and probably unhealthy amount of time in the shower. I continued to take Fantasy Showers (so named by my roommates because I was in a "world of fantasy" alone in the shower for an hour each time) to combat hangovers, and each time I emerged from one of these showers I felt better by leaps and bounds. When I moved out of that apartment and into our senior year dorms, I shared a bathroom with only one other person, my buddy Joe, of egg crate/mattress pad fame, and I kept our tub squeaky clean so that instead of sitting on the ledge during these Fantasy Showers I could actually sit in the tub, with the showerhead shooting at my feet and the water draining, leaving my body above my shins completely dry. Before long, the Fantasy Shower was no longer just for hangovers and soon I had a stereo in the bathroom and was listening to music and even reading books and doing homework in the shower.
(I told you it was creepy.)
Now, I still take Fantasy Showers. Every morning, I wake up at 8am and spend forty minutes in the shower, sitting down and reading. At night, I may hop in as well to do a little more reading (I edited most of the manuscript of my book in the shower). Many times, however, I won’t feel like getting into the tub and will turn the water on but will sit on the ledge of the tub or on the bathroom floor or on the toilet, just chilling and listening to the water, breathing in the steam from the hot water in the winter and getting chills from the cold water in the summer. It’s not uncommon for me to spend two hours a day in the bathroom with the shower running.
(I mean, you can’t say I didn’t tell you it was creepy.)
************
My buddy Brian, who I lived with for four of my six years here in NYC and is my go-to guy, my rock, my constant drinking buddy, is leaving NYC and moving to LA shortly after the New Year. This is a crushing development, both personally and socially, and one that I may not be able to recover from. (In the last two months, of three of my closest friends here in NYC, one is moving to LA, one I’m no longer speaking to, and one asked to be removed from my email list. Sheesh.) I’ll discuss this in greater detail later, but since Brian’s weekends in NYC are numbered, we (his friends) are making a conscious and deliberate effort to spend as much time with him as possible; we’re treating him like he’s a terminally ill veteran from whom we’re trying to record memories of the war before he kicks the bucket.
So on Friday night, my friend Brendan and I joined Brian for some beers after his work threw him a goodbye party. Brendan was extremely hungover from the previous night’s festivities, and I was feeling run-down from a busy work week that left me legitimately sick for the first time in awhile. But hey, Brian’s leaving, so we pulled it together and headed up to midtown to meet him for beers.
I consider myself someone who has a fairly high tolerance when it comes to alcohol (I don’t mean to brag), but there are some nights when after three or four beers, I am acutely aware that I’m much drunker than I should be. I don’t know if this is because I’m just "off" on these particular nights or if my liver is transported back in time to 1989, but it doesn’t matter. Friday night, after my third pint of Smithwick’s, I could tell that it was gonna be a rough one.
Though nothing eventful happened during the night – it turned into the three of us doing a pub crawl through the terrible bars of the 30′s and 40′s on the East Side, during which time I text messaged just about everyone in my phonebook – I got drunk. Bad drunk. "How did this happen?" drunk. Dropping my phone in the bar bathroom, spilling beer on myself, spitting and slurring while I talk drunk. Not my finest moment.
When the bars closed at 4am, we headed down to the LES to cap the night off with some pizza/beef patties/frankie and cheeses/chicken rolls from Rosario‘s, as Brian is trying to get his fill in before he leaves. Brian got his first and Brendan and I watched him literally run out of the pizza place and into a cab, without saying goodbye. Brendan lives in Hoboken and asked if he could crash at my place, which I agreed to.
By the time we got to my place, the food was almost gone. I don’t recall the specifics of eating, but in short order Brendan was passed out on my couch and the food had been destroyed with extreme prejudice. I knew that Saturday was going to be a big day – we had plans to drink all day long in Hoboken, capped off by my friend’s birthday party there – so I desparately didn’t want to be hungover. Even in my drunken state, I knew if I sat down on the couch or laid down in my bed I’d be passed out in no time. So in order to keep myself awake so that I could let the aspirin work and drink some water, I turned to my old friend: the shower.
My bathroom is very small. Standing in it, you can touch the toilet, sink and tub from the same spot without moving. When you open the door, before you is the sink, not two feet away; left of the sink is the toilet and to the right of the sink is the tub, all practically stacked on top of each other. On this night, I didn’t feel like stripping down and actually getting into the shower; I was so drunk that there was a greater than 60% chance that had I done that, I would have slipped and broken something in my genitals. So instead I turned the water on – nice and hot, since it was so cold out – and sat down on the bathroom floor with my back on the door, to let the shower and steam works its magic and help me prevent a hangover.
Several hours later, I was awoken by Brendan, now awake and wanting to take a piss. The sun was up and both me and the walls of the bathroom were soaked with condensation; my hair was matted to my head, my shirt was wet, and, still drunk, I had no idea where the fuck I was. Brendan was banging on the door, shaking it and thus my body, saying, "Dude, what the fuck are you doing in there?" (He told me later that in the seconds it took me to respond, he thought I was dead.) I had passed out on my bathroom floor, with the hot water running, for a little over three hours.
************
I am 28 years old. I have a successful career and a job title with the word "Senior" in it. For my second career, I travel back and forth to Los Angeles, where I stay for ten days a month, making me effectively bicoastal. I have a two-bedroom apartment in Manhattan, more or less in Soho, in which I live in alone. I have an office in this apartment, decked out no only with my cool Mac and all the proper accoutrements but also with five of my guitars hanging regally from the walls. I watch DVDs with my Hi-Def DVD player on my 52′ plasma television from the comfort of my new furniture. Jean-Georges Vongerichten is my favorite NYC restaurateur. I have a foreign cleaning lady. I shop at Dean and Deluca. I drink expensive bourbon. I am a Medallion SkyMiles member.
The point: Under no circumstances should I be waking up on my bathroom floor at 7 in the morning with the shower running. There is no excuse for this. This is not what people like me do. This is what heroin addicts do. The only reason I think I didn’t choke on the steam and die was that the bathroom window was cracked a little bit, letting in the cold air and preventing the bathroom from becoming a complete sauna. Dying, drunk and covered in sweat on my bathroom floor with my shower water running, would have been a most unglorious death, if only for the absence of a prostitute, a mound of drugs, or a small fire, or the fact that I was not wearing high heels at the time.
Or is it this: No matter what fancy stuff I surround myself with, no matter how much I spend on expensive food or drinks, and no matter how hard I pretend, I can not escape who I am; the college kid who peed himself several times in the middle of the night on his 21st birthday, the child who would hide in his mom’s car listening to the rain; or the guy who, this weekend, may choke to death on a beef patty on the cab ride up to the Rub ‘n’ Tug by MSG.
(I at least hope I make it into the Rub ‘n’ Tug before I kick the bucket. I know for a fact that they have a sauna there.)
Six Bets
Falcons (+3) over RAMS
My weekly contrarian pick: More action is going on the Rams than any other team this week, to the tune of 78% betting Rams. Other lopsided games are Chargers (-6) over CHIEFS (76% on Chargers) and Broncos (-3.5) over RAIDERS (76% going with Broncos). If you take the Rams, Chiefs and Raiders, you’ll go two for three. Guaranteed.
EAGLES (-3) over Seahawks
Fuck it. Why not?
COLTS (-7) over Jaguars
C’mon Peyton, let’s see how much of a man you are. Time for a statement game.
Bills (+6) over REDSKINS
Look for Buffalo QB Trent Edwards to take advantage of a Redskins’ secondary that has been decimated by injury and murder.
(Yikes.)
(Seriously, even for me, yikes.)
SAINTS (-3) over Bucs
My weekly no idea pick: This game has gamblers almost evenly split, with a slight advantage going to New Orleans. To be honest, I have no idea why more people aren’t picking the Saints here; I think the Bucs are frauds and a 24-3 first round playoff exit waiting to happen. Of course, since I just said this, you know what’s going to happen: Bucs 49 Saints 7. I’m sticking with the Saints.
Patriots (-20) over RAVENS
Yes, people are little wary of such a high line after the Eagles’ "scare", but here’s the thing: if possible, the Ravens offense will score negative points in this game. They are truly a terrible offensive football team. Alternatively, the Eagles’ "stopped" the Pats and they still scored 31 points. Their lowest point total was against Indy, then the second-best team in the league, and they scored 24 points on them. Aside from those two games, the Pats are averaging 43 points a game. Do you really think the Ravens, a less than average team with one of the bottom three or four offenses in the league, will score 23 points on the Pats? How about 13 points? 10 points? I’ll take the Pats.
**************
Six Songs (bonus edition)
"The Ghost of Genova Heights" Stars
Whoa – what is this? I thought Stars was all strings and sadness? I heard this on the indie station in Philly last week and had no idea it was Stars, as it seems too funky and smooth at the same time for them. If I were gay and wanted to seduce a guy I brought home to my apartment, I’d put this song on and do a little dance for him as he sat on my couch, and we’d be doing it in no time.
(Not that I’ve thought a lot about this. I swear – it just came to me right now.)
"I Want You" Tom Waits
Um, welcome to the most beautiful love song ever. If you have a make-out mix, put this on it. If you are getting married, make this your wedding song. If you have a beard, a blog and back hair, play this on repeat while sitting in a darkened room drinking whiskey and water until 4am.
(God, I am going to be such a good divorcee. I just know it.)
"Strange" Built To Spill
If I had discovered this band in high school, I would have lost my shit (I feel the same way about Muse, but for different reasons). They were only just starting when I was in high school, and this song was released in 2001 (I think), but they have a sound that would have drove me wild back in those high school days: sort of lonely but also intelligent, kind of exclusive, definitely different. Please feel free to insert your best "you sounded like a real winner in high school" joke here.
"You’ll Get Yours" Dios Malos
I discovered this song on my iTunes recently when I was trying to rate those unrated (no star) songs. I have no idea where it came from, but it’s fucking awesome. It’s a perfect mix of catchiness, bitterness, and humor; kinda like me - only this song has less pizza.
"Metarie" Brendan Benson
There is so much shit going on in this song, it’s stunning; it’s like a fucking amusement park ride. Particular kudos to the delicious (yes, delicious) solo and the "You got it bad" chorus. I hated Brendan Benson for about two years because I read a review that compared him to all four Beatles rolled into one (um, not true), but I’m warming to him again.
(I once read an interview with Alicia Keys before her debut album and she compared her sound to "Stevie Wonder meets Bach" or something like that. Since then, I’ve wanted to meet her in person, just so I can call her a c-nt for saying that – and I even like her stuff. What a totally ridiculous and asshole thing to say.)
"Half Moon Rising" Yonder Mountain String Band
Is it wrong that every time I listen to bluegrass, the first thing I think of is how I’m never go to have sex with a real Southern* girl? Is it bad that I simply can’t enjoy the music without my thoughts turning to sex? I hear this song and I want to be sitting on the porch of a cabin in the Smokey Mountains or the Rockies, playing my banjo next to my baby, sipping whiskey and looking at trees and grass and stuff. Then she’ll sit up in her rocking chair in her little sundress, put her whiskey down, lean over to me, place her hand on my bird, look deep into my eyes and say, "I think I’m drunk enough to let you have your way with me now, even with this lil’ lightswitch you have in your pants." Without saying a word (I’m too drunk to speak), I will stand up and we will make love, right there on the porch – and I won’t stop playing the banjo the whole time.
This is how I want to live.
[*I use "Southern" but that's not exactly what I mean. I'm looking more for more Kentucky-Tennessee-Colorado-Carolinas than Alabama-Texas-Florida. Huge difference. But I don't know what to say instead: Country? Mountain? No idea. Please help.]
"So Far Away" Dire Straits
Pretty much the long-distance relationship anthem and a very underrated classic rock radio song. That’s all. I just really like this song.
"Nothing Stays The Same" Elastica
I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything quite like this song. Sparse, with a droning two-part harmony, electric drumbeat and a finely distorted electric guitar, it sounds like something a cool robot, one who parties but also reads Foucault, would write. I can’t stop listening to it.
"Working Man" Rush
I was in a band in college. We were terrible, but it was fun. We played poor imitations of hard rock songs by bands like Tool, Rage Against the Machine, Helmet, Led Zeppelin, Pearl Jam, Black Sabbath, and the like. We had a steady gig every third Thursday at Great Scott, which I hear is now a respectable (used loosely) music venue in Boston, and played a number of bars in the Allston-Brighton area, which meant free booze. Also, one time after a show in Middlebury College in Vermont I got a blowjob in the woods. Which was totally awesome. Then I got so fucked up I slept in the front seat of a stranger’s truck. In Vermont. In November (I think). Waking up the next day: not totally awesome.
Anyway, I played bass in the band. My training in bass guitar consisted of having a brother who played bass and a willingness to play bass in any band for free drinks (I’ve always played guitar). This was enough to get me an "audition" for the band, which was just then forming. My buddy and college roommate G-Wop played drums, and he was my in. I knew the singer, Pat, from mutual friends, and he scared the hell out of me. The guitarist, Greg, I had only seen around campus.
They (and later, we) practiced in the soundproof basement of Pat’s parents’ house in the suburbs just outside of Boston, and this is where I was brought for my audition. After saying hello and tuning up, I stood and waited to hear what song we were going to "jam" to. I knew this guys liked hard music, stuff that inmates and angry Midwestern townies listen to, while I leaned toward the Elvis Costello-Jeff Buckley "let’s make songs out of poems" camp. Either way, it’s always been my experience when playing with a new band or group of guys the first time, you just sort of dick around and come up with some basic stuff: the bass lays down a riff, the drums come in, the guitar plays over it – just to feel each other out (and hopefully later, up).
As I stood there, Pat turned to the guys and said nonchalantly, "Ok, so ‘Working Man?’" Greg and G-Wop nodded and Greg started on the intro riff.
I was flabbergasted. I had heard the song once or twice before, but honestly would have been less surprised if they had said, "Let’s start with ‘Like A Virgin.’" Rush? Really? Fucking Rush, the band I only knew because of making fun of them? And "Working Man" no less, a semi-obscure song of theirs? I could see "Closer to the Heart" maybe, but "Working Man?" Even knowing their penchant for hard rock, I was stunned.
I had to stop Greg mid-riff to say, "Wait wait wait – I don’t know that one." From their reactions, it looked like I said, "I keep my penis in a jar on my dresser." I’d never felt more awkward, more uncomfortable or less cool than I did when I told them I didn’t know how to play "Working Man." Everything worked out in the end: Greg taught me the basics of the song (which is actually pretty easy), we jammed, I was in, and the rest was history. The band broke up when I went to study abroad and London and they couldn’t find anyone to replace me. That they fell apart without me made me happy.
My old roommate Brian, who I also lived with in college but only for a summer (he went to James Madison, I went to BC), knows the story and all the guys involved in it, and it’s become a running joke for us for years. Whenever we’re out and about in NYC and we walk into an uncomfortable bar or party, we’ll stop, awkwardly survey the surroundings, and:
Brian: "So, uh, ’Working Man?’"
Me: "Yeah. Yeah, let’s do that one."
Now every time this song comes on my iPod, I can’t help but smile as I think of those first awkward moments in the incipient stages of my rock "stardom" and how "Working Man" will be associated with any uncomfortable entrance or situation, probably for the rest of my life.
Fucking Rush.
[Have a good weekend]
11:18:04pm: "OK, so it’s 2nd-and-4. We’re down 31-28 with over 4 minutes left. We’re at their 29 now, so worst case, we’re walking out of this drive tied 31-31. I can’t believe we’re playing so well – this may be the greatest day of my life!"
11:18:13pm: "I wish I was dead."
11:19pm: [blankness]
11:20pm: [pain]
11:21pm: "Seriously, I wish I was dead. I don’t want to be alive right now."
11:22pm: [vomiting; not physically, but in my soul]
11:23pm – present: [numbness, occasional boner because of unrelated stimuli]
************
I did not take a single call nor answer any text messages during for the first 56 minutes of last night’s Eagles-Pats game, though they were pouring in from friends, both Eagles fans and non-Eagles fans alike. I wanted a beer, but since I wasn’t drinking from the start of the game, I didn’t dare get one. I moved from my spot on the couch only when I had to go to the bathroom – and did that only when it became abundantly clear that that pint of Ben & Jerry’s "S’mores" I ate before the game was going to reappear, either on the toilet or on my couch.
What I did, however, was forget for a moment that I am a Philly sports fan, and therefore should be intimately familiar with what "worst case" means. What I wrote above was not a thought I had in hindsight; right before Feeley threw that drive-killing interception, I actually thought in my head that the worst thing that could happen – after karma had been on the Eagles’ side all night, after how well they were moving the ball on that drive – was that the drive would stall there on the 29, hopefully after some time had passed on the clock, and Akers would come on to kick the 46 yard field goal. Not a chip shot to be sure, but it just felt like things were finally – finally – working for the Birds, a feeling that is so fleeting for any Philly sports fan that when moments like these present themselves, we grab them, hold onto them for dear life, and, in the process, usually smother them to death.
So I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised when Feeley threw the ball five yards over Kevin Curtis’ head and into the arms of Asante Samuel, effectively ending the game. Hope, meet Philadelphia Sports. To paraphrase the Man in Black, "Now Hope’s gon’ die."
After the game, I took a xanax, grabbed the book I’m currently reading, and headed into the shower to sit there, balls naked, showerhead aiming at my feet and tub draining so that I didn’t get wet, to read, to reflect, and to come up with some sort of plan to make my life better. And while this is typically how I end every night, last night’s fantasy shower was particularly gloomy because, well, the Eagles had just lost a winnable game that easily would have made the season (not just for the Birds, but for the increasing number of NE/Boston-haters around America).
[I won't beat this point to death because I'm complained about it endlessly on here, but why does God torture Philly sports fans? More specifically, why does God torture me? Can I just get one championship, one stinking championship? Really? I mean, look at Boston - formerly championship-starved, now with an embarrassment of riches. Just...come on.
But do you know what the ultimate joke is? I've been begging my whole life for a Philly championship and I'm going on record right now and saying that this year, the Philadelphia Flyers are going to win the Stanley Cup. Do you know why the Flyers will win the Cup this year? Because right now, I know less about hockey than I did when I was an infant and was not even aware of the sport's existence. The only way I could name three current Flyers is if I was speaking gibberish French and accidentally spewed out something that sounds similar to some of their last names (brierevoogagnetoilupul). This is how God treats people who live/grew up in Philly and like their sports teams.]
After having some time to think about it, and in no small part because of all the aforementioned boners, I’m not as devastated by the game as I was when it was over. Personally, I think the plan when the Eagles got under the Pats’ 30 should have been Westbrook-Westbrook-Westbrook-Westbrook-Westbrook until the drive either stalled or they reached the end zone. But Andy Reid said they took a shot at that point because they had been playing aggressively all game long, and playing aggressively got them to that point. I think this makes sense. Also, he’s the coach and I ate a pint of ice cream during the pre-game show. Actually, Andy Reid probably ate a pint of ice cream during the pre-game show, but whatever – he’s still the coach.
And you can’t fault AJ Feeley for his picks. He played well and, without sounding too sappy, bravely. The offensive line was unfuckingreal. J.R. Reed made some big hits and seemed to be all over the ball; he and Lito kept Randy Moss in check. Jim Johnson and the front seven kept the pressure on Brady, which was nice (I can’t recall rooting for someone to get hurt quite like I was rooting for Brady to get hurt last night; part of this is because he’s just so damn smug, part of it was my own self-loathing for being so helplessly attracted to him).
Ultimately, it’s another loss in what looks like an increasingly lost season. But for once, I’m going to betray my Philly roots and try to focus on the positive. I expected a blowout and to be masturbating to RedTube halfway through the second quarter, and instead I got the most entertaining and compelling football game I’ve seen since last year’s playoffs. So that makes me…happy.
(At least until next Sunday.)
And if I don’t get anything else on here before then, have a happy and safe Thanksgiving.
[Quick note on the strike: I'm not a member of the Guild so I'm not on strike, but I still can't pitch or work because then I'd be considered a scab. I fully support the writers, obviously, and I hope the strike is resolved soon. Because I'm going to need some sort of advance to pay off the ginormous amount of money I'm going to owe the federal government in taxes in April. Here's a little lesson: TV money is taxed, and taxed very much. So if you get, say, a $10,000 deal for a show, you take home maybe $5000 and the rest goes to Uncle Sam. So I'm fine there. Book money, however, is not taxed. So if you get a $10,000 book advance, you get a $10,000 check and are expected to put aside a chunk for taxes. I misheard my accountant friends when they said, "Be sure to put some of that book money away for taxes"; I thought they said, "Spend money like you are addicted to angeldust and love rubies and sapphires." Whoops. So writers and producers, let's work this out soon so Jason can sell one of his crappy ideas. Otherwise, I have until April 15 to come up with some sort of get rich quick scheme. I don't have any ideas yet, but if I had to guess, I'm thinking it's going to involve some sort of forgery and me dressing as a woman. Just a hunch. But good lord - this is gonna get ugly. By mid-March, you'll be seeing posts with titles like, "Who wants to jerk off on my feet for $12?" So be sure to tune in.]
Last year (and for two years before that), my friends and I watched Eagles games at a bar called Red Sky. On Friday and Saturday nights, it’s a douchebag bar filled with NJ-LI types looking to crush pussy and pound Jagerbombs. But this is part of the reason it worked so well for us on those Sunday afternoons – it’s strictly a nighttime bar, so no one was in the bar except us during the day. A friend of mine was friends with a guy who worked there, and they opened the place on Sundays especially for us. So instead of cramming into the recognized NYC Eagles bar (Town Tavern) with 100+ other fans, me and twenty or so of my friends, mostly guys I went to high school with and their girlfriends and other friends, would have an entire bar to ourselves to drink, eat and watch the Birds. After the 1pm game we’d stick around for the 4pm game and by the time that was over, we’d be nice and soused and head to the Upper East Side to Doc Watson’s for some live Irish music, spilling Guinness as we danced until midnight. These football Sundays last fall were magical.
But this year, we lost our bar. The day before the first Sunday of the NFL season, we learned that Red Sky had been taken over by Redskins fans. Ugh. I talked about this before, about our disappointment, about our resentment, about our pain. Not only was the rug pulled out from under us, but we were beaten by Redskins fans. Again, ugh.
And we never recovered. We scrambled that first weekend and picked a random bar to watch the Eagles lose in embarrassing fashion to the Packers because they couldn’t field punts, and that was the last time my friends and I watched an Eagles game together. There were other reasons besides the loss of the bar – many of us have been out of town on the weekends (including yours truly) – but either way, Week One was our only get together. Those Sundays in which we drank, we cheered, and we danced were relegated to memory.
[Quick note about the Eagles 2007 season: The Eagles are 5-5 and a bad football team. We all know this. But do you realize that if they had players who could catch punts, a skill learned and honed in high school football, they'd be 6-4? And do you realize that if they didn't allow Brian Fucking Griese to turn into John Fucking Elway and drive his team 91 yards in under two minutes for a touchdown, playing basic D+ defense instead of F- defense, they'd be 7-3? No need for "what if's", but these are facts. Terrible, brutal facts.]
However, this Sunday presented the perfect opportunity to get together. Six core members of our crew from last year – me, Pat, Mike, Terrence, Brian and Fran – were all in town, and Mike had the foresight to secure us a table at Ship of Fools, a sports bar on the UES. While not ideal – it’s a crowded bar with many different sports fans – it was still a nice spot: we had our own table, four TVs showing the game, good food, and waitresses who were both hot and attentive. All things considered, not a bad setup.
And it was vintage Eagles-watching. Not vintage in the sense of the Eagles playing well – they barely beat a team (the Dolphins) filled with guys I could probably beat up if I had one month’s advance notice to start working out - but in the sense of a bunch of dudes getting very drunk, stuffing themselves with fried/bad food (including but not limited to: wings, fries, mini-tacos, and this delicious chicken ranch "burger" I had), and cheering on their favorite team. There was also, since we all went to high school together, a copious amount of sharing stories and real "man" time – none of us are handy or own a car, but there were plenty of stories of pooping, intoxicated accidents, and f’ing broads. And by "f’ing broads" I mean "drinking too much to maintain an erection and/or come even close to pleasing a woman." Seriously, between the six of us, we’ve probably been present and responsible for a total of – max – four female orgasms in our lives (and two of them occurred during a showing of Pirates of the Caribbean – hubba hubba - so they don’t really count). Just six dudes who really have no idea what’s going on under a woman’s jeans.
Our party of six grew to a party of ten, then fourteen, then twenty. The 1pm games ended and we celebrated an Eagles victory, and decided to stay to "watch" the 4pm games (at that point, it was getting a little blurry). After those, when things were really blurry, we walked over to Doc Watson’s for some Irish music (a sampling of last names of people I was with – Heenan, Nolan, O’Neill, Tracy, McCartan, Grogan, Daniels). I left around midnight, having easily broken my non-St. Patrick’s Day record for pints of Guinness consumed. Monday…Monday was not my best day.
There is no ridiculous story here; no one hurt themselves, there were no scandalous hook-ups, and aside from my buddy leaving his ATM card in a machine somewhere near the bars, Sunday was story-less. But it was one of those rare, glorious days that does not happen frequently enough: good friends, sports, lots of beer and food, and music (actually, the only thing missing that would have made this perfect would be some sort of sexual activity, but I honestly would have ejaculated Guinness; it really took over everything in my body). There are times when I get down on NYC, because it’s so expensive and my family is mostly in Philly and my friends are mostly in Boston, but then a day like Sunday comes along and really puts things in perspective. I’m tempted to close this by tying in Thanksgiving, saying something about how I realize how lucky I am and how thankful I should be and all that jazz, but my pseudo-homosexuality/maudlin sentimentality has a limit. I will only say that I hope that before the end of the season, I hope my friends and I can get together for another Sunday like that one.
(Although I’m not going to hold my breath for another Eagles’ win. Too bad we can’t play the worst team in the NFL every week.)
It got a little messy.
************
I went to a high school in Philly called St. Joe’s Prep. It’s an all boys, Jesuit-run prep school in the middle of the ghetto of North Philly. Despite the complete lack of sexual contact with any sort of female mammal, high school was a pretty f’ing awesome time in my life.
So I was very much looking forward to the reunion. I still keep in touch with a lot of guys from high school - some of them remain my closest friends – but there were a number of guys I lost touch with over the years, because of moving away or getting hitched early or turning into a gay. Alternatively, there were some guys I wished were seriously injured either during or after high school. The reunion was a perfect opportunity to bring us all back together; for the former group, it’s a chance to share stories and memories; for the latter, a chance to point out how much better I am then they are now.
(My disdain for some guys wasn’t because I was picked on in high school. I was actually both fairly large – I was maybe an inch shorter and thirty pounds heavier as a high school junior than I am now – and considered "cool." But some guys were simply unconscionable dickheads. I’ll spoil the surprise and tell you that it was too bad that most of these dickheads weren’t at the reunion, so I’ll just have to continue wishing them ill will from afar.)
On Friday night I was late getting to the happy hour, which was winding down just as I arrived, fresh off the train from NYC with my buddies Joe and Pat. However, just because the school-sponsored happy hour was over (at 8pm) didn’t mean the bar was closing. So me and thirty guys stayed at the bar until closing.
I won’t even attempt to get into all the private jokes that were being resurrected and bandied about between my friends and I ("me and my friends"?). You’re just gonna have to trust me that I can’t recall a time when I laughed so hard and so frequently, unless you want a 2000 word dissection on why Mr. Nilewski’s revelation that he once had shigelosis was one of the formative moments in my life and in the development of my sense of humor (short explanation: shigelosis is transferred through the fecaloral route – draw your own conclusions). All I’ll say is that very little has changed maturity-wise since our high school days. I haven’t seen more scrotums since, well, probably my birthday. But before that, it had been awhile. Like, months.
What has changed is our drinking ability, or at least my drinking ability. Little known fact about me: I didn’t start drinking until I was 19. Seriously. I’ll get into the reasons for this another time, but though I went to the standard high school parties, I never drank. Also, as mentioned, I never sexually touched a female at these high school parties. I have no doubt that the two are related. My clear braces, weight problem, round John Lennon glasses, and long hair that naturally curled up just above my shoulders probably also contributed, but I’m certain if I drank a little bit I would have been able to make out at least with a chubby girl here and there.
(By the way, if you were to put $1 on the odds of the high school me one day becoming one of People’s "50 Hottest Bachelors", well, you’d have to buy me a beer or a boat, because you’d be a trillionaire right now.)
While catching up, I got drunk, stone stinking drunk, at this Friday night happy "hour." We all did. My buddy Kyle was so drunk after all the shots and beers and mixed drinks that he actually took himself home just after midnight, walking two miles through downtown Philly (which, as you may have heard, is not the safest place these days) at 1am. After leaving the bar, my friend Pat was detained by the Philadelphia Police for four hours after a brush-up with a cabbie. My buddy PJ, having missed the 1:15am train back to his home in suburban Ardmore and too drunk/cheap to take a cab, slept in an unlocked Hertz rental car at 30th Street Station. These men are each 28 years old, and successful psychologists, traders, and salesmen, respectively. I told you, very little has changed.
I had my own moment as well, after my buddy Joe, who was staying with me at my mom’s house for the weekend, and I got home after a drunken meal at the 24 hour Oregon Diner. I passed out in bed, but not before sending a record 34 (!) text messages to a girl I recently made out with (I actually filled her mailbox, so she had to erase messages the next day to get them all) (and no, unfortunately, "filled her mailbox" is not a sexual euphemism). Though I passed out in bed, I woke up the next morning on floor with the light on. I was confused. And hungover. Very, very hungover.
One thing I often do when drunk and in a strange place is sleepwalk. Usually when I’m in Philly, I stay at my dad’s place. However, since Joe was crashing with me for the weekend and my mom’s house has two spare bedrooms to my dad’s one, I slept at my mom’s for the first time in years (my mom and dad live around the corner from each other, so this isn’t as big a deal).
At some point during the night, I allegedly got up and sleptwalked into my mom’s bedroom, the front room (fully clothed, thankfully). When she asked me what I was doing, I chided her, saying, "I know what I’m doing! I know what I’m doing!" She then watched me walk down the hall and try to get into the back room where Joe was sleeping. But his door was locked. So I went back into my room (the middle room) and laid down to sleep on the floor – with no pillow or blanket, two feet away from an empty and perfectly comfortable bed. This is how I woke up.
So there’s that.
************
On Saturday night, a more formal event (read: jacket and tie, buffet dinner, and open bar) was held at the school itself. Spouses were invited to come, but many, wisely, stayed away. The event was for all reunion classes ending in 2 or 7, so there were five- and ten-year guys drinking and eating along with 35- and 50-year guys. Strange.
But it was a nice night and opportunity to (try to) appear classy, have some fancier drinks and talk to old teachers and classmates. Many more of my former classmates were at this function as opposed to the previous’ nights happy hour, but that didn’t stop those who were at the happy hour from dominating the conversations about how drunk we got and what sort of trouble we got in the night before. Again, not much has changed.
At one point during the night, my friend G (initial-only for reasons to become apparent) asked me if I wanted to step outside to smoke a joint with our buddy P. I don’t think I’ve ever turned down such an invitation before and wasn’t about to then. So G, P and I started walking out, toward a side entrance/exit of the school, for a nice evening doobie.
Our buddy T joined us and when we got outside, we realized that between the four of us…no one had a lighter (did I mention that our alma mater is one of the most academically rigorous high schools in the nation?). Worst stoners ever. T ran back inside to get a lighter while P kept on rolling the joint; I was the lookout, keeping an eye on the window in the door into the school, to make sure no one was going to walk out.
While I watched T jog back into the school, I also watched him get intercepted by Mr. Z. Mr. Z is (or was when I was there) the head of admissions at the high school and he also plays an important role in alumni relations, going to all the events and such. In many ways, he’s the face of the school; an affable, good-natured guy, perpetually smiling but not a pushover, who looks younger than he is. Everybody likes Mr. Z and he likes everyone.
But boy, could Mr. Z walk fast. He said something briefly to T and then continued at cheetah-like pace toward our exit. I felt like I was 14 again and telling P to quickly finish up the circle jerk because his mom had just pulled into the driveway when I stammered, "Dude, stop - he’s coming. Z’s coming!" P was putting the unfinished joint into his pocket when Mr. Z stuck his head out the door.
"Guys…you gotta know there are security cameras everywhere. [motions to cameras above us] You can’t be rolling the, uh, rolling the J’s [mimes puff-puff motion of smoking a joint] out here. Just finish it up and come back inside. Cool?"
Surprised and embarrassed, not only because Mr. Z had just caught us, at 28, trying to smoke a joint outside our old high school, but also flabbergasted by his puff-puff motion and belabored/awkward use of the phrase "rolling the J’s", we did not protest and walked back into the school with Mr. Z. P broke any tension there might have been by saying as we walked inside, "Man, it’s a good thing I don’t go here anymore." We all laughed. But I couldn’t help thinking it would have been funnier if we were high.
************
These are good snapshots of the reunion weekend. Again, I dare not get into the private jokes, but I think you get the idea. If you don’t, I’ll tell you that the function at the school ended with about thirty guys in my class sitting around a table stacked with bottles of beer that we hoarded before the bar closed, long after everyone else had left, betting on who could throw my buddy Pat’s jacket, which had been stolen during the night by our friend PJ and taped into a ball, into a trash can. We left only when the valets came in tell us they were going home and were going to leave our car keys outside in the North Philly neighborhood.
The thirty of us then went to a bar and drank and smoked some more. When the bar closed, fifteen of us got carry-out beers and sat in the middle of a courtyard in front of an office building on the Parkway, drinking until the beer ran out (shortly after 5am). When that ended, we were planning on going to our friend J’s apartment, which he shares with his fiancée. At the last minute this idea was abandoned; J had gotten so drunk the night before at the happy hour that his fiancée said to our buddy Ryan that if he were that drunk again, he shouldn’t come home. Thus ended the night.
The next day, I had another belly full of booze and diner food and a massive hangover. But the runs and a monster headache were a small price to pay for the ultimate boys’ weekend. I can deal with those consequences once every five or ten years.
After our lease was up, my roommates and I parted ways and I decided to live with my buddy Brian, who was looking to move into Manhattan like I was. I found an apartment in the Lower East Side on Ludlow Street and Brian and I moved in, soon joined by a random roommate we picked up on Craigslist, a British girl named Clair (in a year, she’d be gone and replaced by my buddy Ben). I had no idea that the LES was a "cool" area; I only knew the apartment was $1800 for three bedrooms in Manhattan. Score.
Moving changed my life dramatically – I learned a lot about the city; the girl and I soon parted ways and I was free to be lusty as I wanna be; and even though I still worked a lot, I could now walk home from work, as opposed to taking a rarely-running R train 45 minutes back to Bay Ridge. Again, score.
Once Brian and I started living together in this LES apartment, we established a routine that has lasted to this day. Every weekend, Brian and I spend at least five hours drinking together in (then) our or (now) my living room, pregaming and watching the most wonderful channel on cable television, VH1 Classic. VH1 Classic is the perfect pregaming diversion: music that rocks and get you pumped up in videos that range from "hilarious" to "jaw-dropping" to "how did this ever seem cool?"
Though the beverages of choice (bud bombers, vodka crans, whiskey, PBRs, etc), the cast of characters joining us (Ben, Brendan, Jeremy, Nevin, Will, Rob, Chris, etc), and the locations (LES, UES, Chilita) have changed over the years, it’s always been Brian and I, and always VH1 Classic. So it was only fitting that last night, as Brian’s time in NYC may soon be coming to a close, he and I, as well as our friends Brendan and Corinne, went to Madison Square Garden to see the closest thing to VH1 Classic live: a Van Halen concert.
And, wow.
************
We had been pumped for this concert for months. The chance to see Van Halen with David Lee Roth, really the main characters on VH1 Classic, was enough to bonerize us for weeks (for yours truly, it was about seven weeks). Though the show sold out very quickly, my wonderful, wonderful friend Jackie out in LA was able to procure four very good seats. All that was left to do was make the necessary arrangements to make sure we had everything we needed to get nice and fucked up, and soon the concert was upon us.
Speaking of, before I go any further and describe the concert, a confession: I was very, very high. Now at age 28, I’ve pretty much retired from all drugs except for pot and (my legally prescribed) xanax, and it seems like forever since I last got messed up on pot (aside from my high school reunion last month, of course). My friends had made pot brownies and one of them had so much pot on him that night that we joked that if he were to get grabbed by the cops, he’d be hit with an intent to distribute charge. All you need to know about my state at the concert is that by the end of the night, my friend no longer had any pot left on him – and all the brownies were gone. I personally ate so many brownies that there was/is a lump of fudge in my colon no smaller than three pounds and I still had the urge to go to Rosario’s for pizza after the show, so bad were my munchies. So, um, yeah.
We found our seats at MSG and as you might expect, I had left and was walking back to them with a hot dog in one hand and a beer in the other when I heard Eddie start ripping into "You Really Got Me." I started running back to my seat and actually dropped the hot dog - easily one of the five or ten saddest things to ever happen to me – but made it back before I missed much of the song.
I won’t get into a song by song analysis of the show, but I will say that I expected not so much from Van Halen. We’re talking about three 50 year old men – one of whom relies on his voice, acrobatic movies, and sex appeal to win crowds over – and a chubby sixteen year old on bass and backing vocals. I figured it’d be a fun and entertaining concert, but more in the "Look at that 40 year old mom showing her tits" kinda way, as opposed to "I’m rocking so hard my brain is coming out of my nose" way.
Further, something that must be addressed is that of all the posts I’ve written on this site, there are very few I’ve taken more flack for than the one in which I said I preferred Sammy Hagar to David Lee Roth. This post, like many, was sarcastic and stemmed from a discussion the previous weekend about how Sammy’s my guy because we both are in love with love. I don’t mean to backtrack here; I think Sammy has the distinct advantage in terms of songs, but nothing tops the anthems of David Lee Roth-era Van Halen.
And it took me about two minutes into the first song to realize that the music of DLR Van Halen (henceforth, Van Halen) is music made to be heard live. This seems like an obvious conclusion to reach, but it must be stated. After years of listening to Eddie’s screeching guitars on my headphones or on VH1 Classic, hearing him live was truly a revelation. Not only is this band extremely loud (extremely, extremely loud), but what they perform is not so much music as it is force or energy or any of those physics-related terms. I have never been to a concert in which the disparity between the band’s recordings and the band’s live music is so great; you can listen to every VH bootleg in the world (and my old roommate Brian nearly has), but there is no substitute for standing in an arena, being made nearly deaf by the volume of the music, being rocked so hard that you’re worried one of your testes is going to fall off and roll down your leg.
And rock they did. I can’t believe I’m going to write this, but David Lee Roth was really impressive. He’s rocking a new short hair look (which is much, much better than his combover days) and his moves are more than a little toned down, but I thought he sounded and moved great. He was working both the crowd and the band, messing with Eddie and Wolfgang, telling the younger VH that if he keeps playing so well he’s definitely going to get some "New York City poontang." To his credit, Wolfie played bass very well and some of the most entertaining (or at least, endearing) moments of the show came when Wolfie and his dad were playing facing each other; not only was it obvious that Eddie was thrilled to have his son in the band, but at one time during one of Eddie’s solos he reached over and smacked the strings on Wolfie’s bass and Wolfie reciprocated – lots of smiles and hugs between these two. Alex was a rock and played an impressive drum solo that nearly had me hypnotized (thank you, pot brownies).
Admittedly, Eddie Van Halen was not up there on my list of favorite guitarists – I’ve always preferred those in the Hendrix and Yardbirds/Bluebreakers schools, bluesy types who combine virtuosity with booze-fueled emotion. EVH always struck me as at best, emotionless, and at worst, a guitar tech nerd (a genius guitar tech nerd, but a guitar tech nerd nonetheless). But again, seeing him live…I’m at a loss for words. I have never seen or heard anything like it. Again, it could have been the drugs, but Eddie’s guitar playing was so beyond great, so beyond amazing, I can only describe it as incredible in the most literal sense of the word, as in "not believable." I play guitar, and though I’m not great, I at least know about guitars, since I’ve spent a good portion of the past fifteen years learning about them. And what Eddie was playing, and the sounds he was making, I mean, I’m not sure he was even playing guitar; it was more like a guitar crossed with a super computer crossed with the magic wand of Merlin. One of the songs I wanted to hear was a guitar solo called "Cathedral" from the album "Diver Down," a minute and a half of sounds so foreign that they seem not of this earth. Eddie did an extended guitar solo near the end of the concert and as part of it played "Cathedral" and the experience was so moving, so mystical, that I swear to God I started seeing ghosts; during "Cathedral" I turned to my left and there was Martin Luther King, Jr. sitting next to me, and he said, "There you go, brother. There you go."
Another song I really wanted to hear was "Little Guitars," which, despite its lack of sweeping/crashing Van Halen chorus, is one of my favorites. They played this and played it well, much to my delight. Two other highlights were not as well known songs "Somebody Get Me A Doctor" and "So This Is Love"; the former I don’t think I’ve ever heard before but really got into and Wolfie’s bass playing on the latter was especially terrific.
And then there were the hits: "Running With The Devil", "Beautiful Girls", "Dance The Night Away", "Everybody Wants Some", "Pretty Woman", "Unchained", "And The Cradle Will Rock…", "Hot For Teacher", "Jamie’s Crying", etc. During these songs, the crowd, which was not quite the best, would rise to the occasion and the stadium would shake, middle-aged former Strip hangers, college-aged kids guzzling beers, and my friends and I, rocking in unison to the thunder riffs of Eddie Van Halen, following David Lee Roth as he paraded around the stage, shirt open, a showman in full glory, inciting the crowd to rock harder.
During "Panama," the song I prefer to have playing while I make love, I looked at my friends and I was afraid - I actually thought their heads were going to explode, right then and there, right in the middle of Madison Square Garden, shooting brains everywhere. Corinne was doing some form of the twist and Brendan had his devil horns in the air. Brian had a look on his face of such contentment that it took me a moment before I realized when I had seen it before - March 3, 2004. On that day, Brian won a bet with me and as a condition of the bet I had to buy him a pack of cigarettes. He later told me it was the greatest day of his life.
Score.
************
But the time the band ended with "Jump", we all were exhausted, feeling like we’d been beaten up or had just finished having sex. Also, we were deaf; we went to a bar after the show for some beers and though music was playing at a very low level in the bar, we were basically shouting at each other while conversing. After a short stop at Rosario’s with the gang I was home, soon in bed, hoping the room would stop spinning and the drugs would wear off, since I was pretty sure there’s no such thing as goblins.
The night and the concert was a great success: a group of friends rocking out, doing something they love. Above all, it was memorable, a rare and unforgettable chance to see, live and in person, the characters that we’ve watched dance across the screen on VH1 Classic for so many years (we even ran into Eddie Trunk at the concert!). Someday soon, Brian may leave NYC, and I may no longer feel the urge to watch VH1 Classic. If these things happen they would be nearly catastrophic, but at least I’d be able to say we went out on a high note.
(Double pun entirely intended, possibly even supremely witty.)
High School
- I really need to get laid.
- Girls. Wow, are they uninterested in me.
- I guess I should apply to some colleges. Or something. Whatever.
- So is my penis going to stay this size forever? How does that work? Is this all there is?
- God, I need to touch some boobies.
College
- This whole "not living with my family" thing could really work out.
- So let me get this straight: If I’m drunk and a girl’s drunk, there is a greater chance we’re going to make out. This is big.
- These Stacker 2′s make writing papers much, much easier.
- I guess I should probably apply for some jobs. Or something. Whatever.
- Everyone experiments in college. And no one’s gonna deny John is a good-looking guy. Let it go. Not a big deal.
Post-College (The First Three Years, Ages 23-26)
- This whole "having money and living in NYC and buying all the recreational drugs I want" thing could really work out.
- My job sucks. My roommates are pigs.
- Condoms. Wow, are they overrated.
- Should I really be spending $7 for a bottle of Bud Light, times 30, every weekend?
- Everyone experiments in their early 20′s. And no one’s gonna deny Mike, Steve and Bill are good-looking guys. Let it go. Not a big deal.
- Ted, however, is not very good-looking.
- Neither is Tom.
- Or the other Steve.
Early Adulthood (The Pre-Thirty Years, Ages 27-29)
- This whole "spending tens of thousands of dollars a year on rent" thing is really not working out.
- While we’re at it, $500 a month on booze is unacceptable.
- Is my current job really where I want to be? Long-term, do I see myself at my company?
- Seriously, I guess my penis is done growing, right? Can someone at least confirm this for me?
- I guess I should probably start trying to save money for a house. Or something. Whatever.
- Bro, you’re gay. Or at least bi. Just roll with it. Or just get engaged to the next girl you date and be done with it.
It is that last issue that has most occupied my mind recently: engagement.
My friends are now getting engaged on at least a monthly basis, if not more frequently. This is a typical feature of late-twenties life, and inherently, there is nothing wrong with it. Love is magic and wonder, and it is only natural for two people in love to spend their lives together, because, you know, that’s what people do. So I guess that’s kinda the opposite of "natural." But as long as I get an open bar out of the deal, we cool.
And while I’m pretty far from getting engaged, seeing as my most intense and rewarding relationship was with a sausage and that ended eight years ago, I’m not bitter about all the engagement announcements that I’ve been receiving. But there is one thing that particularly piques my interest in all these engagement stories: the purchase of the ring.
I’ve gone on record to say that I find no fault with the engagement ring as a tradition. Yes, it’s a shame that poor people in Africa and South America work in horrible conditions and regularly die mining for those diamonds, but man, are they shiny. (The diamonds, not the people.) I’ve also gone on record to say that I have no problem paying or with other people paying a lot of money for an engagement ring. There are few things in life that one should really splurge on, and an engagement ring is perfectly splurge-worthy. It’s a symbol of love, it shows that your woman is now yours, it’s something that she’s going to show all her catty friends and family, and something she’ll wear every day for the rest of her life (or in my case, for about three and a half years). I don’t think one should take out a second mortgage to buy the thing, but guys, don’t be afraid to spend a little.
(And yes, girls, I’m only saying to get in your pants. While if you get engaged to me, your engagement party could double as a "farewell to orgasms" party, at least you’ll have a nice rock on your finger.)
But what piques my interest in all the engagement stories is this: How does the man physically, actually go about buying an engagement ring for his (potential) bride to be?
Historically, there have been two options:
1) He can purchase the ring with his lady. This ranges from the guy and girl actually hitting up jewelry stores, looking at rings, and perhaps even buying one together, to the guy unslyly prying information from his lady about her ring size and such, asking questions like, "Hypothetically, would you prefer a princess cut or an emerald cut?"
2) He can purchase the ring without his lady. The ranges from the guy asking his lady’s friends for hints and help about his lady’s tastes, to him boldly walking into a store, saying "Fuck it – I’ll take this one", and walking out with the ring.
Neither of these options are ideal. While the first is good because it allows for the fiancée’s input – she should have some input, since she’s gonna be the one wearing it – it takes all of the surprise about being engaged. Really, there are very few surprises in life (when your baby is born and you learn if it’s a girl or a boy or a halfie, when you get proposed to, when you girl/boy/halfie kid tells you it’s gay, etc), so why would you want to forsake one? And how lame is it for a girl to know what her ring is going to look like, or for her to answer questions about rings from her man on a daily basis for two weeks only to be promised to a month later? This is no fun. No fun at all.
By contrast, the second option allows for the element of surprise, no doubt. There’s nothing like you and your girlfriend, slogging along in your seemingly decades-old relationship, until one day she comes out of the shower and instead of finding you napping with a whiskey in your hand as she normally does, she finds your fat ass on bended knee with an engagement ring in your hand. Wowza. However, since you didn’t get any input from her about the ring, her surprise may give way to disgust when her rings looks like something you found on a beach somewhere or made with some broken glass and Elmer’s glue.
So what gives? Is it possible to combine both the element of surprise while still making an informed choice while purchasing a ring, guided by input from your fiancée?
There is. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you a third option, far superior to the other two: the Engagement Ring Dossier.
The Engagement Ring Dossier (the ERD) is literally a dossier, created by your lady, filled with all the relevant information that a man needs to know when purchasing an engagement ring. It can include all manner of materials; in addition to basics like ring size and preferred diamond cut, it can include pictures, diagrams, drawings, locations of preferred jewelers, do’s and don’ts, top ten lists, etc. Nothing must be considered understood, and every last detail should be covered (for example, do not assume, ladies, that your man is not going to somehow sneak a Philadelphia Eagles logo on the underside of the ring band). The ERD is supposed to be a self-contained unit, something a man with an IQ of 80 and the refinement of a bag of rusted springs can receive, digest, and take into a jewelry store to sit down with the jeweler to figure out the ideal ring.
You’re probably thinking, "Well, that doesn’t sound like there’s any surprise in that at all." My response to that is: Well, if you shut the fuck up for like fifteen seconds, I’ll get to that part.
Just as important as the content of the ERD is the manner in which it is created and handled. Obviously, if one were to ask for the ERD from his girlfriend and then propose two weeks later, all surprise is lost. Instead, the ERD should be approached thusly:
- Figure out if you love the girl you’re dating. If so, congrats.
- Figure out if you’re 80% or more sure you want to marry her. If so, congrats again. Two for two, bro.
- Pick a milestone: the next Valentine’s Day, her birthday, your anniversary, Christmas, the date you’re moving in together, etc.
- Six to eight weeks prior this milestone, say something like: "Honey, I love you. And someday – not someday soon, but someday – I want to marry you. Probably. Anyway, I want it to be a surprise, so here’s what I think we should do. In [six to eight] weeks, it’ll be [milestone]. Between now and then, I want you to collect some information for me about what kind of engagement ring you’d like. Include everything and anything, the more thorough – while still being readable – the better. Then, on [milestone], give me this dossier. That way, when we think we’re ready for marriage and I’m ready to propose – which may be months or years, several years – I’ll know exactly what kind of ring you’d like without having to ask you about it and spoil the surprise."
- On the date of the milestone, receive the dossier from your lady. Do it with her.
- Upon receipt of the dossier, explain that you will spend two weeks reviewing the information alone, making sure everything is understood.
- At the end of the two weeks, you and your lady should have a Q&A session, hammering out any unclear details.
- When this Q&A session is over, do it.
- Nice.
- Never mention the ERD again. Hide it someplace safe and only bring it out when you’re going to buy a ring.
This is all pretty simple stuff, but I urge you to make one thing abundantly clear: make sure it is understood that you will not be proposing any time immediately after receiving the ERD. Be sure to stress that a) you love her very much, but b) you’re not ready right now, and c) you want it to be a surprise, so d) this is the best solution, since you don’t want to be one of those couples that go shopping for rings, nor do you trust yourself with making such an important decision, especially regarding something that she’ll be wearing for the rest of her life. As long as this is understood, things should go smoothly with the ERD. Or she’ll bring up how much time you’ve spent on cumonmyglasses.com. If she does, you should probably end all talk of engagement. A good wife would never make you choose between her and women wearing glasses getting ejaculated upon. I mean, for real.
************
While my experience in getting engaged is limited to getting high, eating ice cream, watching "Love Actually" and then spending two hours looking on the Tiffany’s website, I think the Engagement Ring Dossier represents the ideal solution to the dilemma of ring buying. It maintains a high degree of surprise while allowing for maximum input from the future fiancée. I’ve kicked this idea around to a few friends, men and women, and they all seem to think it’s a good idea too. Of course, many of them also seem to think it’s a good idea to loan me money, but that’s neither here nor there. When I’m ready to get engaged, I’m going with the ERD approach. And I encourage you to do the same.
(Now, if I could only find a woman. Preferably one who wears glasses and isn’t afraid of a little spooge.)
[Below is the monthly email, which went out today. Normally I won't post the monthly emails on here, but since this one was a long time coming, well, here we are. If you want to get the monthly emails in the future, sign up on the right. If you didn't get it, check your spam account (I mean, the whole thing is about blowjobs, for Christ's sake) or use a non-work email address. If you like it, pass it on and convince others to sign up. We're going to start an army.]
[And yes, I know the email is long, even by my standards. But I stand by it. Print it out and read it while you poop. And don't pretend like you're too busy to read it at work anyway.]
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Jean-Paul Sartre, famed French choreographer and bigot, once wrote that the purpose of gift-giving is to enslave the recipient. That is, to give a gift is to imbue the recipient with a sense of obligation to someday return the favor or otherwise respond in kind. In this way, there is no true sense of generosity; every perceived act of generosity is merely a ruse, an unconscious act of self-interest. We give gifts to others in order, ultimately, to get what we want.
Eight hundred years after Sartre wrote these words, the modern woman has applied this exact sentiment to the act of giving blowjobs.
*******
My father, before he stopped speaking with me over a disputed case of fireworks, taught me three things:
1) Life is short and difficult; cigarettes, they help.
2) Never get a tattoo from a Mexican man, no matter how well he sings (and he will sing well).
3) There is no such thing as a free blowjob.
At the time, I didn’t know what he was talking about. This is probably because I was five years old and didn’t know what a blowjob was. Also, growing up in a segregated Irish-Catholic neighborhood in South Philly, Mexicans were about as real to me as vampires. But as I grew older, I grew to understand and appreciate his advice. And nowhere did it ring as true as in his dire warning about blowjobs.
Subsequently, I have made it my life’s work to study both the psychology and the physiology (or better, physical nature or physicality) of fellatio. I knew from the first that this is the reason that I was put on earth. I will never forget the day I got my first blowjob. It was a Sunday – October 21, 2007. The story of my first is a long and involved one, but basically my buddy Site Guy Brendan and I were hanging around my apartment, each with a terrible hangover. Brendan looked at me and said, “Hey, what do you think about me giving you a beejer?” I said, “Sure, let’s do it.” I was then fellated. So I guess it’s not really that long of a story. Funny, it sounded much longer in my head. Whatever.
Since that fateful day, I have spent a substantial amount of time and effort – not to mention over $300 – researching blowjobs. In sooth, I did not know what I aimed to find when I started my research. But over the days and weeks, I allowed my findings to take me in different directions, to explore new angles, and to cause me to become addicted to masturbating with my knuckle in my ass. To say it has been a roller coaster would be an understatement of the grossest variety.
But now, because my funds are running low and my testes are no longer able to produce semen (instead emitting a shot of hot air from my urethra in lieu of ejaculate), I have decided that my research has come to an end and I am ready to share my findings with the world.
*******
Though it came as a surprise to me, I found quickly that it is common knowledge that a woman will only provide oral sex in offer to profit directly. This profit can take various forms, whether it is a general goal like bettering her position in the relationship, or something more tangible, like getting a new pair of earrings or a new doll or, I don’t know, whatever it is women want.
In the course of my research I interviewed numerous women, men and a half-man, half-horse. Though they came from various backgrounds, were of different ages, and had dissimilar occupations, the answer to this question – for females, "Why do you give oral sex?"; for males, "Why do you think women give oral sex?" – was nearly universally the same: to either manipulate or placate.
Because of this, I am able to surmise that, psychologically, blowjobs exist as a tool for advancement, a contrivance to level or otherwise alter the power dynamic in the relationship between the person giving the beejer and the person receiving it. Philosophically, each blowjob represents another deposit in the bank of karma that will be withdrawn at a later time. Pragmatically, it’s more akin to “Well, I’m drunk enough and if I suck him off now, I can probably go shopping with Linda tomorrow – so here goes nothing.”
Thus having dispensed with the psychology behind blowjobs, it is time to turn our attention to the physical aspect of beejers.
*******
Before I begin, please note that my findings do not take into account homosexual men who give blowjobs or the occasional straight guy who had a little too much to drink and wound up with his buddy’s penis in his mouth (even though we’ve all been there). My intention was to include these groups, but because of an unfortunate event involving a bisexual uncle and something I later learned is called a “gloryhole,” that idea was quickly abandoned.
I have divided women who give blowjobs into five groups based on their approach and execution of fellatio. I would be remiss if I didn’t first mention that there is a sixth group that differs so much from the other five that it must be treated and examined in an almost entirely separate discourse.
In my research I discovered, again to my surprise, that there are very few women who enjoy putting a man’s penis in their mouth, lolling it around, and bringing it to climax. However, such women do exist – though they may be more difficult to find than a black man who has read The Aeneid in the original. I have named this category of women, for classification purposes, Keepers. Keepers enjoy providing oral sex and will often do so at only the slightest suggestion (i.e. after two glasses of pinot grigio at your cousin’s high school graduation barbeque). While Keepers still may provide oral sex only to gain an advantage, the sheer frequency, volume and intensity of the blowjobs make any attempt at manipulation forgivable. Simply put, she works hard for her money. So you’d better treat her right.
And now, the five approaches of women who give blowjobs, with famous examples of each to help further understanding.
Category One: The Penisphobe
For you non-Classicists, phobos is the Greek word for "phobia" and penis is the English word for "penis." Literally, as the name implies, the Penisphobe is afraid of the penis.
The good news is that this fear is not so great that the Penisphobe will not give blowjobs. Rather – and this is the bad news – the fear of the Penisphobe manifests itself in inadequate oral sex sessions which eventually become so much trouble that it’s not even worth it; a whole evening at a John Mayer concert for a fifteen second hummer is hardly a fair trade. The blowjobs of the Penisphobe are often short and lack thoroughness and rarely result in the recipient’s climax, unless said recipient has spent all day getting riled up watching women’s volleyball.
The worst part of the penisphobia affliction is that the Penisphobe is often aware of and even celebrates her condition, constantly complaining to her friends and lovers how much she dislikes giving head for myriad reasons ranging from “You pee out of that thing” to “It’s just gross.” But again, this does not stop her from giving blowjobs completely. Thus, the Penisphobe approaches oral sex as one might approach paying taxes; unfortunately, she must do it, and do it with some frequency, lest her assets be seized.
There is no single, root cause for penisphobia, but studies suggest that there is a single cure. Fear is an innate emotion that is a direct response to a particular stimulus. The only way to conquer fear is repeated exposure to this stimulus. Therefore, if your partner suffers from penisphobia, you must encourage her to fellate you as often as possible. I have found that bribery often works (i.e. fellatio in exchange for watching “Grey’s Anatomy” as opposed to college basketball) as does verbal encouragement (i.e. “Man, you really know how to handle a bird” or “Holy crap – this feels better than Christmas” and the like). The Penisphobe can, with hard work, be cured.
Famous Examples of Penisphobes: Jennifer Lopez, Renee Zellweger, Jenna Bush, one of the two chicks in Abba
Category Two: The One Who Has Tunnel Vision in Matters of the Penis and Surrounding Area
What many women fail to realize is that there is so much more to the male genital region than just the penis. While the penis is undoubtedly the main attraction, in the act of fellatio the woman should also take into consideration the scrotum, the testes, and the grundle (called by numerous names – taint, chode/choda, gooch – this is the space between the scrotum and the heinie hole). Approaching a blowjob by focusing exclusively on the penis and neglecting these areas is like lighting fireworks with your toes. And yes, I realize that doesn’t make much sense, but I couldn’t come up with anything else.
What many women also fail to realize is that like lovemaking, oral sex requires foreplay. When giving blowjobs, women routinely forsake romance and maximizing pleasure of their man for the sake of efficiency. They adopt a “You’re lucky you’re even getting one in the first place” mentality, put the penis in their mouth, and try to wrap up the deed as quickly as possible. This is equal parts selfish and sad.
(Author’s Note: There is no need to point out the irony of this criticism coming from someone whose art of seduction goes: 1) Start kissing; 2) Count to 100; 3) Stick it in.)
This group (for our purposes, Tunnel Visioners) is the largest of the five groups. One of the reasons why so many women are Tunnel Visioners is that, like their cousins the Starlets (discussed below), they have no idea that they are giving an improper blowjob. In practice, the Tunnel Visioner can often bring a man to climax with frequency. Therefore, they consider themselves good at giving head. But there is a difference between “good” and “good enough”; the Tunnel Visioner is content with the latter while misbelieving she is the former.
A common and easily curable cause for Tunnel Vision is that the woman simply doesn’t know any better. That is, perhaps she was previously involved with a lover of less refined tastes whom she routinely brought to climax, and so she therefore never bothered to explore the Mysteries and Crevasses of the Male Genital Region. If this is the case, a simple suggestion may be all it takes to right the ship and steer a course to happy and successful blowjobs. Many women who suffer from Tunnel Vision go on to have successful blowjob careers and blow lots and lots of dudes – my ex-girlfriend Cheryl comes to mind. Maybe even three dudes in one night in Cancun (Cheryl, I’m looking in your direction). Maybe even two dudes on the plane ride back from Cancun (Cheryl, again…I’ll stop now).
On the other hand, another cause of Tunnel Vision is either laziness or disgust with the other parts of the male genital area. To combat this, I would suggest adopting a strategy similar to dealing with the Penisphobe: encouragement, encouragement, encouragement. Generally speaking, the best recourse to address problems in the bedroom with your partner is open dialogue. Therefore, saying something to the effect of, “You know, I really like the way you give blowjobs, but I’m wondering what it would feel like if you put both my balls in your mouth while wearing a ski mask” might work wonders for someone who is involved with a Tunnel Visioner. And if your partner resists such gentle suggestions because she finds the other areas of the male genital region disgusting, you can always point out to her that since she recently stopped going to the gym, having sex with her doggystyle is getting uncomfortably similar to fucking a peanut butter and jelly sandwich crushed between two watermelons.
Famous Examples of Tunnel Visioners: My ex-girlfriend Cheryl (whore), Salt, Michelle Pfeiffer, Paul Stanley of the rock group Kiss
Category Three: The Semenphobe
Semen, like the Amazon rainforest, MySpace, and Brooklyn Decker, is truly one of greatest miracles of God’s creation. In this sticky, faintly bleachy-smelling goo, we have the source of all life on earth. Yes, that glop that you stomp down the drain after a quick jerk when you’re showering at your parents’ house is responsible for nearly everything on the planet (give or take).
Unfortunately, there are a number of women who view semen not as the magic potion that it is, but rather as the scourge of existence – or at least, the scourge of sex. In part, I can understand this; the fear of pregnancy is on the minds of many women, including many of the women in my study (and the half-man, half-horse). But this fear is unfounded in terms of oral sex. Though I only went to medical school for one year, I do remember something about not being able to get pregnant by swallowing sperm. So as an expert on the subject, I can tell you, ladies, with 100% certainty that you have zero chance of getting pregnant by consuming ejaculate at the conclusion of a blowjob. So, cheers (or slainte or skol or salude or whatever you feel comfortable with).
The other reason for semenphobia is the “nastiness” of the semen. I admit, just as many of the man in the study admitted, that there is some truth to the view that semen is gross and a hassle. It doesn’t smell very nice, it’s gooey and clumpy, it stings when it gets in your eyes, and sometimes it gets stuck in your beard and you go to work and your co-worker’s like, “Mulgrew, what’s all over your beard, dude?” and you’re all like, “Um, uh, it’s, um, glaze…yeah, I had a donut this morning” and then he walks away and says “Jesus fucking Christ” under his breath. It can be a real pain to deal with.
But used and manipulated properly, semen can be a wonderful diversion in the bedroom. The cure for semenphobia, like the other fear-based techniques we’ve discussed, is exposure to the source of the fear. But note: this exposure should be taken slowly and in small increments, lest the damage to the Semenphobe be irreparable. It is not advisable to treat the Semenphobe with a “sink-or-swim” approach. Too much semen too quickly may result in you spending the rest of your relationship spooging on your sheets and/or floor. Treat the Semenphobe as you would someone who dislikes hot foods but are trying to turn on to Tabasco sauce – a little bit at first, for the thrill; a little bit more later, for the taste; and then finally a whole crapload, because it’s badass and it makes your eyes water.
(But of course we’re talking about semen, not hot sauce. Just wanted to make that clear.)
Famous Examples: Amy Winehouse, Francois Metterand, George Michael, Pepa
Category Four: The Starlet
Undoubtedly, drama is inherent in sex. This drama arises from the shared vulnerability at the very core of sex; two people, stripping themselves of both their clothes and their inhibitions, navigating together through the musty realm of lovemaking, towing the line between intimacy and vulgarity. Even the most seemingly meaningless sexual encounters are ripe with drama (i.e. “What’s his name again?” or “I hope she’s on the pill” or “This one time doesn’t make me gay, but the second one in the morning might”, etc.).
But this drama, based as it is in vulnerability, must be handled delicately. This is where the Starlet errs.
The Starlet approaches each blowjob as if she were starring in her very own pornographic movie. At face value this sounds wonderful (really, really wonderful), but the Starlet lacks the talent and tools to live up to the hype she’s creating while fellating.
The Starlet is about style, not substance. She doesn’t understand that all the moans, dirty talk, and other flashy elements do not a good blowjob make. Her frequent and unabashed use of words like “cock” and “cum” and, in my case, “I don’t know why I feel so drunk and tired,” are often employed to mask a mediocre blowjob.
The best blowjob I received in the course of my research came from a girl who didn’t say a word. She was a like a ninja of fellatio, stunning me with a rapid succession of moves and maneuvers, making me feel alternatively euphoric and frightened. And before I could even get my bearings, it was all over. I remember it starting, I remember feeling like I was dying, and then I remember laying in my bed, a tear in my eye and a bag of potato chips in my hand. At the other end of the spectrum, I received a blowjob from a woman who, immediately prior to commencing her penile assault, said, “Jason Mulgrew, get ready for the best blowjob of your life!” While it was not nearly the best blowjob of my life, it was certainly unforgettable; she treated my penis like a piece of chum. I will carry those teeth marks with me for some time. (In these examples, the former was a Keeper, the latter, a Starlet.)
Starlets are difficult to cure. Because they invest so much and take such pride in their drama, they are often highly sensitive to suggestions on how to improve their performance. There is nothing worse than a starlet with a shattered sense of self-confidence; say the wrong thing and you will be punished with a lifetime of reassuring her that yes, she’s doing a great job and yes, of course you like it when she starts speaking in that made up language that you guess is supposed to sound like French or turn you on or something.
The best way to cure a Starlet is to rise to the occasion and become a Starlet yourself. Suggest that you dabble in role-playing; you play the part of the guy getting head and she the part of the girl who just shuts up for two goddamn minutes and gives a decent blowjob for once. If you need something a little more subtle, maybe she can be the deaf-mute girl and you her sign language teacher. Or perhaps she can be a mime and you, I don’t know, a guy who likes to get blowjobs from mimes. The possibilities are only limited by your imagination.
Famous Examples: Jessica Alba, Sarah Silverman, Representative Barney Frank (D-MA), that girl who nearly bit my penis off.
Category Five: The Abstainer
This is the most confounding group of all. These women simply do not give blowjobs. They are not to be trifled with and, if the laws of your state allow, should be thrown into the nearest river or body of water.
This is all there is to say about Abstainers.
Famous Examples: Jennifer Love Hewitt. What a cold, cold bitch. That’s the last time I take her to a wedding.
*******
Sex, as in vaginal intercourse, is undoubtedly pleasurable, but its primary purpose is procreation. We have intercourse, basically speaking, to create. However, oral sex, because it cannot result in procreation, in its nascent and purest form is strictly about the giving and receiving of pleasure. Unfortunately, throughout the course of the centuries, due to the rise of the diamond trade, the existence of Prada bags, and the release of Complete Series of “Sex in the City” on DVD, the blowjob has degenerated from its venerable position as fun and fundamental part of sex to instrument for manipulation and advancement.
But all is not hopeless. The Prophet sayeth, “It is well to give when asked, but it is better to give when unasked.” Through positive reinforcement, sensitivity, and not a small amount of white wine and/or cosmopolitans, it is possible to affect a fundamental shift in the nature of the blowjob, both psychologically and physically. But this change will not come without action, a proactive approach to fellatio. And so I ask you, brothers and sisters, to act. There is no reason that men and women can not work together to maximize the pleasure of the blowjob for both parties, to get the blowjob back to its roots: something that is bestowed by a woman (or man) onto a man for the sake of pleasure, pure and simple.
And – my god. Holy crap. Zoot alor. However you want to say it, this place is fucking legit. The food was so incredibly good it was almost uncomfortable, an experience bordering on "sensual" – three grown men, moaning after bites of food, throwing their heads back and smacking their hands on the table in stifled awe – an experience that should probably not be shared between a father and his two sons. It was the culinary equivalent of getting a handjob in the same champagne room in which your dad is getting a lap dance in one corner and your brother has his wallet halfway into the dancer to your left.
The occasion for this dinner was my dad’s birthday. In October, my dad turned 52. My brother and sister and I asked him what he wanted for his birthday and he said new seat covers for his truck. I could have probably guessed that one; every present I’ve gotten for my father since I was old enough to understand gift-giving has involved his car or truck, tools, or cigarettes (and recently, guns). However, at 52, after all the cartons of Marlboro Reds, circular saws, and luxury car washes, he’s probably running out of ideas for gifts that represent manliness. Next year, I’ll have to get him a picture of a man punching another man or a lion in the face, smoking a cigarette, and building a shelving unit. Because I’m seriously running out of ideas too.
Despite the new seat covers, I wanted to buy him a nice steak. Once a month, my friend Nicole and I, rich young sexy well-read New Yorkers (one of us, at least), go out to a fancy dinner and drop $250 on steak and whiskey (for me) and non-steak and martinis (for her). I was raving about one of these dinners when my dad, who grew up as one of ten kids in a po’ Irish Catholic family in a three bedroom rowhome in South Philly, said the first time he had filet mignon was on his honeymoon – and it blew his mind. I may have cried a little after I heard that. I also may have ripped up some $20 bills, just because I can. Either way, since that conversation I’ve been trying to get my dad to come up to NYC for a nice steak, and his birthday provided a good excuse.
My brother tagged along as well, because I wanted to treat him to a celebratory dinner. My brother Dennis is infuriatingly smart and was recently accepted to his first law school, a school so good it would probably have me shot if I came within one hundred yards of its campus (and I’m pretty fucking smart). The good news is that in about five years I’m going to have a really sweet vacation home to crash at, so I’d better start being nice to him now. The bad news is that ten years from now I’m going to have conversations like:
My kid: "Daddy, why does Uncle Dennis wake up before noon, shave every day, and not cry after dinner?"
Me: "YOU KEEP YOUR GODDAMN NOSE OUT OF MY BUSINESS! Now go fix Daddy his bloody mary – his stories are coming on."
My dad and brother arrived from Philly around 4pm on Saturday and I started drinking right away. My dad no longer drinks – let’s not ask about this, thanks – and my brother immediately took a nap on the couch. But that didn’t stop me from having four calming pints of Dead Guy Ale, a delightful beer from Portland, Oregon with a nice kick (seriously, the Beer Room at the Whole Foods on the Bowery is changing the way I live my life). We watched "Bad Santa" and by the time it was over, it was time to start primping and preening for the night. And I was already feeling pretty drunk. Off to Dylan Prime we went.
One of Dylan Prime’s advantages as a steakhouse threatened to be an obstacle for the dinner with my dad. So far as I can tell, my father eats only four things: red meat, pizza, potatoes, and cheerios. This is in no way an exaggeration and is a complete list of my dad’s diet; I have never seen him eat seafood, vegetables or even chicken (who the F doesn’t eat chicken?). But what I like about Dylan Prime is its non-traditional sides. For example, every steakhouse has potatoes, creamed spinach, etc. While Dylan Prime has those items, it also has several unique sides like prosciutto and parmesan bread pudding; sweet corn, lump crab and avocado risotto; and lobster and white truffle mac and cheese. While these sides are delicious – the corn, crab and avocado risotto might be one of three best things I’ve ever tasted in my life – I have a better chance of getting my dad to eat a baby arm than an avocado (at least the former is red meat).
But much to my surprise and delight, my dad was rather flexible with his tastes on this particular evening, in large part because of the encouragement of me and my brother. We started off with four appetizers: the lobster bisque, the goat cheese gnocchi (with lobster and crisp prosciutto in pesto broth), the scallops (with roasted sun chokes, broiled tomatoes and citrus sage sauce), and the pork belly tater tots (with apple cider veal stock reduction). I didn’t get to try the lobster bisque because my dad ate the whole thing. So I guess he got over his fear of seafood, or he otherwise thought it was a bowl of creamy looking ketchup. The goat cheese gnocchi was delicious but tantalizing; not only was it a small portion, but, as a fattie, I grew angry trying to eat it, as I tried in vain to get the doughy gnocchi, the moist lobster meat, and the crisp, hard prosciutto in every forkfull. When I succeeded, I was rewarded with a delicious and unique combination that makes my mouth water as I write this. But the process of eating it was like trying to teach a bear to sew. If no one was looking, I would have used my hands and been much happier doing so.
I like scallops, but I’ve always thought there’s only so much you can do with them, and the man who first wrapped one in bacon pretty much ended the discussion right then and there. Still, and despite the fact that studies have shown that I can eat up to 40 scallops in one sitting, these tasted delicious with my Manhattan. But it was the pork tater tots that blew me out of the fucking water. Delicate, juicy, tangy pork in a lightly fried coating, with the most lively sauce – the apple cider veal stock – I’ve had in some time. Each element complement each other perfectly. I rate food on a scale of bad, good, great, and WOW. This was a WOW food. If it’s possible to have sexual feelings for a tater tot, then I do, my friends. I do.
Next was the main course: 11oz filet for me, 11oz filet for my dad, and surf and turf for my brother (thanks again for that, Dennis). Like many steakhouses, Dylan Prime offers a choice of chapeaux, which is the French word for "stuff you can put on top of your steak," as well as side sauces (actually, it’s the French word for hat, I think). My brother and I went with the foie gras butter chapeaux and the bordelaise sauce, and my dad decided on the bacon and cheddar chapeaux with peppercorn sauce.
Um, yeah.
In either my sophomore or junior year of high school, my buddy Jim discovered something he called "the grundle button" (bear with me here). The grundle – also called the choada, choate, or taint – is the area between a man’s balls and his asshole. Jim discovered that while masturbating, if just before climaxing a man applies pressure to this area (thus, "pushes the grundle button"), the intensity of his orgasm is greatly increased. Every guy at the lunch table left school that day and went home to push his grundle button, including yours truly. I remember when I first tried it I was standing in the shower masturbating, and when I pushed the grundle button and climaxed, I nearly fell, fainted, right there in the shower. It still stands as one of the most powerful orgasms I’ve ever had; the only way I can describe it is that it felt like someone pushed the "reset" button on my whole body – my mind was completely wiped clean, I was without any conscious thought, and I may have actually lost consciousness for a millisecond or two. It was, very literally, breathtaking, and also very nearly an out of body experience. To this day, I push the grundle button, but it’s too intense for regular use. I will do it only on special occasions (my birthday, an especially good week at work, any time a girl is wearing a blouse and she moves a certain way so that the shirt stretches and I can see her boobies between the shirt’s buttons, etc). The goodness and intensity of your standard orgasm is more than enough for me for everyday use, thank you very much.
This is the best way to describe the effect that the foie gras butter chapeaux and the bordelaise sauce has on the filet mignon at Dylan Prime. By itself, the filet is a masterpiece, the zenith of culinary refinement, 11oz of juicy, tender meat, simmering on the plate and satiating the appetite. It is simply and totally delicious.
But when you add a healthy pat of foie gras butter, the richest, creamiest butter known to man, and the bordelaise sauce, so rich and smooth in itself, you are entering a world of delight that few human beings will ever experience. I have neither the store of superlatives nor the writing ability to articulate what this filet with foie gras butter and bordelaise sauce did to me as a diner, as a person, and, eventually, as a saint of the Catholic Church, except maybe to say that it felt like someone pushed the "reset" button on my whole body – my mind was completely wiped clean, I was without any conscious thought, and I may have actually lost consciousness for a millisecond or two. It was intense, supremely rewarding, and changed the way that I view life, people, trees, babies. I will live differently and I will live better having eaten this steak.
And my dad and brother felt the same way. It was during this main course that our table turned into the champagne room scene. We did not speak for twenty minutes, using only non-verbal phatic communication, grunts, gestures, eye rolls, fist pounds, and a well-placed "Wow" or "Oh my god" now and then to express our rapturous delight.
I suppose I should tell you about the sides, but to be honest I’m so emotionally drained from reliving this experience that I’m afraid I won’t do them justice. We ordered the prosciutto and parmesan bread pudding, the baby baked potatoes (with roasted garlic, parmesan cream sauce, bacon and chives), the creamed spinach, and the truffle corn and potato cakes, and, suffice it to say, all of them were excellent. (I was, however, devastated that the restaurant no longer offers the corn, crab and avocado risotto.)
I also suppose that I should tell you about the rest of the night. I wound up getting extremely drunk, the four beers before dinner, the two Manhattans at dinner, the beers in my apartment before going out, and the countless beers and shots I had with my brother and his friends all conspiring to leave me bereft of memory and destroy my Sunday. I woke up at 1:30pm on Sunday afternoon (it should have been 2:30pm, but for daylight savings time), in bed with my dress shirt and one (!) shoe on. I had five missed calls and eight missed text messages. Whoops. I was supposed to spend Sunday partying with my buddies, celebrating the NYC Marathon, Pats-Colts and then Eagles-Cowboys. Instead, I left my apartment once and may or may not have called my doctor to request a CAT scan, convinced my brain was hemorrhaging. So one of the Top Five Worst Hangovers of 2007 kept me couch-ridden on a huge party Sunday. Again, whoops.
But it was all worth it, since my dad and brother thoroughly enjoyed the meal. My brother said he couldn’t recall when, if ever, he had a meal that good (one more free weekend at the vacation home, baby!) and my dad actually said it was "the best birthday dinner ever" - and this without cigarettes, tools or his truck. Simply amazing. What’s more is that I convinced my dad that he should come up to NYC for dinner more often, so hopefully our steak dinners will become a regular thing.
(The foie gras butter chapeaux and the bordelaise sauce, however, I don’t think I can make that I regular thing. I don’t want to burn myself out, lest I wind up on the Bruckner Expressway sucking dick for sacks of White Castle burgers. I’m not saying this isn’t going to happen; just that I don’t think I want it to.)
[youtube]p2zRGQX2QLo[/youtube]
I don’t want you to think I’m making fun of a dead guy, because that shit just ain’t right. On the contrary, think about it this way: Robert Goulet was a successful entertainer in his day and age (not sure when that was, but whatever). So therefore he had fame and money and all that good stuff. Then, thanks to Will Ferrell, in one four-minute clip Goulet was introduced to an entirely new generation of people who had little idea of his existence; now if you shout "Goulet!" in any bar in any city in America and you’re sure to get a laugh. Not a bad way to go out, if you ask me.
Still, I’m dedicating this weekend’s drinking performance to Robert Goulet. Seeing as I haven’t been in NYC in three weekends, my dad is coming up for dinner on Saturday night, and Sunday is the NYC Marathon, Pats-Colts at 4pm and Eagles-Cowboys at 8pm, I will be doing Mr. Goulet proud.
[youtube]UmAHygrXc7s[/youtube]
Farewell, Robert Goulet. Though I hardly knew ye, you were a magnificent son of a bitch.
************
I did absolutely nothing for Halloween this year. I was in LA for the weekend and all my friends are deadbeats, so no Halloween costume or party for me this year. And I am completely ok with this.
What I’m not ok with is a realization that I had while walking home from work on Halloween and passing all the people in costumes, going out for a night on the town: I don’t think I’ve ever had sex with a woman while she wore a Halloween costume. Not once was I dating a girl who dressed as a slutty cat and later F’ed me. Never have I made love to a slutty witch. Hell, I’ve never even been fellated by a pumpkin.
I mean, is this just about the most terrible thing you’ve ever heard in your life? Poverty is bad, world hunger is terrible, and natural disasters suck, but we can’t do shit about those things. We can, however, make it possible for me to get laid on Halloween (I think). But I guess we’ll have to wait until next year for that.
Crap. Worst Halloween ever.
************
In response to my post about my cleaning lady and KY jelly, Fletch at Penn State writes:
You may have hooked up with a PostOp Transsexual. It is pretty rare that girls can’t lubricate naturally. Even if sometimes they can’t, how likely would it be that they carry around a bottle of lube. Post Op’s have to use lube when they have sex. It sounds like there is a very good chance you hooked up with someone who used to be a man. Sweet dreams.
Oh Fletch, you are such an adorable little college student. Believe me, bro, in my experience it is definitely not rare for a woman to be unable to lubricate naturally. Whether that has to do with a woman’s biology or the fact that hooking up with me is the sexual equivalent of throwing up New England clam chowder (and losing your iPod in the process), I’m not sure. But I am sure, at least 99.97% sure, that the girl that I hooked up with that night was not a PostOp Transsexual. Not that that wouldn’t make for a great story, and not that I’m ruling it out in the future, but it wasn’t the case this time.
(…)
(Come to think of it, I do remember feeling something like a ball down there. I think I may need to talk to someone about this.)
************
Six Bets
First, I want to quickly turn your attention to a trade I made in my main fantasy football league this week, in which I shipped Brett Favre, Fred Taylor and Ernest Graham out and received Joseph Addai. My team now is:
QB: Carson Palmer
QB: Derek Anderson (we start two QBs in this ten team league)
WR: Wes Welker
WR: Marvin Harrison
WR: Donald Driver
RB: Brian Westbrook
RB: Edgerrin James
TE: Ben Watson
WR/RB: Joseph Addai
K: The Pollack on the Pats
DEF: D of the Week; this week, Redskins vs. Jets
Yikes. Sure, I sacrificed some depth, but if Watson and Harrison get back to full health and Driver returns to Favre’s graces, that’s a team that could do some serious damage in the playoffs.
Onto the bets:
Bengals (+1) over BILLS
This line started Bengals -3 and swung four points to +1. That means heavy action on Bills early in week. People are stupid. I’ll take the Bengals.
VIKINGS (+6) over Chargers
My weekly contrarian pick: more action is going on SD than any other team in the NFL this week, so I’ll pick against the grain. Not far behind are the Redskins (-3.5 at the JETS) and the Cowboys (-3 at the EAGLES). I guarantee that two of these three underdogs will cover.
Texans (-3) over RAIDERS
My weekly no idea pick: this game has bettors more divided than any other, with about 51% going with the Raiders. The Texans made me look good the first three weeks of the season and bad the rest of the way. Still, I’m loyal.
BROWNS (-1.5) over Seahawks
I mean, how can you not root for the Browns?
Patriots (+6) over COLTS
I mean, like everyone else has been saying, I’ve never seen anything like these Patriots.
STEELERS (-9) over Ravens
I mean, the line’s a little high, but is it me or do the Ravens stink?
************
Six Songs
"Shout" De Novo Dahl
Thanks to Maggie for recommending my new MySpace profile song. What a happy, bitchin’ tune.
"Loving You’s The Dumbest Thing I’ve Ever Done" Reckless Kelly
Matt in Denver introduced me to this band and this genre of music, dubbed "y’alternative." I just think that’s adorable. This band has a number of good songs, but there’s not quite like a country ditty that says "Fuck off, woman."
"Holy Moly" Talib Kweli
It is my personal opinion that Talib Kweli is the best MC out there right now.
"Are You Alright" Lucinda Williams
What’s the opposite of uplifting? Downthrowing? If so, that’s what this song is. Jesus Christ, Lucinda – go have a girls’ night out or something.
"Boomerang" Black Lips
Nasty. Like getting repeatedly slapped in the face with a beat rag for two minutes.
"Never Ending Song of Love" Delaney & Bonnie & Friends
Here’s the plan: We’re going to bring all our instruments and all our pills and joints over to my place and we’re going to play and sing this song. Then we’re all going to do it. Sound good? Let’s say tonight at 10pm. See you there.
[Have a good weekend]
1) On Saturday, November 24 (that’s the Saturday of Thanksgiving weekend), I will be guest bartending from 8pm to 11pm at Mick-Daniel’s Saloon in South Philly at 2nd Street & Snyder Avenue. Mick-Daniel’s and I have a long history together. Not only is it my bar of choice when I’m back home, but I worked there all through high school, starting as a dishwasher, then as an assistant crab maker during all-you-can-eat crab night (back then, Thursday), and finally doing some short-order cooking. God, those were such simpler and less-hairy times. Masturbated like a crazy monkey, I did.
(Not at the bar. At home. Usually in my bedroom or in the basement. Just wanted to clear that up.)
So if you’re in the city of Philadelphia that weekend, stop by for a drink. As long as you ask for a bottled beer or a one mixer/one alcohol drink (i.e. vodka tonic, rum and coke, etc), we’ll be fine. Ask for something complicated and we’re going to have some problems. Serious, serious problems.
2) I know you’ve heard this before, so much so that I’m loathe to say it, but the "monthly" email is going out next week. Seriously. Site Guy Brendan has it and I have no further changes, so it’s all up to him (no pressure there, Brendan). It’s about blowjobs. It’s very long, so I apologize for that, but it’s an ideal read on the can. If you haven’t signed up, do so on the right. And if you like the email, pass it on. There will be one next month, too. I know you don’t believe me, but watch.
3) Finally, an important update regarding my book.
(Shhhh – everyone listen up.)
I told you guys that the book was to be released this fall and as you may have noticed, it’s already November – and not a peep about the book. This is because the book will not be released in the fall. As a matter of fact, I can’t tell you when exactly it will be released, except to say that it will definitely be released at some point. That, I can promise you.
The fact that it won’t be released this fall is good and bad news. Bad because, my god, I want this thing out already. I want a book tour and sex with strange women in strange cities. I want a book release party with free drinks. I want to grow my hair and beard to hippy length, smoke very long cigarettes, wear purple robes and say amazingly deep things, like, "There is love, and there is nothing; it is humankind’s greatest responsibility to make the correct choice", as people lying around me ohh and ahh and rub my private parts.
But it’s good because, believe it or not, it’s only making the book better. It’s a complicated situation that I can’t really get into, but despite the delay, I’ve been very happy with how everything has worked out and continues to work out, and pleased with the reactions and advice that everyone in this process has given me. I know that sounds like a bland, general, and legally-approved statement, but I hope you believe me when I say that I wouldn’t write that if it weren’t true. I’m happy. Maybe a little impatient, but happy.
I will continue to try to update you on the progress of the book, but the best thing you can do is…sign up for the email list. That’ll get you the blowjob email and any further book announcements as they become available. As I said before, your email will not be sold or otherwise tampered with, mostly because Site Guy Brendan and I don’t know how to do that. If we did, you’d be in trouble. Serious, serious trouble.
Two Sundays ago, I went shooting with my dad.
I don’t know if my dad would consider himself a gun enthusiast, but that’s probably because he’d think that sounds kinda gay. However, my dad is definitely a gun owner. I wrote on this here site that for Father’s Day, we bought my dad a new .380 Beretta automatic, which is a fine-looking piece of weaponry (read: it’s shiny and makes me feel like I have to poo when I look at it). This gift followed on the heels of last Christmas, when my brother, sister and I got my dad a membership at the local firing range. Yes, this is a man who’s been stabbed, arrested for attempted murder, and is currently on an egregious amount of painkillers. But when you find the perfect gift, it puts a smile on everyone’s face, doesn’t it?
Both my brother and sister had been to the firing range before with my dad. My brother, I can see – he’s kinda angry and looks like a handgun guy (I know this sounds like it doesn’t make much sense, but the people reading this right now who know my brother are thinking, "You know what? He does seem kinda like a handgun guy"). My sister, however, is about five feet tall and weighs a hundred pounds. Maybe it’s because of her diminutive size, but she likes the firing range possibly even more than my brother. So to recap, my little sister and my younger brother love shooting guns. Meanwhile, I spend at least two hours a day thinking about what I’m going to say in my wedding vows, and usually start crying around the 15 minute mark. I don’t know if I’m adopted or just a total pussy. Probably a bit of both.
I was back home in Philly on this particular weekend for my high school reunion (which we’ll hopefully talk about some other time) when my dad asked if I wanted to go the firing range with him. My life to this point has been about befuddling my dad; I was going to use the word disappointing, but I think befuddling is a better fit. While it’s true that my dad is certainly disappointed that I’m not especially tough, not good at fixing things, and that I don’t have any tattoos, he’s more so confused that I read for fun and happy that I don’t live in his basement or ask him for money. So he’s not disappointed in me, just befuddled.
But when he asked me to go to the firing range, I seized upon the opportunity to show him that maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t such a pussy after all. This wasn’t like we were going hunting, which would require being in (relatively) good shape and murdering an animal. All I had to do was shoot at a piece of paper ten feet in front of me and not kill myself or anyone else in the process. That, I could handle. And I think this was the most my dad could have hoped for when he asked me. So I said, sure, let’s do it.
My buddy Kyle joined us for this gun-shooting adventure, as when I told him the idea he begged to tag along. Before going to the range, my dad went up to his bedroom to get his six (!) handguns, all of which we would shoot at the range, for a short tutorial. One by one, he laid them out on his dining room table in front of us.
The only way that I can describe it is that seeing a handgun in person for the first time is like seeing a vagina in person for the first time. You think you’re prepared for it and think think that you’ll know what to do when the time comes, but when it’s sitting right in front of you and all you have to do is touch it, you freeze up, become terrified, suddenly realize that for all you’ve seen of it on tv, you have no idea how to go about making it work. Also, when seeing the guns for the first time, Kyle fainted – which is exactly what happened the first time he saw a vagina (trust me, I was there).
My dad has two revolvers, a .22 (similar to this one) and a .38 (kinda like this one). He also has three other automatics, a .22 and two .32s, which all sort of look like this. And of course, the Beretta we got him for Father’s Day. Not especially intimidating guns, but legit and poo-inducing nonetheless.
Picking up one of the .32 automatics, two things immediately struck me. The first was that guns are really heavy. The second thing was FUCK WITH ME MOTHER FUCKER AND I’LL KILL YOUR WHITE ASS, YOU COCKSUCKER HONKEY-ASS BITCH!!!! Unlike the first time I touched a vagina, an experience that made me queasy, insecure, and not so sure I’m 100% straight, picking up a gun made me feel like a man, a real fucking man, a man who will fuck you up if you cross him, who will take out his gun and beat you with it in public, a man who after doing so will grab your girls’ tits on his way out of the bar and expose his giant penis to everyone. Fuck yeah. Once we had them in our hands, neither me nor Kyle could pay any attention to my dad’s tutorial. We just wanted to shoot some shit.
(Also, picking up the gun apparently made me a racist black man. Whatever. I was just rolling with it.)
Things only got better – and by "better" I mean "totally and completely empowering and bonerizing" – at the firing range. My dad showed us how to load the two revolvers, simple six shooters that I had seen in countless Westerns and 80′s cop shows, and lined me up to shoot the smaller .22. After the first shot, I was kind of disappointed; though the .22 revolver had a long nozzle (or nose or front part or whatever it’s called), it’s pop was surprisingly light, feeling more like a glorified bb gun than a revolver. Still, the rush of seeing the fire and smoke explode was palpable; I could have sworn my penis had grown by an inch after I finish firing off the first six shots.
Asking for a little more juice, my dad gave me the .38 revolver, with a shorter nozzle but more weight. I lackadaisically aimed this gun at the target it, fired it – and it’s a miracle that the fucking thing didn’t fly out of my hand. This mother fucker had some serious kick; the pow after firing that first shot made my whole body tense and fill with power. I’m currently weighing in at about 205 and firing this guy felt like being seriously pushed by someone, instilling the same amount of anger as well. This is what I was talking about.
We spent about an hour there, shooting the shit out of various targets. As it was both mine and Kyle’s first time, we were not quite marksmen; my dad now calls Kyle "Seven O’Clock Kyle," since all of his hits were grouped at seven o’clock on the target bulls eye. By contrast, I shot pretty well, save for a few times with the lighter automatics that I fired off several shots in a row in quick succession, which is awesome but ruins accuracy (firing quickly is also frowned on in the range). Still, I think my dad was proud of my ease and comfort level with the gun, which wasn’t quite natural but was not unnatural either. That’s a win in my book.
************
Now I want to make something abundantly clear: Though going to the firing range was an awesome (in the most literal sense) experience, not only because shooting guns is cool but because I may have found something that both my dad and I enjoy aside from trading insults about the Philadelphia Eagles, I am still not pro-gun. My dad has been saying for some time that I should get a "nice little piece," but I don’t even have to tell you all how much of a terrible idea this is. My friends and I drink so much for such long periods of time in my apartment that it’d be a matter of weeks before there was some sort of "The gun just went off" incident. If I were to buy a gun and keep it in my apartment, I could never have any ammunition at my place to prevent any injury. And while the thought of relaxing in the bath and reading a book, with a glass of wine and a unloaded revolver sitting on the ledge of the tub, sounds so appealing it’s almost sexual, there’s really no point in buying a gun if you’re only going to bathe with it and not use it.
(I think.)
Still, next time I’m back in Philly, you can bet that me, my dad, and Seven O’Clock Kyle are hitting up the firing range. Having not shot anyone in the arm, severely burned by chest, or exploded my local supermarket, my dexterity with guns already surpasses my dexterity with vaginas, so the sky’s the limit from this point forward.
(And I am going to get so much Sea Thai tonight that someone might get hurt.)
Speaking of traveling, I feel like I’ve picked on the city a lot, but here’s my final word on LA: If you go to Los Angeles to find an attractive mate, you’ll be fine. The city is crawling with people who are very good-looking, very fit and very tan. It’s astonishing, really, like there’s some sort of physical challenge involved to move into certain zip codes and to get into certain bars. Almost by default, you’re eventually going to fuck someone very good-looking. It’s just a numbers game.
However, if you go to Los Angeles to find someone who reads the newspaper or is even vaguely familiar with the concept of a "newspaper," you are in trouble. Serious, serious trouble.
Newspaper reader: "Hey, did you read that sleep study article in yesterday’s New York Times?"
LA Resident: [squints eyes, gives confused look] "Squats?"
NR: "No, um, there was an article about sleep in the Times. Did you catch it?"
LA Res: [tilts head, flexes triceps] "Delts?"
NR: "No, an article. A series of words that tells a story, argues a point or otherwise provides information. In a newspaper. Black and white things, ink on paper. I guess you didn’t read it?"
LA Res: [seven seconds of silence] "Fag."
[LA Resident goes off to crush pussy and high five.]
Seriously, if you can’t fuck it, bench press it, or put it in a shot glass and drop it into a half pint glass of Red Bull, I don’t think these people are aware of its existence.
Of course, this isn’t to say that there aren’t intelligent, weak people (like me) in LA. I guess they’re just too afraid to leave their apartments (like me), so they spend their time drinking Bud bombers in the privacy of their own homes (like me) and judging people more fit and good-looking than they are, assuming that muscle mass is always inversely proportionate to brain power (oh my god, this one is totally like me).
And that’s not to say that all muscley/fit/tan people in LA are morons and/or dicks. One of the most fun nights I had recently in LA involved hanging out with a cool dude who happened to be so jacked that he sneezed and actually knocked me out for forty minutes. I still don’t know what happened. But I know it hurt. A lot. Really nice guy, though.
[Note that I'm talking less about the "industry" type people who inhabit Hollywood and the surrounding area and more about the Santa Monica/South Bay types. There is a huge difference between the wannabe actor who lives in studio on Sunset and will talk your ear off at a bar discussing his various "roles" and the guy who lives in an apartment in Hermosa with four of this frat brothers and works in sales because sales gives him ample to time lift and dip.]
But my goodness, what a fascinating city. At the start of my bicoastal experiment [insert gay joke here] back in July, I told y’all LA was auditioning for me, that I was contemplating moving there and might just do so if I continued to be enamored with the city. But after living there, day in and day out for a week or more per month for the last few months…no way. I could certainly move there, and I’d enjoy the weather, having a car, the Mexican food, and walking down the street gawking at some of the hottest/plasticist women on earth. But if I did move there, I’d need either a dog or a girlfriend, because otherwise I would undoubtedly be the loneliest man in the city. I like my friends ugly, my beer canned, my gym equipment dusty, and my VH1 Classic always on. LA, this ain’t.
I’m glad to be back.
When I think about it, I really don’t need a cleaning lady. For a 28 year old man, I’m pretty neat; for a 28 year old man covered in hair, I’m so extraordinarily neat that I should probably see a therapist. I keep my apartment in order because of my slight OCD – I feel genuinely more relaxed when my dishes are clean, when my coffee table is neat, when my clothes are put away, and when all my electronic devices (iPod, cell phone, blackberry, beard/back hair/pube trimmer) are fully charged. This honestly helps me sleep better at night.
(Well, that and the Xanax, which I unfortunately think my body is growing immune to. Next stop on the "I’ll Suck Dick for Sleep" Train: Vicodin Junction.)
But while my apartment is neat, it’s not especially clean. I’m good at maintaining the appearance of order in my home, but I don’t like the nitty gritty. I’m not into, say, dusting. I’ll never say to myself, "You know what? I’m gonna drink a couple of vodka red bulls, grab a bottle of Fantastik and a roll of paper towels, and just go fucking nuts in my kitchen." Though I like the appearance of a made bed, I hate and have always hated making the bed, a useless exercise considering the bed’s just going to get messed up in a few hours (also, it’s a pain in the ass to make a bed). The first time I used a mop in my apartment was a few months back when my toilet exploded, spewing feces and toilet water all over my floor. Prior to that, my floor looked nice because there were no splotches of spaghetti sauce or empty beer cans on it. But in reality it wasn’t clean, as it was covered in a fine, nearly invisible layer of film composed of sweat, Zima, a little bit of semen, and not a small amount of glaze.
This is where Zoila comes in. For $75 every two weeks, Zoila takes care of the nitty gritty. She cleans my kitchen sink and stove, removing the burners and washing them down. She pours Comet all over the bathtub and scrubs until it’s immaculate. She dusts off the lamp and night table in my bedroom and makes the surface of my desk clean enough to eat off of. She does not fuck around.
Like me, Zoila also has a touch of OCD. Whenever I know she’s coming, I’ll sort of let things go a bit and my place will fall into a (very) mild state of disarray. But then I’ll come home on Monday evening and find my coffee table, hours before covered with a scattering of mail, books, magazines and other junk, completely organized. On the left side of the coffee table, she’ll stack my magazines, largest on the bottom in ascending order. To the right is the books, and to the right of the books is the mail, all stacked in order with the largest book/piece of mail on the bottom, the smallest on top. If I have loose change laying around, she’ll stack the coins left to right in order of value: one stack of quarters, another of dimes, and so on. She even does this with guitar picks: a stack of brown picks, a stack of red, a stack of blue.
Zoila is also adorable. When she calls to say she’s coming, even though we have a set schedule of every other Monday, she leaves me long voicemails calling me "Mr. Jason" and wishing me a good weekend. When she’s finished cleaning my apartment, she leaves me little notes saying that she hopes she did a good job and she looks forward to coming again, wishing me a happy week. She’s also about 4’8" tall and I have no idea if she’s 22 or 42.
For these and other reasons, I love Zoila. It is not a sexual love, even though my little Panamanian princess is actually kinda cute. It’s…I don’t know what it is, really. In part, she’s kind of motherly, since she cleans up after me. So there’s that. In another way, there is (or was) an element of pity. Since I’m a horrible racist, I used to have an elitist attitude, like, "Look at me! I have a cleaning lady! What a success I am! My cleaning lady is from a Mexico-type country! I’m awesome!" So I felt this bit of pity for her, having to clean up after this fat white guy who burns through all the money that he makes. But the more I thought about it, I realized that she has a pretty good thing going on. She originally told me it would take her 3 hours to clean my apartment each day, so we settled on $75. In actuality, it takes her about an hour to clean my place (I know this because one day I was off work, let her in, left the apartment, came back a little over an hour later and my apartment was clean and she was gone). $75 – cash – for an hour’s work is not bad, and I was referred to her by a lawyer at my firm, so I’m sure she has more than a few well-to-do clients. Maybe I’m the one who should be pitied.
But it’s a strange dynamic, and I can say that I’m definitely not myself when it comes to Zoila. I have a friend whose family had a cleaning lady growing up and each time before the maid came, her mother told her and her brother, "Alright kids, let’s clean up for the maid!" While it’s not quite like that in my case, I certainly straighten up a little bit before Zoila comes. And I also try to protect her from my more deviant tendencies and the mess that results from them. For example, I masturbate into my boxers with the tenacity of a mental patient. There is so much semen in my boxers in my laundry bag that I would not be surprised if one day I came home and there was a half-Jason/half-boxers baby in my closet, crying out about fantasy sports, PBR and titties. When I first met her, Zoila offered to do my laundry, which I vehemently declined. I can’t have Zoila touching my semen boxers. Shit ain’t right. This is also the reason I take great pains to hide my any pornography and discard any used condoms for Zoila. I would never let her virgin eyes see such depravity.
The point is that the relationship I have with Zoila is unique, like nothing else in my life. On the one hand, she takes care of me, which engenders my trust. On the other, she’s a complete stranger in my home when I’m not there, something I tend to forget when I see her cute little notes. But either way, she makes me want to be a better man – a cleaner man, a more respectful man, a man less obsessed with inseminating his apartment.
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I was thinking about Zoila as I walked home from work yesterday. It was Monday, so I knew she had been in my apartment earlier that morning, cleaning it for me. As I walked along, I thought about how happy it made me to come home to a sparkling apartment and how that $75 every two weeks was worth it. I decided that come Christmas time, I would definitely give her a bonus or something. I may have even fallen in love with her a little bit, looking forward as I did to the note that she surely left me.
When I got home, I turned on the lights in my place, looked onto my neat-as-ever coffee table, but couldn’t see her friendly little note. This made me frown a little bit, but I figured that maybe Zoila was busy and didn’t have time to write me a note. Not a big deal.
I went into the room that serves as my office and got changed and ready for some serious feeding. As I walked into the living room, I passed my bedroom to admire my freshly-made bed. And that’s when I saw it.
Neatly piled on my nicely made bed were four condoms (unused, in their wrappers). On top of the wrappers was a tube of KY jelly.
So, ok.
I stopped in my tracks and stared at the pile of sex paraphernalia on my bed. The condoms, I recognized. They were the purple Durex ones that I’ve been rocking for some time on the advice of a buddy and condom guru who suggested I switched from the light blue Trojans. The KY was another matter. I did not own a bottle of KY jelly. So why was it on my bed? More specifically, why did my cleaning lady put condoms and KY in the middle of my neatly made bed? Was this some sort of cryptic message? Some old Panamanian curse?
After a few deep breaths and a glass of water, I calmed down enough and started to put it all together.
Many moons ago, I brought home a lady to my apartment in the hopes of getting her to make love to me – or at least in the hopes of getting her hand to make love to my penis. As you might imagine, any lady willing to come back to my apartment, even under the influence of a serious amount of hard alcohol, has questionable morals. But following the axiom about beggars unable to be choosers, morals aren’t a necessity for me. Breath, hole. That’s about all I need to make something work. And the former…eh.
(God, that last part kinda grosses me out a bit. Just for the record.)
But the morals of this lady were especially questionable, I think. It was apparent that in the course of our fooling around (read: me coughing, apologizing, then asking her to describe all of her childhood Halloween costumes – slowly and in detail) that I was incapable of arousing her very much. For this, I don’t blame her. Not at all. And I’m used to it, since it happens fairly frequently. But what doesn’t happen often is the unaroused lady reaching into her purse and pulling out…a tube of KY jelly.
The only thing I will further say about this whole incident is that guys, if a lady you bring home whips a tube of KY out of her purse, well, you probably don’t want to go asking for her ring size right away. There are a few sexual dealbreakers for me, meaning a few things that a woman can do to make sure that we may do it (and do it more than once) but we will never date. Carrying a bottle of KY in your purse is one of these dealbreakers, as is having had the hair lasered off your coochie (if you’re taking a laser to your coochie, it probably means that a lot of people are seeing that coochie on a frequent basis), asking for a high-five after sex (only cute when I do it, horrifying when you do), or going anywhere near the heinie (I barely even wash back there, I’m so afraid of it).
Anyway, this incident went down on a weeknight, so there was a rush for her to wake up and clear out of my apartment in the morning, just as there was a rush for me to wake up and get my hungover ass in the shower. I didn’t notice that she had left the tube of KY as a souvenir for me until after I got out of the shower and returned to my bedroom and saw the tube laying on the floor. At that point, I did what any dude who was hungover and in a rush to get to work would do – I kicked the KY under my bed. It’s not like since that time I forget the KY, but what was I gonna do with it? I figured no one would see it there (it was kicked pretty far under), so it was fine.
So I knew that at least Zoila did not plant the tube of KY in my apartment and on my bed. As I said, the condoms I recognized. I keep condoms in strategic locations all throughout my apartment in case a random bout of love-making breaks out. Feeling randy while brushing our teeth? Condoms behind my extra deodorant under the sink. Making pasta and feeling like a little gabba goul? Condoms in the kitchen cabinet next to the sugar. Laying on the couch when a relaxing moment turns into the right moment? Check the drawer of the coffee table under the mail.
(And no, these have never come in handy. I was really hoping you wouldn’t ask.)
I also keep a few condoms just under my bed. While under my bed, they are just so, making it easy for me to grab them as soon as the lady is ready or just when she’s finally (finally!) fallen asleep. You always have to be ready.
So that explains the existence of the condoms and the KY. But why were they on my bed? I can answer this one, too.
On Monday morning, I woke up wanting to change the sheets on my bed. By "change the sheets" I mean that I wanted to take my dirty sheet off, throw it in my hamper, and leave a new clean sheet on the bed for Zoila to put on. I said that I hate making the bed, but I also hate making my bed. It’s in a corner and up against the wall and on wheels, which means there is a significant amount of agility, patience and upper body strength needed to take off the old sheet and put on a new one as it careens around the room. Agility, patience and upper body strength are not my finest qualities.
Neither is remembering, apparently. I didn’t remember my plan until I had closed my apartment door behind in the morning. I was running late for work but I still wanted Zoila to put on the new sheet, so I quickly ripped the old sheet of the bed, put it in the hamper, grabbed a new sheet from the closet, and threw it on the bed, figuring Zoila would put it on. Which she did.
But what I had done in this process was turn my bed askew in my bedroom. As I said, the bedframe is on wheels on a hardwood floor. Ripping the sheet off moved the bed, and I assume this brought both my condoms and the tube of KY, normally hidden by the bed, into view. Zoila, in the course of putting the sheet on and cleaning my bedroom, must have seen the KY and the condoms simply laying on the floor. And, keeping with her good cleaning lady self, she picked them up and placed them neatly on my bed after she had made it.
Ladies and gentleman, I rest my case. Zoila was not sending me a cryptic message or putting some ancient Mayan curse on me. She was just being a great cleaning lady.
Still, this doesn’t make me any less embarrassed that Zoila had to see this stuff. I would have preferred she not get this glimpse into my world of sexual deviancy and unsatisfaction. All I can hope is that next time, she won’t be too embarrassed to write me one her notes. If not, I will miss those notes.
(If not, I have a tube of KY jelly. Which is pretty sweet.)
[Since I have off Thursday and Friday, and since I've been working like a crazy monkey to make sure that I can have off on Thursday and Friday, you're getting all this week's posts shortened and condensed into one. So there.]
I’m going through one of my lovely little stretches of insomnia. This is sarcasm. These stretches suck.
This insomnia not only makes the week nearly unbearable, but my weekend was a total wash. On Friday night, I got bombed and slept three hours. I was so beat that I wound up "napping" for five hours during the day on Saturday, from 4:30pm until 9:30pm. I was too tired to go out on Saturday night and stayed up until 6am watching "Deer Hunter" (pretty good, but not as great as I’d hoped). I woke up at 10am on Sunday and was a zombie all day. I didn’t nap, hoping to sleep well on Sunday night, and I was rewarded with a grand total of three hours sleep on Sunday night. Awesome. Just totally awesome.
(I realize that for many of you that that previous paragraph was excruciating to read. Take that feeling, multiply by 100, punch yourself in the face, and imagine you just caught your girlfriend getting fucked by your manager at work and Tank Johnson, and you’ll get close to how it felt to live it.)
Part of my recurring once every-few-weeks-insomnia is intense dreams which are either extremely horrific or very sexually explicit. I don’t often remember these dreams until the next day or a few days later, but a few highlights from dreams of the past few nights include:
- Riding bicycles through my South Philly neighborhood with a male relative. We’re riding along, having fun, when he falls off the bike. I stop, go over attend to him, and he dies in my arms. Whoops.
- Having sex with a former co-worker in a random hotel (I think the hotel was somewhere in Asia). Not only was the sex very, very real and fairly nasty, but we had sex only after she told me that she a) has herpes and b) hasn’t had sex in 12 years (by the way, this co-worker was/is my age). Whoops.
- Sitting by the bed of a buddy who is dying of cancer (in the dream, not in real life), reading him comic books. He can’t speak or move, so I just sit there reading the comic books. For a long time. A really, really long time. Not whoops, but yikes.
So by way of this explanation, I suppose I’m apologizing to all my friends, co-workers and anyone else in my life who I’ve been a dick to over the past few days or weeks or however long it’s been. These spells always pass, but my god, do they give me fits when they hit. The unfortunate thing is that they’re totally unrelated to anything that’s going on in my life right now – the biggest stress I have at the moment is that the Eagles are fucking terrible. Otherwise, everything’s going great and I’m enjoying the arrival of fall in NYC. So I don’t really know what to do other than carry on and hope it passes sooner rather than later.
In the meantime, maybe I should try to write something funny, or at least interesting.
(God, I’m tired.)
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I used to make out with my female friends a lot in college and shortly thereafter. I’m not sure why, except that we’d often be drunk together and in case you haven’t heard, making out is awesome. So we’d be bombed and make out. No funny stuff. Just making out. Fun.
(Seriously, who doesn’t like to have a few beers and make out?)
But this practice has stopped in recent years. I don’t think it was a conscious decision, but right around when I turned 25, I apparently came to the conclusion that making out with my female friends was not a good idea. Or maybe my female friends were no longer willing to make out with me. Whatever. Semantics.
(God, I’m a terrible kisser. Kissing me is only slightly better than getting hit in the face with a wet sponge thrown by the dishwasher boy at Denny’s.)
(The eight girls I’ve made out with reading this right now are thinking, "Yeah, sounds about right.")
But over the past few months, many of my friends have started hooking up with each other. Like, really hooking up with each. Not just making out, but, like, wowee. And this applies to ALL of my friends – different groups of friends turning incestuous, almost as if they’re trying to establish little cults. Meanwhile, there’s me – the guy who gets the call the next day, listens to the story, and says, "What the fuck?" You are probably expecting me to be jealous that I’m not getting action, and if you are, you know me very well. However, I’m not jealous. I’m too confused to be jealous. I really don’t know what to make of it. It’s like a bad episode of
Anyway, I can’t get into specifics for obvious reasons, but I will say this to my friends: I want you all to stop. It’s freaking me out. I wouldn’t normally have a problem with it, but I’m not very good at making new friends, so I’m stuck with you all. So please, let’s knock it off and go back to normal. We’ll never mention it again. Now let’s just get drunk and try to unsuccessfully seduce strangers. I like it much, much better this way.
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Last week I asked you all whether I should get an iPhone and the results are in. The winner by a landslide: Wait for the next one. I’d say that 75% of you said wait for the next generation, 20% said get one right now, and 5% said don’t get one at all.
The biggest complaint about the current iPhone is that the phone sucks. Yes, you all admitted it’s sexy and yes, you all admitted you feel cooler owning one, but homeses, I need a phone. And if the majority of you are unhappy with the phone function, that’s a problem. Some of you also mentioned that the internet, though sweet, can be slow and that the 8GB of space is really not that much. Hopefully, all of these will be improved upon in the next generation iPhone.
But it was Kat in NYC who was the first to point out what I perceive to be the iPhone’s fatal flaw: it only allows you text one person at a time. Como se dice, dagger? The treo allows for text templates, meaning groups of phone numbers that I can text en masse. For example, I have 8 or so people on my Boston text template, which I will employ to let those people know I’m coming to/am out and about in their city. Same goes for my LA peeps. This year, regrettably, I have created a Philly friends/Eagles fans text template, so that during football games I can send text messages like, "I can’t believe this is happening" and "I want to rip my penis off right now" and "Seriously, I’ve gotten most of it off, but it’s still hanging on – it’s much tougher than I thought."
So I’ll wait a little longer before the iPhone changes my life. Thanks to all of you who wrote in with advice.
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Major, major props to Site Guy Brendan for completely resolving all my previous email issues. Basically he arranged it so that all email from the jason_at_jasonmulgrew.com address is forwarded to my personal gmail account, which I can then respond from. The gmail catches all the spam in its filter (of which there is a lot), is much more user-friendly than the jm.com email, and since it’s my personal email, I’m checking it all the time. I know a couple of you techies will write in to say, "Well, duh – that’s not hard to figure out," but I’ve been having email problems for a long time, problems that I only told Site Guy Brendan about last week. In two minutes, everything was fixed. So he is a genius in my book.
(One note: In the future when you email me, please try to remember to include your location. If you write something that I use on the website, I’ll link to your blog or anything else you want to pimp. Thank you for your cooperation.)
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Six Bets
Before I begin, I’d again like to thank the Phillies for giving the fans something to believe in this season. That was nice. Unexpected and nice. As for the Rockies-Diamondbacks series, I don’t give a shit. I’ll take the angle I usually take when a Philly team is eliminated from championship contention and say that no fan base deserves a championship more than Philly’s. I don’t know any D-backs fans and I’ve never met a Rockies fan – and I’ve been to Denver six times. So best of luck, Arizona and Denver "fans."
(And go F yourselves.)
(God, I’m bitter.)
It’s a little early to be picking games for Sunday on a Wednesday, but here goes:
CHIEFS (+3) over Bengals
My weekly contrarian pick. Peeps are loading up on the Bengals in this game, more than any NFL team for the week, so F it – I’m going with the Chiefs. It works out, I look like a genius. It doesn’t, well, shut up.
Texans (-6.5) over JAGUARS
Because it’s just like the Jags to blow a game like this.
Raiders (+10) over CHARGERS
My weekly no idea pick. This game is evenly divided as far as who bettors are picking. But I’m going with the Raiders, since every talking head is screaming about how SD is back after thumping Denver at home. I still think the Chargers will probably win, but maybe not as handily as they did in Denver.
CARDINALS (-4) over Panthers
I like this Cards team – and not just because I have Edge in my main fantasy league. I’m still loyal to them for making me look like a god for saying they’d cover against Pittsburgh (they won outright) and prior to last week, they were 4-0 against the spread this season (last week they were favored by 3.5 and won by 3).
COWBOYS (+5.5) over Patriots
Yesterday, this line was +3. One day later, it’s +5.5. That means there was an all out bonanza on the Pats, shifting the line 2.5 points in a day (!). So as much as I hate to do this, I’ll take the ‘Boys and hope the lose by 4.
FALCONS (+3.5) over Giants
Because it’s just like the Giants to blow a game like this.
Predictions on Predictions: I’m looking at a 3-3 week.
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Six Songs
"My World Is…" Blu & Exile
Awesome rap song that I put on my workout mix immediately. The first time I heard this song, I punched a car and it exploded. No lie.
"November Blue" Avett Brothers
Gorgeous country/bluegrass song that makes me more than a bit sad that I’ll never be in love with a girl from the South/Appalachia. Actually, make that "be in love" or "make love." Either one. All the same to me, really.
"Oh Lord I’m Browned Off" The Faces
I know I just recommended a Faces song last time, but I got their box set, Five Guys Walk Into a Bar…, last week and it’s rocking my world. It’s worth it for the live tracks alone – including their version of Hendrix’s "Angel" - but there are also several in-studio live recordings that are really something, including a quickie cover of John Lennon’s "Jealous Guy" which opens with over a minute of good-natured bickering between band members. I don’t know if these guys are more than the greatest cover band in rock history, but I don’t care.
The only way I can explain it is that every song on this box set is at least a little awesome. This instrumental gets the nod because it’s rocking even without Rod and it’s got a cool title; I was hoping "browned off" meant "fucked up", but I’ve seen it used alternatively for angry, bored, or depressed. UK readers, help me out here.
At any rate, my old roommate Brian has been on a personal crusade for the past five years to make Rod Stewart a Knight of the British Realm. After listening to this box set, I think I’m ready to join him in this pursuit, and I think that with your help, we can make him Sir Rod in no time.
"A Kissed Out Red Floatboat" Cocteau Twins
I mean, this is just gibberish – complete and total gibberish. Still, it makes me feel safe. More specifically, it makes me feel like smoking a joint in the tub. Actually, that’s not very practical – it makes me feel like smoking a bowl in the tub.
"Silver Lining" Rilo Kiley
I’ve been thinking about this for a while, and I think this is my favorite song on the new Rilo Kiley album. The whole thing is a little too dancey for me – when I first hear "Dejalo", I said "Huh?" aloud – but I’m warming to it. My friend Brian thought I’d like "Dreamworld" since he thinks it sounds like Fleetwood Mac (a little bit) and my buddy Jeremy thought I’d like "Smoke Detector" since there’s clapping involved (I dig it), but this one, in my personal opinion, hits the spot.
…
You know, I just realized that this first five songs all have the name of a color somewhere in them, so I’m scrapping the song I was going to recommend sixth and going with another "color" song:
"Perfect Blue Buildings" Counting Crows
I was trying to think of a non-"blue" song, but this one gets the nod because it’s my favorite Counting Crows song (though I admit that’s like saying my right cheek is my favorite part of my face to be hit with a dart). And so it goes.
[Have a good rest of the week/weekend.]
It’s October 5. That means I am 26 days away from a life-changing event – the purchase of an iPhone.
(Possibly.)
The stranglehold that Sprint has had on me for two years ends on Halloween, and at that point I think I might treat myself to an early Christmas present with the iPhone. I’m not a tech nerd – I have a Treo now, but it’s purely for the purpose of impressing women and I have no idea how to do anything but call, text, play Monopoly, and take pictures of my penis in the shower with it. So it’s a great machine.
But still, you just don’t get any sexier than the iPhone. I mean, have you seen the son of a bitch? Site Guy Brendan has one and is so obsessed with it that his fiancée Liz is seriously considering breaking their engagement so Brendan can live happily ever after with his iPhone. If he could someone train the iPhone to be a Mets fan, I think Brendan might be ok with this.
But I wanted to ask you all: Should I get one? My buddies that already have the iPhone are such tech/Apple whores that I, just a plain ol’ regular Joe when it comes to technology, can’t trust their opinions. Further, as much as I hate Sprint, I’m in no great rush to ditch my Treo, which has treated me well over the years. Is it worth it to go month-to-month on my Sprint contract for a little while until Apple releases a new iPhone? I should say that I’m especially sensitive to this; I recently bought a new iPod only to find out a week later that new iPods were released. Fucking Apple assholes.
So I’m throwing it open to you guys – help me. You’ve never steered me wrong before – except for that whole "S’ing one D does not make you gay" tactic (because apparently it does, Josh) – so if you have an opinion on whether to get the iPhone on 11/1, wait until the next one comes out, or not get one at all, drop me an email.
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Speaking of emails, I have been having tremendous, tremendous email problems with the jasonmulgrew.com email address. First, there’s the incessant spamming that’s been going on for a few months now. Which is awesome. Then, apparently my inbox has been filled to 99% capacity since the beginning of the summer. This does not mean that I’m popular, but that you guys sometimes send me songs that fill up a lot of space and I forget to delete them (by the way, please do not send me songs – just their names, please). So I don’t think I’ve been getting every email that’s been sent to me by you all (as evinced by "Hey, Did you get my last email or what?" emails, when I have no idea what the person is talking about) and I know that I’ve sent emails out that have not been received. Just a total, total clusterfuck.
But the good news: I think that Site Guy Brendan and I have finally fixed the problem, involving a complex series of forwarding, third parties, and two murders. Feel free to continue to email me at jason_at_jasonmulgrew.com and I should be better at both receiving your emails and replying to them. My apologies for the confusion in the first place, but I can’t say it enough – do not use ipowerweb for your web hosting needs. They are a bunch of stink asses.
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Two quick sports notes:
1) Thank you for a memorable season, Phils. No thank you for a forgettable playoffs. Sheesh.
(Yeah, I know it’s only 2-0, but c’mon. We’re done. Thanks.)
2) Thank you for all the responses to my fantasy baseball/pride post. The most frequent question that was asked: Which three are you keeping?
Well, I’m definitely keeping Utley. I also think I’m keeping Ryan Braun – I expect a drop off next year, but he’s a guy who was drafted #5 overall (in the real baseball draft), crushed in the minors and majors, and will soon have dual position eligibility at 3B and OF – and he’s 23 years old. I wouldn’t mind locking up David Wright-lite for the next 10+ years.
After that, I’m not sure, because I feel like half of my team will be drafted in that first round of the draft (since we’re keeping three guys, it’d be the fourth round overall). Berkman, Rios, Byrnes, Sabathia, Webb, Bedard and possibly even Upton and Carlos Guillen are all worthy fourth round picks in a keeper league. Some I like more than others. I could keep one of the pitchers, favoring in order Sabathia (really fat, on a good team and a lot of K’s), Webb (kinda boring numbers but consistently very good) and Bedard (love the K’s, but will he ever get more than 13 wins on the Orioles – and yes, I know he was on pace for more before getting hurt), but I don’t like to keep pitchers. Maybe I’ll go with Upton, because I like his dual eligibility and 30-30 potential. But we’ll see. I have until March 1 to decide and may make some moves before then.
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Six Bets
No major line movements during the week and some downright ugly games that scare the hell out of me. At least I don’t have to watch the latest Eagles’ disaster this weekend. Christ.
TEXANS (-5) over Miami
I really like Houston and Miami hurt me last Sunday – Uncle Jason’s ate a lot of doritos and bologna for dinner this week. Not that that had anything to do with Miami costing me money, but I thought it was worth mentioning.
Jets (+3) GIANTS
My weekly contrarian pick. Believe it or not, more people are betting on the Giants than any other team in the NFL this week, so as per my usual, I’ll throw a couple of bones on the Jets. I’ll also say that, aside from maybe Ravens-49ers, this is the game I’m least interested in watching this week, but of course I’ll have no choice but to do so.
Browns (+16.5) over PATS
My weekly "No fucking idea" pick. Of all the games this week, this has betters most divided – almost exactly half are taking the Browns and the points and the other half are taking the Pats. Since about 51.5% are taking the Pats, I’ll take the Browns and the points. Have I mentioned the Pats are cheaters? It’s not good karma. And that is a lot of f’ing points, even if the Pats have been beating people by an average score of 44 to -9.
Chargers (+1.5) over BRONCOS
It just has to be this way.
(Note that this is the worst way to bet a game is by saying, "It just has to be this way." That’s loser talk. Bet the mortgage on the Broncos.)
Bears (+3) over PACKERS
I mean, Green Bay can’t get to 5-0, can they? Really?
(Note that this is the second worst logic to use when betting a game. Total loser talk. Bet the mortgage on the Packers.)
BILLS (+10) over Cowboys
No reasoning except that the Cowboys scare the hell out of me, I hate them, and the Bills could use any support they can get right now. I may regret saying it, but they may not be a bad little team the rest of the season, those Bills.
Prediction on Predictions: I’m feeling 2-4 this week.
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Six Songs
"Aynotchesh Yererfu" The Budos Band
FUNK, baby – this is what I’m talking about. If this doesn’t get you groovin’, you are destined to be forever without groove. I love these types of instrumental funk jams, so if you have any more suggestions like these guys, let me know.
I can’t disguise
The pounding of my heart
It beats so strong.
It’s in your eyes
What can I say
They turn me on.
Yes, this is really the opening line to this song, which is so incredibly bad it just may be one of my favorite 20 songs ever. I think a lot of Prince from the "Purple Rain" era fits into this "so bad it’s awesome" category. I wish I could say the same for my lovemaking, but no such luck. That’s more like "so bad it’s ‘you know you’re actually hurting me, right?’"
Yes, this is really the opening line to this song, which is so incredibly bad it just may be one of my favorite 20 songs ever. I think a lot of Prince from the "Purple Rain" era fits into this "so bad it’s awesome" category. I wish I could say the same for my lovemaking, but no such luck. That’s more like "so bad it’s ‘you know you’re actually hurting me, right?’""Jenny Don’t Be Hasty" Paolo Nutini
You know, about a half dozen of you had recommended this guy to me, but I never checked him out, for one reason: his name is Italian, and me no like Italians. Finally my buddy Matt encouraged me to give him a listen and wouldn’t you know – he’s pretty fucking awesome. I’m still struggling with his Italianism, but he was born and raised in Scotland, which happens to be one of my favorite countries in the whole universe. So it sort of evens out. Anyway, a groovy, intense song highlighted by Nutini’s unique voice. Highly recommended.
"Spirit On The Water" Bob Dylan
When you’re with me
I’m a thousand times happier than I could ever say
What does it matter
What price I pay
Bob’s pretty good at words.
"Jail Break" AC/DC
Dynamite, kick-ass old school AC/DC. There are really few things better. This song could inspire a playlist called, "Of Course I’m Drunk, Asshole!"
("But he made it out – with a bullet in his back!")
"Angel" The Faces
To get your weekend going, a great cover by one of the greatest rock bands ever.
[youtube]lxgFPa2-500[/youtube]
[Have a good weekend]
[Did you guys hear that? That's the sound of a few thousand people clicking away from this site at the first mention of sports - worse, fantasy sports. Come back tomorrow, friends, when we'll talk about engagement rings, or you can just read the stuff under my little table below. Something for everyone. That's how I roll.]
[Ok, maybe sixteen people - that's the sound of sixteen people clicking away from this site. I just said "thousands" to impress you.]
I know that there is nothing quite as boring as hearing about someone’s fantasy team, but please, indulge me for just a moment. I have very little else going on and I haven’t had a solid night’s sleep in about three weeks, so I’m becoming a little unhinged (I think my tolerance for xanax is now too high and morphine is pretty hard to get a hold of). Also, I can’t stop masturbating to redtube.com (NOT SAFE FOR WORK) and my body and health are rapidly declining because of all the wanton sexual punishment I am inflicting on myself. This happens every goddamn fall.
Iron Sheik is the name of the league that I have been involved with for seven years. Not only am I a founding member, but I am also the commissioner of the league. Yes, this is what I tell women that I meet at bars. And no, it doesn’t ever work. Like, ever.
Despite having the same 11 guys in the league for the past seven years, it was only this year that we started to do a keeper league. A keeper league means that each “manager” (read: dork who bases a significant amount of his happiness on his fantasy team) keeps three players on his team from year to year. That means instead of starting next year with a completely new roster of players, we’ll go into the draft with three guys already on our respective teams. This changes player value slightly, favoring younger players over players who put up similar numbers but are older (the logic being that you can keep these younger players for years, while the older ones are closer to declining and ultimately retiring). But keeper leagues also lead to a sense of identity, as we’re now establishing cornerstones for our franchises, drafting and acquiring players that may be on our teams for five, ten, even fifteen years. Keeper leagues allow for a greater sense of “team” and a closeness to players in a way that standard fantasy baseball leagues, whose rosters are completely overhauled from year to year, do not. For example, during the draft in March at the start of the baseball season, I had the 7th overall pick (out of 11 teams). I chose Chase Utley, not just because he’s nasty and a 2B, but because he’s a Phillie and I can now root for him for years to come. Also, he may be a little skinny, but he kinda gets me more than a bit riled up.
Our league is a roto league, using the following categories: for offense, runs, rbis, stolen bases, total bases, and on-base percentage; for pitching, wins, saves, strikeouts, ERA, and WHIP. As our league has 11 teams, the team with the most runs, for example, gets 11 points in that category; the team with the fewest runs gets 1 point. The team with the highest score at the end of the season – the total of points from each of the ten categories – wins.
Success in fantasy sports, particularly fantasy baseball, is not uncommon for me, but the dominance that I displayed this year was particularly awesome. I finished with 103 points (out of a total of 110). The second-place finisher had 74 points (third place had 73, fourth 67, two tied at fifth with 65.5). I led by at least 25 points from June 15 through the rest of the season and finished with a perfect “11″ in eight of the ten categories (imperfect in only wins and saves). Here is what my team looked like (the number next to the name is what round I drafted that player in; “W” means waiver wire pick up):
| Position |
Player |
R |
RBI |
SB |
TB |
OBP |
| C |
J. Posada (16) |
91 |
90 |
2 |
275 |
.426 |
| 1B |
L. Berkman (2) |
95 |
102 |
7 |
286 |
.386 |
| 2B |
C. Utley (1) |
104 |
103 |
9 |
300 |
.410 |
| 3B |
R. Braun (W) |
91 |
97 |
15 |
286 |
.370 |
| SS |
C. Guillen (7) |
86 |
102 |
13 |
283 |
.357 |
| OF |
E. Byrnes (20) |
103 |
83 |
50 |
288 |
.353 |
| OF |
A. Rios (10) |
114 |
85 |
17 |
320 |
.354 |
| OF |
B.J. Upton (W) |
86 |
82 |
22 |
241 |
.386 |
| Util |
J. Bay (3) |
78 |
84 |
4 |
225 |
.327 |
| Util |
C. Young (W) |
85 |
68 |
27 |
266 |
.295 |
| Position |
Player |
W |
SV |
K |
ERA |
WHIP |
| SP |
B. Webb (4) |
18 |
0 |
194 |
3.01 |
1.19 |
| SP |
C.C. Sabathia (8) |
19 |
0 |
209 |
3.21 |
1.14 |
| RP |
T. Saito (11) |
2 |
39 |
78 |
1.40 |
0.72 |
| RP |
J. Borowski (13) |
4 |
45 |
58 |
5.07 |
1.43 |
| P |
E. Bedard (9) |
13 |
0 |
221 |
3.16 |
1.09 |
| P |
T. Lilly (21) |
15 |
0 |
174 |
3.83 |
1.14 |
| P |
A.J. Burnett (15) |
10 |
0 |
176 |
3.75 |
1.19 |
| P |
M. Capps (W) |
4 |
18 |
64 |
2.28 |
1.01 |
I listed only the starters, but I have to thank Chone Figgins (who I traded right before the deadline to Site Guy Brendan for his fourth round/seventh round overall pick next year), Troy Glaus, Willy Taveras, Jack Cust, James Loney, Ian Snell, and Alan Embree for their invaluable contributions. They truly understood that there was no “i” in team.
Why am I telling you this? The short answer: because it makes me hard. The long answer: because few things have made me more proud than my fantasy baseball team this season, and I want more people to know about this. Is this sad? Sure. Does it make me sound pathetic? Yes. But does that make me any less thrilled with myself or make me feel ashamed to masturbate in front of the mirror holding a printout of my roster? Nope.
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve found there are less and less things that allow me to measure myself against others and thus feel a sense of pride. (Maybe it’s wrong that I derive pride from besting others, but I’m not a psychologist.) While I was never very athletic, I certainly don’t play sports anymore (the last time I threw a football, I gave myself dysentery). And while I’m proud, for example, of the Phillies for making the playoffs, I didn’t do anything to make that happen.
Primarily, I got my jollies off by doing well in school. Getting good grades while doing very little for them was a great source of pride for me. But I haven’t been in school in six years, so those days of sucking back Stacker 2′s so I can bang out a 15 page history paper in seven hours for my standard B+ are long gone.
I’m an ok employee, I suppose, and take a little bit of pride in my work, but I don’t do anything I can particularly be proud of – I’m not saving lives or building houses or providing people with stolen cable. Worse, I’ve hit my ceiling at work. I’m currently a “Senior Analyst” at whatever the hell it is that I do, having been promoted to this position a tad earlier than I should have been, which was nice. But the next step up is manager. My manager is a guy in his mid-thirties who isn’t going anywhere, nor do I consider myself the management type. Therefore, it’s conceivable that I will continue to be a “Senior Analyst” for the next 20 years (as I can never leave my firm, since a simple Google search will disqualify me from all future employment).
Other than that, there’s not much going on. I don’t have any children (that I know of) that I can be proud of, and even if I do have a few little scamps running around Boston or London or or Philly or here in NYC, they’re probably roaming the streets like wild dogs and stealing cigarettes to sell to their kindergarten classmates. I don’t have any real hobbies, nor am I a member of any clubs or organizations, since that kinda stuff would probably get in the way of watching my tivoed episodes of Law & Order SVU. I do have this site, which I like, and not just for the occasional booby pictures.
But what I definitely have is an uncanny ability to kick ass at fantasy sports. I just can do it very well. I realize it’s more about cold hard statistics, that a significant portion of excelling at fantasy sports involves both predicting the future performance of players and understanding the needs of other guys in the league, needs which can be manipulated through trades and oral sex to one’s advantage. That I can succeed in this makes me happy.
Not only that, I put more work into fantasy sports than almost anything else in my life. Sad, but also true. On average, I spend at least an hour a day checking my team’s stats, plotting moves, talking shit to other guys in the league via messageboard or email, etc. My fantasy baseball team(s) is not something that I signed up for on a whim – it is a product, something that has been carefully devised through hours of research, deal-making, and deliberate and intensive thought.
(Also, winning this league awarded me enough money for a modest vacation, so there’s that.)
I know that people often knock fantasy sports for being a paradise for stat nerds and the unathletic, and while there is a great deal of truth to that statement, there’s certainly more to the culture of fantasy sports than that. Fantasy sports combine two things that men who are growing into their twenties and thirties crave – sports-based competition and something to do. From my limited experience, getting old consists of two things: being bored and remembering when you weren’t bored. Fantasy sports provide an outlet for competition, an avenue for nostalgia, and, most of all, something to do, something that’s fun and easy and allows for camaraderie.
I don’t think I’m telling you anything you haven’t heard before, but these things are worth remembering when passing judgment on fantasy sports and those who play them. Haters, while we don’t ask for your support, we ask for your understanding. We are a simple people.
(And for the record, I’d like to state that yes, I am single. No girlfriend. I know, it’s shocking. I am fairly certain that the longest relationship of my life will be with Ryan Braun. And I think I’m ok with that.)
First, I apologize. I realize that your name is probably not Jenny, but I feel that "To Whom It May Concern" or "Foxy Lady" or "Giver of Handjobs to Jason Mulgrew for the Next Five to Sixty Years" is not an appropriate way to address you in such a letter. So I will call you Jenny, because of your similarity in appearance to Jenny Lewis, the lead singer of the band Rilo Kiley. I hope you realize that this is a compliment; I think that in addition to being very talented – even though "Under the Blacklight" is a little too dance-friendly for me – Jenny Lewis is a very beautiful woman. And I actually prefer your hair color, which is more of a strawberry blonde, to Jenny’s red locks. Either way, I’d totally love to do both of you. Preferably at the same time. Preferably under a waterfall. At any rate, I hope you forgive me for calling you Jenny.
But to the point: I am writing to you today to discuss the simple fact that you and I, we are in love. Also, my name is Jason. So, hi.
Make no mistake, though it is your beauty that first drew me to you, it is not the only thing that I find appealing about you. Sure, your white dress was quintessential hipster-classy, showing me you had an edge and interesting taste but at the same time making it clear that you would not blow the bass player of the latest Interpol-inspired LES band du jour for some coke in the bathroom of the Delancey. This, I like.
But I am also compelled to you because we have so much in common, namely:
1) Our love of art. Since I met you – or rather saw you, since we didn’t actually speak or even make eye contact – at Joseph Arthur’s art gallery opening, I can only assume that you like art. Though Joseph’s was the first gallery opening I’ve ever been to, I do like art. I found Joseph’s paintings to be, for lack of a better expression, frigging awesome. I would only embarrass myself if I attempted to offer any further or serious criticism of his art, but I can say with honesty that I found his work colorful, and alternatively inspiring and frightening. His artwork touched me, made me think, made me smile, made me shudder – moved me. However, I must admit that I was on mushrooms while at the exhibit, so this may have something to do with how profoundly I was affected by the artwork. Because even though I took said mushrooms several hours earlier while at work, I was still really, really fucked up at the opening. I mean, really fucked up.
(Now that I think about it, it’s entirely possible that you were a figment of my imagination. If this is true, my bad. But I’m already into this letter, so I’m just gonna keep on going.)
2) Our love of the music of Joseph Arthur. Joseph and his band, the Lonely Astronauts, gave a little impromptu performance during the opening, which I found lovely. During this performance, I scanned the crowd and found you, over by the table with the free booze (don’t think that you didn’t score points for this, too) bobbing your head along to the music. Music is one of the most important things in my life, and I require any potential life-partner to have tastes in music as good as mine. Seeing how into the performance you were, mouthing the chorus to "Chicago" and even singing along to that new song that’s catchy as a mother fucker, well, it nearly melted my heart. Also, have I mentioned that you look like Jenny Lewis? With the boobs and everything?
This may sound like a lame cliché, but I think that you and I could make some lovely music together. Of course, it wouldn’t sound as good as Joseph’s Arthur’s – it would probably be mostly shrieking, the sound of a fat boy being hit with a wiffleball bat, and some wind chimes, all over the hum of a chintzy hotel’s generator – but it would be music nonetheless. And we would be making it. Without pants on.
3) Our locale. You were in Brooklyn for a gallery opening. Therefore, there is a good chance that you live in Brooklyn. Funny enough, I lived in Brooklyn. So we could talk about that. If you don’t live in Brooklyn, you probably live in the Lower East Side, another artsy area of town. As fate would have it, I lived in the Lower East Side. So we could also talk about that. Couples have gotten married over less.
4) Let’s just meet up and make out. I mean, whatever. We’re both adults. And making out is fun.
As I close this letter, perhaps you’d like to know a little bit about me. But I assure you that you do not need to know anything at all about me, since I’m am willing to change myself, my personality, and my wardrobe in whatever way you see fit in order to make you happy. Want me to get one of those adorable hipster haircuts? Done. Would you like me to quit my job, renounce all my non-thrift store-bought possessions, and dedicate my life to reading Celine? Not a problem. Want me to embrace all peoples and cultures and maybe hit the gym once or twice a week? Well, let’s start sleeping together first.
I hope this letter finds you well, flatters you, and is the first (possibly terrifying) step towards a new, better and exciting life for you. And me. The two of us. Without pants on.
Yours,
For always and ever,
While the ceremony of innocence drowns,
And I fill with passionate intensity,
- Jason MJPAE Mulgrew
- Holy f’ing crap, the Phils are in the playoffs. I haven’t written about them on here – haven’t even talked about them to others, really – because I didn’t want to jinx them. When I have talked about them, I was a doubter. As recently as Thursday, I offered to bet a friend $10,000 that the Phillies would not make the playoffs, citing the two following undeniable facts: 1) In three of the last five years, the Phils were eliminated from the playoffs in the last weekend of the season; 2) They’re the Phillies. They aren’t very good at making their fans happy.
But now I feel like the Randy Quaid character in "Major League" as the Phils are opening the division series at home on Wednesday. Again, holy f’ing crap.
I’m not sure who I’d rather play: Would we prefer the hot Rockies, with their suspect pitching staff and bad road record, or do we want the Padres, with their anemic offense (and knowing Peavy wouldn’t pitch until game three)? To be honest – and I know this is a bad attitude to take – but I’m just happy that the Phils are in the playoffs. I’ll leave it up to the gods to decide who we have to play and focus my energies on sending good karma the Phillies’ way. Because they – and the city of Philadelphia – need some good karma right now.
- I’m still too upset from last night’s Eagles game to really get into it, but I sent the following text message to 11 friends last night sometime in the fourth quarter:
"I don’t think that a professional football player has ever played worse in a game than the way that Winston Justice is playing right now."
As I write this on Monday morning, with a bit less rage, much less drunk and much less filled with shepard’s pie (near-legendary pre-shower bowel moment this morning), I still stand by that statement. I don’t know what’s more galling – that a former first round pick looked so completely clueless on the football field that I could have gotten a 1.5 sacks against McNabb or that the coaching staff did not make a single adjustment when most canines could point that the Justice was being owned.
(And you know I’m pissed off. I don’t throw italics around like nothing.)
This may sound like typical Doomsday Philly fan-speak, but it’s hard for me to see how this season can be redeemed. The Eagles are now 1-3. Our best player on offense and our best player on defense are already banged up. Our offensive line was absolutely dominated in their last game. Our quarterback moves slightly better than most North American mountain ranges. Our receivers get about as much separation from cornerbacks as my penis gets from my hand during those beach volleyball tournaments on ESPN2. This, my friends, is a 6-10 team.
Here’s the good news:
1) Remember, the Phillies are in the playoffs.
2) At least we’re not Charger fans.
Clublife Rob the Bouncer
It may sound cheesy, but I am so damn proud of Rob for writing this book. Not because I didn’t think it would be good, but I didn’t think it would be this good. I know Rob put everything he had into this book and all of his effort really paid off. If you like his blog, you’ll love his book. If you’ve never read his blog, you’ll love his book. And quick, enjoyable and fascinating read. Fucking A, Rob.
The Blind Side Michael Lewis
This one was an airport purchase from the author of Moneyball. I had read an excerpt in New York Magazine or the New York or one of those asshole magazine with "New York" and enjoyed it very much. It’s the story of a giant, orphaned black kid taken in by a rich white Memphis family and trained to be an NFL left tackle. I love the history of the game and the evolution of the position moreso than the heart-wrenching story, but it’s still a recommended read.
Eye Contact Cammie McGovern
Wow, this book stunk. This is another airport purchase that turned out to be chick lit in disguise; the back cover talked about the a little girl gone missing, and, dang it, I couldn’t resist. I wanted to stop reading halfway through but had to keep on keeping on to learn who dunnit. While I shouldn’t give this away [SPOILER ALERT], isn’t bad mystery writing if the guilty person is a character introduced only 50 pages before the end of the book?
The Catcher In The Rye J.D. Salinger
I hadn’t read this in about twelve years. I’m glad I reread it. Pretty fucking solid.
The Miracle Life of Edgar Mint Brady Udall
Bro, you’re a great writer. Your sentences are long and lovely and passionate. But, please, please, just tell the story. I stopped reading this book after 70 pages. Frustrating.
(Not That You Asked) Steve Almond
My ol’ writing teacher’s latest effort. I’m only 60 or so pages in, but it’s gonna be a good one, I think. Also, Steve is only a reading tour across the country right now and will be reading in NYC this Monday October 1 at 7pm at McNally Robinson Booksellers at 50 Prince Street (conveniently in my ‘hood). For full dates, click here.
************
Six Bets (That You Should Make Even Though Your Friends Will Think You’re Crazy)
Rams (+13) over COWBOYS
This line opened at +11, then moved to +13 by Thursday. That means that people were loading up on the Cowboys. The number one rule of gambling: most people are stupid.
CARDINALS (+6) over Steelers
This is my lock of the week. Like the Rams-Cowboys line, this line started at +4 and was +6 two days later, so the same logic applies. Not only that, the Cards are 3-0 against the spread this year. I feel like the Cards are a good enough team with a bad enough reputation to go something like 13-3 against the spread this year.
FALCONS (+3) over Texans
My weekly contrarian pick. More people are betting on the Texans than any other team in the NFL this week, so I’ll throw a couple of bones on the Falcons. Not too much, but just enough so that if it works out I look like a genius.
MIAMI (-4) over Raiders
My weekly "No fucking idea" pick. Of all the games this week, this has betters most divided – almost exactly half are taking the Dolphins and the other half are taking the Raiders. Every week, I’ll throw a couple of bones on the most closely confounding game. I couldn’t tell you much about either team but I’ve always been a fan of Ronnie Brown and was glad he busted out last week. Alternatively, I’ve always not been a fan of Daunte Culpepper, as he has slaughtered many a fantasy team. So F his revenge.
PANTHERS (-3) over Bucs
The three most confusing teams in the NFC – and possibly the NFL – are the Seahawks, Panthers, and Bucs. I have no idea if these teams will be in the playoffs or will each finish around 6-10. I don’t even know why I’m recommending the Panthers here, over than the simple fact that I think David Carr is pretty handsome.
BENGALS (+7) over New England
Two reasons: The collective boner over New England simply can’t get any bigger than it is right now. Seriously. If I have to read one more article about how the Patriots - proven cheaters – are the perfect combination of the mystique of ’72 Dolphins, the defense of the ’85 Bears, and the offense of the ’89 Niners, I’m going to strangle myself with my authentic vomit-soaked Donovan McNabb Super Bowl XXXIX jersey (at least I now know why the Pats picked up all those blitzes). Second, Cincy is one of the few offenses in the league that could potentially hang with the Pats. Nevermind that Rudi Johnson is out and nevermind that I’m actually their second-string strongside linebacker – I’m going with Cincy to cover in a shootout.
Predictions on Predictions: I will go 4-2 this week.
************
Six Songs (That You Should Download and Enjoy)
"Kiss Them For Me" Siousxie & The Banshees
For three reasons:
1) This song is about Jayne Mansfield, who is Mariska Hargitay’s mother, who is on one of my favorite murder shows. That’s kinda cool.
2) I really can’t think of a line that makes me more mushy inside than, "Nothing or no one/Will ever make me let you down." And the way it’s delivered by Siousxie…it just gets me.
3) About two or three weeks ago, I was out in NYC with a bunch of friends and this song came on the jukebox. A lovely lady in our group, after hearing the above line, said, "God, I love that line. I know this is really corny, but I’d love to get that engraved on the inside of my wedding ring someday."
Um, I think I’m in love.
"Who Are You" Tom Waits
Speaking of love:
"How did your pistol and your bible and your sleeping pills go/
Are you still jumping out of windows in expensive clothes?"
I’m not smart enough to know what this means, but it makes me very upset and sad. This song scares the fuck out of me.
"Two Steps Behind" Def Leppard
If I were to get married tomorrow, this would be my wedding song (the acoustic version, I mean). Gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous.
"Make It Last" Montrose
Awesome 80′s metal whose lyrics read like my autobiography.
"Tell It Like It Is" The Neville Brothers
I love the live version of this song. It’d really cool if I had more 40-something black friends. Or rather, any 40-something black friends.
(Not the best version of this song, but the only one on iTunes.)
"Barracuda" Heart
Let’s get you a lil’ riled up for the weekend:
[youtube]xyR-HmJS2qQ[/youtube]
You know, I’m a 100% booby man, but there is something to be said for the slender chick with the bangs who both scares you a little bit and turns you on a lot. I think I’m moving out of my brunette phase sadly, but the bangs really do it for me. I was googling around to find a hot picture of Anne Wilson and found this nugget: "Ann Wilson is the voice of the band Heart and possesses a uniquely sexy, powerful voice that could stir a eunich." Ok. Eunich. Sure.
[Have a good weekend]
I’m in LA for about the third time in four weeks and as I continue to spend more time here, I can’t help but be confused – confounded, even – by this city.
- After several nights out at clubby/loungey/chic bars, I begged my friends to take me to a real dive bar. So on Saturday night, they did. Well, at least they thought they did.
A dive bar has very few requirements: no frills, cheap beer, decent music, and ugly people. This bar had the first three, but not the last one. Not by a long shot.
A bar can not be a dive bar if its patrons have teeth so bright and white that you could spot them on the ocean floor from a schooner above the waves. A bar can not be a dive bar if its patrons wear shirts that cost more than my last three pairs of dress shoes combined. A bar can not be a dive bar if its patrons can each either bench press 250 pounds or run a marathon in under 4:30. A bar can not be a dive bar if its patrons are more likely to order a Jagerbomb than a pint of draft beer. I’m sorry, but thems the rules.
On my last visit to LA, my mom asked me why I wanted to get back to NYC so badly. I told her I missed my stuff, pizza, and ugly people. My friends and I, God bless us, are not easy on the eyes. We have poor taste in clothes and bad hair, we do not work out, our eyes are bloodshot from excessive boozing and our fingers are stained from nicotine, and more than a few of us actually smell. But this is part of our charm. It’s also part of the reason that we’re going to have to marry each other or at least do each other if we have any desire to procreate.
(I’m guessing most of us are sterile or barren anyway, so the point is kinda moot.)
I do not like walking into a room and consistently being in the bottom 3% of attractiveness (and I was one of People’s 50 hottest bachelors for Christ’s sake, though I’ll be the first to admit that that was a total fluke). I’m not saying that I’m attractive in NYC, but that percentage increases at least to the bottom 16% or, on a good night, the bottom 19%. At any rate, I don’t think of my attractiveness when I’m out in NYC. I’m mostly thinking about getting my next beer and wondering what Prince does on a day-to-day basis. But while out in LA, I’ll look around at all the fake boobs, the tans, the white teeth, the fit people; and then I’ll look at myself, with my scraggly beard and my crappy clothes, looking all chubby and coked out, and it makes me sad and, worse yet, impotent. Or that could be all the coke. Whatever. I’m not a doctor.
The point is that the LA social scene is, for lack of a better description, really something else. Over the past two-plus years, I’ve been out here maybe a dozen times and I’ve yet to find a place that I feel comfortable drinking in or even one that reminds me of the places I frequent in NYC. I didn’t think I was asking much of LA in this regard – nothing fancy, cheap beer, good music, some ugly people – but I guess that I am. So my options are two-fold: I can either hit the gym, hit the beach and start brushing my teeth with regularity, or I can drink in the bathroom of my buddies’ apartment. I’ll have to think about this one.
(The good news is that it’s a nice bathroom.)
- From the kick ‘em while they’re down department, time for two horribly overused clichés but entirely legitimate complaints: the bagels and pizza here are really, really bad. I had a "bagel" the other day for breakfast that tasted like a cardboard box that was used to ship ass. I had late night pizza over the weekend that was so greasy and bland that I actually cried in the cab on the way back to my apartment. Life is not worth living without decent bagels and pizza (and dive bars).
- But there are some good things, though. I really like my morning drive to work. Getting up at 5:20am is a fate nearly worse than death, but there’s something pretty dang cool about going out to the car in the pre-dawn light, turning on the windshield wipers to clear off the dew, tuning into the Adam Corolla show (which is supremely entertaining), and taking off for work when 90% of the population is still asleep. There is a peacefulness to this that I can not find in NYC, where no matter how early I wake up, there are two dozen 100 year old Chinese ladies screaming at each other outside my apartment door.
- Another good thing: After driving around town during previous visits in "economy" rental cars that are only slightly larger than most desktop computers, on this trip I’m rocking a Chevy Blazer because they didn’t have any smaller/cheaper cars available. I’m not a truck guy – or even a car guy, really – but there’s something to be said for riding high and dominating the road, laugh manically, throwing garbage out the window, feeling like you could crush all of the other cars around you. I’m getting hard just thinking about this. Seriously. And it’s pretty awesome. It’s just too bad I’ll never own a car as long as I live in NYC. Whoops.
- There is something inherently wrong and possibly even evil about waking up at 9am to watch football. The Eagles game (which was lovely) was over by 1:15pm, which on a normal Sunday in New York City is just about the time I’m first cursing the Eagles and saying to my friends, "Drinking this beer is making me die a little bit."
My LA friends say that the benefit of getting the games early is that they then "have the whole day in front of you." This may be true, but understand: Sundays are for football. That’s how it is. You are grossly overestimating me if you think I have something to do on Sunday besides waking up at 12:15pm with a hangover, making bets, then eating and drinking and watching football for ten straight hours. This is what Sundays are for, nothing else. What am I supposed to do – go to my yoga class? Hit the driving range? Meet with my book club?
Sheesh. Football at 10am. Shit ain’t right. Shit just ain’t right.
- Last night, I spent an hour on the beach in the early evening dipping my feet in the water, looking out on the hills, and watching the sunset. It was incredible. Even more incredible was that the beach was completely empty – I was the only person I could see on the entire stretch of beach. Again, clear skies, warm water, sunset – and not a person around. When I asked one of my LA friends about this, his answer: "Sometimes we’re over the whole beach thing." I don’t know if he speaks for all LA people, but that makes me sad. That beautiful beach I stood on in Hermosa last night made the one I summer at on the Jersey shore look like the yard of a Brazilian prison. It’s a shame, really, that no one else was there appreciating it.
- After spending said time on the beach, I went to Chili’s for dinner with some friends. And it was awesome. I had never been to Chili’s. And I couldn’t be happier about how the experience worked out.
- Tonight for dinner, I’m going to the Olive Garden. I have never been to an Olive Garden. I couldn’t be happier about this, either. I’m not going to lie – the suburban livin’ element of LA is definitely intriguing to me.
- I’m taking a red eye back to NYC tomorrow night and going straight into work on Wednesday. If you don’t think I’m going to break the record for "most diet cokes consumed by a man with a beard in a seven hour span," you are sorely mistaken. My Wednesday night after work will consist of Sea Thai, a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Oatmeal Cookie Chunk, a murder show, a Xanax, and twelve hours of deep, uninterrupted, narcotically-induced sleep. I couldn’t be happier about this.
No doubt, the question I get asked most frequently when I meet readers of this site is, "Jason, where do you want me to come?" The answer to that one is simple: on the floor, if possible – I just washed my sheets. No doubt, the question I get asked second most frequently when I meet readers of this site is, "Jason, you have incredible taste in music, but how do you organize your music?" That answer is a bit more complicated, but fortunately does not involve any ejaculate errantly landing on my night table.
(Most of the time, at least.)
I’ve recommended hundreds of songs to y’all over the course of the site (just search "Six Songs" in the archive box if you don’t believe me), but I never really got into the best way to store music on your iPod and iTunes. I realized recently that this means that I’ve only been getting you halfway there, because how you arrange your music is just as important as the music itself (this is not true, but bear with me). So for your gratification and to learn you a lil’ bit, here are four of the best ways to organize your personal music collection on your iTunes-based iPod or similar mp3 player.
By Theme
This is the most obvious way to organize music on your iPod, by creating playlists of similarly-themed or similarly-sounding songs. This is a method that I employ with such adroitness that when I think about the perfect playlists I create, I arouse myself. Since the concept is simple enough and doesn’t require additional explanation, below are some examples playlists from my iPod to help further illustrate the idea:
- "Executive Pump Up Mix" — My primary workout mix that ranges from heavy stuff like Black Sabbath’s "Supernaut" to lighter fare like Maroon 5′s "Makes Me Wonder." I know it’s a strange mix, but really, whatever it takes to keep me moving on the treadmill, I’m willing to try.
- "I am a middle-aged black man" — Everything ranging from (more obscure) Otis Redding to Solomon Burke to Curtis Mayfield to Gil Scott-Heron. If you’re black, and in your 50′s, you would like this playlist.
- "Let’s Make Out or Something" — formerly titled "Mood," this is my make-out mix. Yes, laugh if you want, but it’s legit. I recently bedded a ladyfriend who I warned about this playlist before putting it on. She laughed. Her response, a few songs into it: "Ok, this is actually a pretty good playlist." This list contains less-popular (you won’t find U2′s "One" or "In Your Eyes" by Peter Gabriel) mood-enhancing songs like "One By One" (Billy Bragg and Wilco), "You’re Only King Once" (Beulah), "Bubble Gum Years" (Gomez) and "Post-War" (M. Ward), to name a few.
- "New" — Boringly titled and not exactly theme-based, but necessary nonetheless. This is purgatory for any new songs I’ve downloaded, many of them via your recommendation (keep those music recommendations coming, by the way).
- "Sad as Fuck" — If you want to wallow in self-pity, this is your list. The title says it all. Songs like "All My Little Words" (Magnetic Fields), "Valentine’s Day Is Over" by Billy Bragg (the live version with just him and the guitar) and Jeff Buckley’s cover of Dylan’s "Momma, You’ve Been On My Mind." Tread carefully.
- "What? I’m Drinking and Washing My Balls" — The mix I listen to when, well, I’m drinking and washing my balls, getting ready to go out. Similar to "Executive," but without the anger: "Even If You Don’t" by Ween, "Slaveship" by Josh Rouse, and "Time Bomb" by The Format are prime examples.
- "Whiskey, You Son of a Bitch" or "To Hell With You, Woman!" — Pretty much everything ever written by Ryan Adams and George Jones.
Chronologically
This idea is the simplest, but if you’re OCD, it may drive you to murder.
This method was the one I employed on my old PC before I switched all of my music over to my new Mac. I had five basic playlists, representing each of the most recent decades: "60′s", "70′s", "80′s", "90′s" and "00′s" (note that the "60′s" playlist included everything pre-1960 as well). The advantage of this is that you essentially have lil’ radio stations on your iPod. New music in "00′s", oldies in "60′s", high school memories in "90′s", etc.
The disadvantage, which is great, is that this type of organization requires a ton of work. On my old PC, I had roughly 7000 songs – and I organized every last mother fucking one into these categories. This was, as you might imagine, a long and laborious process. Not only that, particular artists gave me fits. For example, I have a Marvin Gaye box set that contains 80 songs from the 60′s to the 80′s. Do you know how stressful it was for me to properly categorize each and every one of these songs? It took me literally weeks to put that bad boy into the proper decades.
(Have I mentioned that I don’t have a girlfriend? Just checking.)
As mentioned, I abandoned this method when I switched computers. Simply, I couldn’t live with the stress of having un-chronologicalized songs on my computer. I was actually losing sleep over whether or not "Can’t You Hear Me Knocking" by the Rolling Stones was 60′s or 70′s (it was released in 1971).
If you have only a small amount of songs that range in eras, this is a good way to go. But if you have over 3000 or so songs, good luck and godspeed.
By Rating
My friend Lauren introduced me to this style of playlist and I think it is highly effective, user-friendly, and most importantly, fluid. iTunes has a built-in feature that allows the user to rank songs on a star system, one star to five stars, both while using iTunes on the computer and when the song comes on the iPod itself. This last part is key. If a song comes on your iPod while you’re walking around Soho, making women uncomfortable by staring at them, breathing heavily, and rubbing pantyhose on your face, and you think, "Damn, this is a great song," with a few clicks you can rank it as a five star song. Then, when you get home and sync your iPod to your iTunes, that ranking is transferred to your iTunes. Fucking sweet.
I use the rating style religiously, mostly because of this fluidity. While it does require ranking each and every song on your iPod, it’s much easier than organizing songs chronologically precisely because you can do it on the fly (whereas you need to be at your computer to move songs into chronological playlists).
I have playlists that are based solely on this star rating system.
- "Fuckin’ A Right" — This list contains only five-star songs, a rating I am very stingy about handing out. I have 8000 songs in my iTunes library and only 75 have five stars. These are songs that I not only find myself listening to every time they randomly come on my iPod, but usually make me weep with delight, rage, or sadness. Fuckin’ A right. Random sampling: "Victoria" by The Kinks, "He’s Gone" by The Grateful Dead, "Ain’t That Enough" by Teenage Fanclub, "Death Letter" by The White Stripes.
- "Seriously Good Shit" — Four and five star songs. There are currently 1417 of these bad boys. To be a four star song, you have to pass one test: If I were driving in my car and this song came on the radio, would I turn it off? If the answer is "no", you get four stars. Random sampling: "A.M. 180" by Grandaddy, "Prison Sex" by Tool, "This Guy’s In Love With You" by Herb Albert, "New Amsterdam" by Elvis Costello.
- "Good Shit" — Three, four and five star songs, totaling 3681. This list is quite a mix because it contains genuinely good songs as well as stupid songs that are worthy of a listen and songs that everyone knows. Examples of these include "Here I Go Again" (Whitesnake), "Pretty Woman" (Roy Orbison), and "All She Wants To Do Is Dance" by Sir Don Henley. Random sampling: "Every Picture Tells A Story" Rod Stewart, "Voodoo Lady" by Ween, "Talk Talk" by Talk Talk, and "Someone Else’s Bell" by Squeeze.
I have no playlists for two and one star songs, because I do not include these on my iPod at all. I don’t like my iPod filled with clutter and shitty songs, so getting that three star rating is really key for a song.
[…]
[I just read this post over and I realize that I sound like a complete, obsessive-compulsive maniac. At least I’m almost done. And if I can help one person – just one person – better organize their music, then it’s worth it.]
[And screw you for judging me.]
By Number of Plays
What better judge of how much you love a song than by how much you’ve played it? This is another organization technique that I employ, breaking songs up into playlists by how many plays they’ve had. It’s all relative depending upon the user, but I have a playlist called the "25+ Gang," which features 56 songs that have been played at least 25 times on my iPod and iTunes. Complementary to this list is the "15+ Gang," which has 156 songs that have been played, um, at least 15 times. This is an easy way to organize music because you only have to periodically sort songs by play count and move them into their respective lists, and as mentioned, there are few better barometers for how much you like a song than how many times you’ve listened to it. There are two problems with this, however.
The first is that songs in certain playlists will be played more often than others, not necessarily because they’re your favorite. For example, I make out a lot. When I do so, I play my "Let’s Make Out or Something" playlist. Therefore, songs on that playlist are played more frequently than other songs, just because I’ll put that playlist on, make out, pass out, and let the list play through and repeat. So the songs in that playlist accumulate play counts more quickly than others based upon their placement in that playlist. Dig? The same goes, to a much lesser extent, to my gym playlist. I wouldn’t consider "Someday" by The Strokes one of my favorite songs, but yet it’s been played 38 times because it’s good a song to run to.
The second caveat is that some songs suffer from what I’ve just right now decided to name the "Sooner Or Later" syndrome. "Sooner Or Later" is a tremendous song by the band Marah that ends with over a minute of an organ outro. Typically, when the song proper ends and the organ outro begins, I’ll skip to the next song, thus robbing "Sooner Or Later" of a play count (off the top of my head, another rocking song with a long outro is Ted Leo’s "Timorous Me," which ends with over forty seconds of screeching feedback). By listening to most of the song but skipping to the next song before the song has played through, I’m hindering these songs inclusion on these play count-based playlists, and thus compromising the integrity of the playlists themselves.
(The most played song on my iTunes? "Echo Park" by Joseph Arthur with 78 plays.)
******
I hope these ideas are helpful to you. If not, at the very least, you have learned something new today: I am borderline obsessive compulsive. And I have learned something new today: Perhaps my borderline obsessive compulsive is related to my functional impotence, specifically how I can only get erections at funeral. I’m gonna think about this one for a bit.
I am having just about the shittiest day ever, but this video has completely turned my day – and possibly my life – around.
[youtube]2aKQMZ_HTb8[/youtube]
Man. Sucks about those homosexuals dying around 39 or 42 years old. Also, sucks about that 17% of condoms that fail. I really gotta make sure I wear two of them from now on.
(There is really so much, much more here, but I’m so overwhelmed I can’t even think right now. God bless America – I bet this guy really like that "This is our country…" commercial.)
(I have to admit though, it’s a pretty fucking catchy tune. There’s a 90% chance my friends and I will be singing this in a bar this weekend.)
I don’t know why it’s take me so long to tell you this – probably because of my laziness – but "The Whitest Kids U Know" is one of the funniest shows on television.
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"Eh…about 4." So simple, yet so genius.
My buddies and I found this show on the same night one of us found a small baggie of cocaine on the street (it was truly a night of great discoveries), and since then I have tivoed and watched the whole series. Next to VH1 Classic, it has become a staple of pregame drinking in my apartment and with my friends. I hope that you have Fuse, because if you don’t, you’re really missing out.
If you don’t know, now you know.
[I would like to point out, however, that while the special teams was atrocious, the offense looked pretty fucking bad, too. I don't know if I believe the hype about Green Bay having a "great" defense, but I know I'd like to see less dropped balls and a higher completion rate for Donovan McNabb. Two more games like 15 for 33 for 184 yards with one TD and one INT and things are going to get really uncomfortable in Philly. I mean, fuck.]
[Also, Washington is a terrible matchup for the Birds. The reason why they only gave up 40 or so yards on the ground to Green Bay is because someone only slightly more athletic than me was running the ball and Green Bay does not have a good o-line. The reverse is true for the run-happy Redskins with Clinton Portis, who looked very good in the Miami game, and Ladell Betts, who also looked pretty good. That being said, the Eagles home opener, on Monday night, in Philly...c'mon: Eagles 38, Redskins 20.]
Part of the joy of football season, and really part of the joy of many seasons (holiday, wedding, etc) is the perfect excuse it affords for getting drunk. Drinking and sport go hand and hand and back to time immemorial. Classical pottery depicts scenes of Roman men drinking wine while watching chariot races, Etruscan men drinking wine while watching others wrestle, and Greek men drinking zima while watching other men make love to each other’s genitals, mouths and hands. The precedent for drinking while watching sports goes back thousands, if not millions, of years.
My first two or three years in NYC, I watched Eagles games in my apartment with my otherwise apathetic roommates. I had some buddies who were Eagles fans and occasionally we would get together for a big night game or playoff game at each others’ apartments, but for the most part I caught all the games at my place. This was fine with me, in large part I was able to have a few beers during the game and possibly even attempt the Sunday 50, which long-time readers know is the competition to consume any combination of 50 beers and wings on a Sunday during football season (i.e. 35 wings and 15 beers, etc). Overeating and overdrinking on the Lord’s day is what makes football awesome.
A few years ago, I realized that I knew quite a bit of Eagles fans that lived in NYC. One of these fans, my buddy Pat, told me that he and a bunch of guys got together to watch Eagles games at a bar in Murray Hill called Red Sky. I cringed when I heard this, because I had been to Red Sky on a few weekends in my younger days and knew it was an incredibly douchy bar; it catered to an equal mix of the young Banana Republic Murray Hill crowd and the standard Long Island guido type. At the very least, it was not a sports bar. I relayed my concerns to Pat but he assured me that the fact that Red Sky was a douchy bar actually worked to our advantage. The bar was well-equipped with TVs, had good food, and cheap beer on Sundays. But because it was a weekend douche bar, no one went in there on Sundays. Another friend knew the manager of the place and he basically opened the bar just for these guys to watch the Eagles game on Sunday. The result was that there were 20 or so Eagles fans, most of whom I went to high school with, in their own private bar for Eagles games. My fears allayed, I told Pat I’d see them all on Sunday.
Thus began a glorious run for my Eagles fan friends and I at Red Sky. Like Pat said, the bar was completely empty except for my friends, and the Eagles would be on the large projection TV (with full sound) as well as numerous other TVs throughout the bar. Every Sunday during football season, I followed the same wonderful routine: wake up at noon with a crushing hangover and be at the bar by 12:30pm; gather with friends and make our bets for the day; cringe when drinking the first beer; smile when drinking the third beer, as it tasted like Love; eat a shitload of chicken fingers and/or nachos during halftime; get solidly buzzed throughout the second half; celebrate/cry over Eagles game and bets; make bets for 4pm games; poop; get serious about drinking during 4pm game; go to Upper East Side for Irish music after second game; poop; return home around midnight and try to eat couch and/or kiss roommate; kinda poop but nothing comes out. I could do these things ever Sunday for the rest of my life and I would be the happiest girl in the world.
Therefore, I was greatly looking forward to this season’s football watching with my friends. I sent an email early last week to my friends Pat and Mike to make sure that we were set for Red Sky for the season, as we never had an official arrangement with them. They assured me that we’d be fine, that we’ve been going there for years, etc. So I was ok with this.
Then it all fell apart on Saturday night.
I was out with Pat and my buddy Mike and a bunch of other friends on that night, drinking WAY too much at a pretty cool, rather unknown bar in the LES. We spent the night pounding beers, talking about the upcoming season, and telling our best bar pooping stories. Around 2am, Mike’s friend Matt, who was to bartend at Red Sky for the Eagles game the next game, came into the bar. As soon as Mike saw him, he said, "Are you ready for tomorrow?" Matt said, "Oh yeah – I have to tell you something about that…"
Apparently, the owner of Red Sky had made some sort of deal with the Washington Redskins Club of New York, wherein they’d bring 100+ people to the bar in exchange for drink specials. Just like that, we lost our Eagles bar of the past four seasons.
As Pat, Mike and I freaked out, Matt tried to calm us down, assuring us that there probably wouldn’t be that many people there, that’d he said the say the sound was broken for the Skins game and would put the sound on for our Eagles game (how we would do this or explain it to the Skins’ fans, he wouldn’t say), that everything would be fine and we should just come anyway.
As I was drunk, and as I am wont to do when I’m drunk, I got fired up and didn’t want to hear any of this. For one, I am kind of an anal person who likes things planned out. That I emailed my buds nearly a week in advance to make sure things were ok and to learn at 2am the night before the game that they were not, well, that did not sit well with me. Secondly, only the following things are important to me: boobies, onion rings, the Eagles. Really, that’s it. I don’t even include blowjobs on that list, because it is those three and everything else is a distant fourth (also, I have great difficulty getting off to blowjobs and can count the number of times I’ve done so on one hand, I think). If you fuck with one of these three things, we are going to have serious problems.
[And we lost the bar to Redskins fans, no less! I have a particular problem with Redskins fans, and not just because DC is the worst city in America. Skins fans are a passionate but incredibly uninformed bunch. Of course, I only know two Redskins fans - my agent and my old college roommate. I remember in college how nuts my roommate was about the Redskins, but when I asked him who their starting running back was, he'd stare at me blankly for a few seconds, then say, "Redskins rule, dude" and spit his dip into a solo cup. A few weeks ago, I was sitting in my agent's office and he was talking about how the Skins have a legit shot at the playoffs. I said no way and suggested we go game-by-game on their schedule and each write down what we thought would be a win and what would be a loss. So he brought up their schedule on his computer and read each game aloud, him jotting down W's and L's from behind his desk and me doing the same from his couch. When he finished reading, I told him that at best case I had them at 7-9 and asked what he had. His reply: 14-2. My biggest regret in life is that I will never again have those three minutes back that I wasted trying to have a reasonable discussion about football with him.]
The next morning I woke up and made my phone calls to my Iggles fan friends. The plan was to go to Red Sky to see what it looked like, but I decided to get a back up plan in place. I called Third and Long, a fratish but divey bar near Red Sky and asked if they were affiliated with any football team. When they said they weren’t, I asked if they were willing to put on the Eagles game for 20 or so Eagles fans. They said they would. That, my friends, is how you take care of business.
But you can guess how the rest goes: I got a call from Mike while I was still in the cab en route to Red Sky saying that the bar was packed with Skins fans, that it wasn’t even worth going to. So myself and my 20 Eagles fan friends watched the game from Third and Long. It was not ideal, since there were no seats, no food, and no sound for the game (sweet). But at least it was on the projection screen and they had beer. At that point, I would have watched the game projected onto a dead dog’s back. And of course, I got to see the Eagles suck like the suckiest bunch of sucks that ever sucked, thus concluding a terrible Sunday.
My previous sole goal in life was to create a bionic child with a woman with reproductive organs made of steel and hair that smells like cinnamon. But that goal has been pushed aside, for I have a new purpose in life: to find a new suitable Eagles bar. I’m not sure how I’m going to go about this, but I aim to find a bar somewhere in the 20′s or 30′s that is not affiliated with any team, has a room to give us or is generally slow on Sundays, and has food for me and my Eagles fan friends (yes, I’m aware that Town Tavern is a big Eagles bar, but that place is too packed). If you have any suggestions, please let me know. Because considering our lack of a home base, how bad the Eagles played, and how much money I lost on Sunday, it might be a long, long season.
The first school I heard back from was St. Joe’s University. I considered St. Joe’s a safety school and figured it would give me a substantial aid package, if not a full ride (not that there’s anything wrong with St. Joe’s; it’s just that I was really fucking smart at the time – now, not so much). I hastily opened the envelope and was distraught – maybe even devastated – to learn that, while I was accepted to St. Joe’s, their financial aid package left much to be desired. If my family could afford to spend X a year on tuition, St. Joe’s was expecting me to pay 4X. Um, yikes.
This sent me into a panic. As mentioned, I considered St. Joe’s a safety school – and I was going to have to pay that much to go there (???) (!!!). Logically, I concluded that my other non-safety schools would offer even less aid than St. Joe’s, which would mean that I’d have to take a job with one of my uncles for a few months and hope that something worked out the next academic year. Or we would have to sell my little sister to a wealthy Thai gentleman. Both options made me sad (the former much, much more so than the latter).
About a week later, relief arrived in the form of an envelope from Boston University. BU was a mid-level school; I figured I’d get in, but wasn’t sure what kind of money they’d give me. Still, I was interested in the school, in no small part because the hipster-ish girls that I saw on the campus when I visited seemed like they’d give some vicious head if you bought vinyl or could say something reasonably intelligent about art. When I opened the envelope, I saw that the good people at BU brought it – not only did they offer me a full ride, but I think I remember something about weekly Turkish bath treatments if I so desired. Go Terriers. F the Hawks.
A week or so after that, my whole college application process was over. Boston College was on the upper end of schools I applied to, and I visited there with some high school buddies during senior year and had a blast. [Little known Jason Mulgrew fact: The person who bought the keg for the party that my friend's brother, at the time a junior at BC, threw for us that weekend: Liz Hasselbeck (nee Filarski).] When the BC offer came and they were just a tad shy of what BU was offering, my family had another lil’ pow-wow, determined that we could swing it, and I sent in my deposit that week. Fortunately, this time there was no discussion of my sexual preference. However, there was still some property damage on the part of my dad. It’s a disease, really.
The rest is history: I went to BC, dominated, was thrown out of housing two of my four years, was sued once, was almost personally responsible for a chlamydia outbreak in Rubenstein Hall (I couldn’t have done it without you, Erin), and still managed to get a job right out of college that paid me more than either of my parents made (God bless those halcyon days of 2001 when all one had to do to land a good job was to keep his pants on for the duration of the interview). And sure, maybe now I’m a shallow and terrible person – I can’t even use the word "man" – who spends most of his time sitting in his shower, thinking about how maybe murder isn’t so bad, still questioning not only his sexuality but now the placement of his genitals on his body (maybe they’d look better just above my belly button? on my right shoulder?). But all things considered, I’m ok with how I turned out after I made the choice to go to BC, a decision I based 95% of on economics.
But as I went through BC and now that I’m out of BC, I realize that there is an important factor in college selection that never entered my mind as a high school senior (nor was it a factor for any of my buddies). Most high school seniors pick their college based on a number of variables like financial aid, prestige, location, academic majors, study abroad programs, alumni connections, and how easy it is to score coke.* But now that I’m older and wiser, I’d like to add another factor near the top of that list: the importance of a decent athletic program.
[*Best school to score coke: Babson College. Trust me. If it was 4am on a Tuesday and you needed a gram of coke, a brick of M-80's, and a monkey who could do your dishes, you could get it within the hour from someone at Babson. Good lord. No wonder they're "ranked #1 among all business schools for entrepreneurship."]
Make no mistake – I am no great fan of college sports. I’ve written several times that I don’t care very much about BC sports. This is based mostly on jealousy. While at BC, I found it difficult on Saturdays to root for the football player who lived down my hall. This is not only because he was a dick with the mental capacity of a meatball sub, but also because he was sleeping with all the white women in the whole goddamn dorm. As I still have difficulty convincing white women to sleep with me, I still do not particularly root for BC athletes. I can really, really hold a grudge.
So it is not for the thrill of the competition that I extol the virtues of a decent athletic program (though of course that is a major plus for many). My "love" of BC athletics is much more self-centered: Several times a year, BC athletics afforded me – and as an alumnus, still afford me – the opportunity to get embarrassingly drunk, often to the point of soiling myself, in a nearly consequence-free environment, while eating meat pulled from several different animals, slathered in sauces that will remain on my face, neck, hands and chest for up to a week.
I will not claim that tailgating at BC is like tailgating at Tennessee or LSU or West Virginia. The monster tailgating that goes on at these schools is just one of several advantages they have over BC, among them offering a more varied roster of courses ranging from "English 207/Communications 202: That Get ’Er Done Guy Is Real Dang Funny" to "Sociology 409: So What If She Is Your Cousin – At Least You Ain’t a Jew." But BC tailgating, though modest, is not without its charms. All the elements are there: a campus packed with all types of vehicles, which in turn are packed to the gills with cheap canned beer; the smoke and scent from hundreds of grills wafting through the air; thousands of drunk fans, ranging in ages and rabidity; two buddies who will drink too much and invariably share their first homosexual experience after the game. Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweetest of all.
When I first got to college, I took this tailgating for granted. It was a part of campus life, just as normal as going to class, eating in the dining hall and shamelessly masturbating in the shared bathroom. I mean, whatever, you know? It wasn’t until late in the first semester of my freshman year when I went to visit some buddies at Fordham University that I realized the importance and fun of tailgating for football games. While there, I saw a Fordham football home "game" that was not quite as bad as a Special Olympics event but not quite as good as a celebrity football game for charity. The "stadium" was mostly empty – girlfriends, family, perverts and drifters constituted the large majority of the fans, and it seemed they were only vaguely aware that an athletic competition was going on (not that I blame them). Worst of all, my friends did not tailgate for the game. Instead, we scored some coke from this spunky little Dominican guy who lived in the South Bronx. It was awesome in its own way, but it was not tailgating.
From that point forward, I realized how lucky I was to go to a school with a decent athletic program. Not that BC is by any means a powerhouse, but what’s somewhat unique about the school is that it boasts good sports teams all year long – the football team is typically good for 8 or 9 wins, the hockey team is consistently nationally-ranked, and the basketball team is a tournament mainstay. Sure, football is the only sport that features good old-fashioned tailgating, but any excuse to gather with friends to get drunk and increase your possibility of having unprotected sex is welcome in my life.
Now, as a BC alum, tailgating has taken on a new angle, representing a mini yearly reunion for classmates. Each year, I’ll go to two games – usually, like the past weekend, the first one of the season, and later the best match up of the season – and there I’ll run into old friends, recount stories from college, catch up on each others’ lives, and avoid eye contact with the girls (and guy and snake) I gave chlamydia. If not for these tailgates, I wouldn’t have the opportunity to measure up old classmates and women who refused to sleep with me, and repeatedly point out to them that while they may live with their spouses in the suburbs, I live in New York Fucking City and have you heard of the internet? Because I’m on it and I’m awesome. That’s how I roll, homes.
It is the friends I’ve made and these tailgates – not the education I received, not the connections I’ve been able to make, and certainly not the $4000 I was fined for myriad offenses that I had to pay before I got my diploma – that make me most glad I went to BC. Six years out of college, I know:
- Knowledge is fleeting – I was a history major who studied Tudor and Stuart Britain, but yet every time I’m at a bar quiz night or watching Jeopardy and a question is asked about Henry VIII’s wives or even where Britain is located on a map, I get it wrong.
- School reputation matters less the more one is removed from college – the only thing that matters in the real business world is how young the chick your banging is and how much your tie cost.
- STD tests…man, they get old really quickly. The inventor of the home STD test is going to be a rich man. One more disapproving glare for my doctor’s secretary because once again Uncle Jason woke up with something new down there and I’m just gonna flip out.
Once college is over with, you’re left with a very expensive piece of paper and some fond memories. For me, tailgating represents a large part of these fond memories. In addition, tailgating now allows to me relive some of these memories, albeit with much less hair on my head and much more hair on my back (nothing makes you feel young again like peeing next to your buddy’s truck while his wife screams "What are you doing? You’re splashing all over the tires!"). Therefore, dear high school readers, I urge you to learn from my experience and take into consideration your potential college’s athletic program. Years from now, you’ll thank me.
[Probably in person, because it's more than likely that I'll be with you at the tailgate, complaining about the toughness of the hot dogs and asking where the relish is. One tip: make sure you have a lot of cool ranch doritos on hand. I get pretty irritated when I don't have them.]
QB: Carson Palmer (2)
QB: Brett Favre (8)
RB: Brian Westbrook (1)
RB: Edgerrin James (3)
WR: Marvin Harrison (4)
WR: Donald Driver (6)
WR: Terry Glenn (12)
RB/WR: Deuce McAllister (5)
TE: LJ Smith (15)
K: The Pats kicker with the Polish name (17)
DEF: Philly (16)
B: Jerious Norwood (7)
B: Ladell Betts (9)
B: Fred Taylor (10)
B: Chester Taylor (11)
B: Anthony Gonzalez (13)
B: Daunte Culpepper (14)
When my pick came in the first round, I had the choice between Rudi Johnson and Brian Westbrook. Normally, I don’t like to double up on teammates, but that was moot here, since both the Eagles and the Bengals have a bye on Week 5. I went with Westbrook, even with his health concerns, because I like his potential as a receiver as well as running back. And there’s another reason. Typically, I’m a big believer in handcuffing, which is drafting your stud RB’s backup. In this case, the advantage of drafting Westbrook over Johnson is that I watch every single Eagles game, so if Westbrook gets hurt, I’ll see it right away. This is a positive in that I have internet access on me at all times via my blackberry. So if Westbrook gets hurt mid-game and I’m at a bar, I’ll be able to pick up his backup right away. This is exactly what happened last year, when I was sitting in a bar in Boston watching the Eagles play the Titans when I saw my star QB Donovan McNabb go down. I immediately whipped out my blackberry, picked up Jeff Garcia, and wound up finishing second in the league, thanks to Garcia’s fine performance. By going with Westbrook and knowing I’ll know as soon as he gets hurt – I don’t watch Bengals games and would learn of an injury to Rudi Johnson well after it happened - I eliminated the need to draft his backup, thereby effectively giving myself an extra pick in the draft. And yes, ladies, I am single. Swear to god. Shocking, I know.
(By the way, this only works if someone doesn’t draft your RB’s backup later in the draft. Fortunately, none in my league did, though they will undoubtedly do so now that I’ve written this. Do you see what I do for you people?)
I like the team. QBs are important in ten team league that starts two QBs, so I like having Palmer as the cornerstone and Favre’s not a bad second – maybe he’ll have a little magic in his "final" season. No regrets about grabbing Daunte – two years ago, the guy had 5000 total yards and over 40 total touchdowns, so sure, I’ll take a flyer on him in the 14th round.
Obviously I have lots of depth at running back, though I’m not too thrilled with my other two starters. I’m not crazy about Edge, but he was the best available (20 of the first 29 picks were RBs; I got him at 30), as was Deuce. I grabbed the rest of the guys late because when in doubt, always go with a RB (one interesting tidbit: Chestor Taylor is still the starter in Minnesota and I got him in the 11th, whereas Adrian Peterson, his rookie backup, went in the 5th). Of the 21 RBs that had over 1000 yards rushing in 2006, six – almost a third - are on my team. Not bad for a ten team league.
This is arguably the most talented group of WRs I’ve ever had, as I usually never waste high picks on them. But when Harrison fell to me, and then Driver (he ain’t that hurt), and Glenn lasted until the 12th (!), I had to take them. The best thing I can say about my TE, kicker and defense is that I’m happy with all of them and I got them in the last three rounds of the draft. Not too shabby.
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Two things are changing my life. The first is safe for work. The second is completely not safe for work.
The first: These ecards. I spent about two hours of my afternoon yesterday looking through and sending these to friends. I think that this is my favorite, but this is also pretty solid, as well as this one. This one has a special place in my heart, since I think I actually uttered (or rather, growled) these words last Thanksgiving.
The second (totally not safe for work): Redtube.com is the porn version of youtube. Yes, you read that right. And having recently learned that I’ve downloaded just about every last decent clip of porn from the internet to my computer, this site is rocking my world. Needless to say, it has not been a productive week for Uncle Jason. Enjoy responsibly (if possible).
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Six Songs
"Sweet Virginia" The Rolling Stones
I’m recommending this song for four reasons:
1) I am on a quest to recommend to you every song off Exile On Main Street – I think this is the fourth or fifth song I’ve recommended from the album. Which means it’s a very good album. Which means you should probably splurge and pick it up.
2) It features a lovely sing-a-long type chorus that features the line, "Got to scrape that shit right off your shoes." Any time you can work feces into a song and the name of your band is not Ween, well, I’m buying.
(Not that I have anything against Ween. Great band.)
3) You can never go wrong with a saxophone solo, unless it involves that god awful E Street Band.
4) When I hear it, it reminds me that I’m more than likely never going to have sex with a Southern girl. This makes me sad on so many levels.
"Rocks Off" The Rolling Stones
Another off EOMS, just because when Mick sings, "I was making love last night/To a dancer friend of mine," I believe him. I truly, truly believe him.
The Fox NFL Theme
Men, I dare you to put this on your workout playlist. If you do, you will hurt yourself or someone around you. God, I can’t wait for the NFL season to start.
"Thirteen" Wilco
A lovely little love song about young love. Aspiring guitarist/sensitive douchebags: I bet if you played and sang this song for a girl, she’d would probably make out with you – and it sounds pretty easy to play. Otherwise, it makes me feel all warm and happy and pure, which I have not felt for a very long time. God, I love love.
"One Man Guy" Rufus Wainwright
As the #2 ranked gay man in the world, one would think that from the title this is a song about Rufus and his monogamous relationship with his lover. But, friends, if you thought that, you’d be wrong – it’s actually about Rufus being self-absorbed. So ha! I bet I just blew your f’ing mind, didn’t I?
"Mind Games" John Lennon
I’ve written about this song, but every time I hear it it gives me such fond memories that it’s worth mentioning again. In senior year of college, I lived with 5 other guys in a dorm on BC’s campus. 3.5 of us, including me, had a girlfriend or girlfriend-type person in our life that year (mine was the latter). At least once a week, we’d be sitting around the common room having beers and watching a game and invariably one of our cordless phones would ring (this was before cell phones, mind you), and it would be that respective guy’s girlfriend-type person. The conversation would then go:
Guy: "Hello. Oh hey babe, how you doing?"
[Listens for four seconds]
Guy: "No, you know I didn’t mean it like that."
[Listens for seven seconds, rubs forehead]
Guy: "That’s not even exactly what I said. I -"
[Listening for five seconds, sighs]
Guy: "I know, I know – it’s not that it doesn’t matter…"
[Gets up and leaves common room to take rest of phone call in bedroom]
Anywhere from two to forty minutes later, the rest of the roommates, still sitting in the common room, would hear this song blast from their other roommate’s bedroom. This would be the sign that a) the conversation with the girlfriend-type person was over; b) it was not a particularly pleasant conversation, due to said girlfriend-type person’s craziness. The roommate would then come out of his bedroom, song still planning, and tell the other roommates exactly how "women be shoppin’." God, I miss those days.
[Off to Boston for the long weekend, drinking on the train on the way up. Wish me luck and have a good weekend.]
When I started that diet, I was a voluptuous 232.5 pounds. I had been around that weight for about, oh, 12 years (as I junior in high school, I ran for student council under the slogan "239 pounds of Vice President" – and I won). When I first got on the treadmill at the gym, I could run just about a tenth of a mile before turning blue and popping a Bayer to help ease my minor heart attack; by the end of the diet, I was running three miles every day. I felt lighter, sexier, and my penis, God bless it, looked a lot bigger. All good things.
During the diet, I also significantly cut my calories. I tried to eat about 1500 calories a day, and subsisted on cereal, almonds, Healthy Choice/Lean Cuisines, and chicken or turkey sausages. I did not, however, cut my drinking. If I was going to diet, I was going to do it my way, and there was simply no way I could give up drinking. The only drinking-related thing I did give up (or tried to give up) was post-bar eating. This was difficult, because at the end of a night of drinking I love few things more than two slices of pizza and a chicken roll. To make it easier, I just got so drunk when I went out at night that it would be physically impossible for me to a) walk to the pizza place; b) exchange cash for the purchase of pizza. For the most part, it worked – although one time I did fall down a flight of stairs, which totally sucked. Especially for that Armenian guy, whose hand I was holding when I fell. I often wonder what happened to him.When all was said and done, at the end of the diet I was down to 199.5 pounds. I reached my lowest weight since puberty shortly thereafter, dropping to (I think) 196. At that point, flush with success and satisfaction, I put the scale and the gym bag away and went about my normal pre-diet life (read: hoagies, watching titties on the internet, more hoagies).
When I realized last night that I had missed the anniversary, I decided that I would weigh myself in the morning. With not a small amount of trepidation, I got on the scale. I closed my eyes, said a little prayer, thought about some boobies, and when I opened my eyes I saw…200.5. By some complete fucking miracle, I am only one pound heavier than I was when I ended my diet a year ago. I don’t really know what to say about this, because I have no idea how it happened.I know it’s not because of my intense post-diet gym routine. Since the diet ended, I’ve been following a ten week cycle at the gym, which goes something like:
- Week One: Three gym visits, 45 minutes running/walking each time- Week Two: Two gym visits, 35 minutes running/walking/thinking, "This sucks much worse than I remember" each time
- Week Three: One gym visit per week, 20 minutes hanging out in locker room, hissing and making cat noises at men as they change- Week Four Through Week Ten: Off
And I know it’s not because of my stricter eating habits since my diet ended. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little more conscious about what I eat, but I’m not exactly counting calories, either. To wit, while in LA my dinner for three consecutive nights was an In-and-Out double-double animal style, fries and vanilla shake. I would have gone for a fourth straight night, but, long story short, the In-and-Out on Gayley in Westwood will not allow public access to its restroom any longer. Here in NYC, every week, usually on Sunday, I get takeout from Sea Thai that includes the tup-tim fritters (seven fried balls of goodness) and the largest and most delicious bowl of chicken pad thai in Manhattan, always washing that down with a whole pint of ice cream (Oatmeal Cookie Chunk, Cookies and Cream, Cherry Vanilla, or Banana Split usually). I have a "regular" at my deli near work, a breakfast sandwich featuring sausage, double egg and cheese on a plain untoasted bagel. And of course, in the past year I’ve eaten three babies and a half-dog, half-man. So I haven’t been perfect.(This weekend I’m heading up to Boston to, among other things, tailgate at a BC football game, and I’m actually frightened for my friend Danielle’s dip. We may need to have a police officer on hand to make sure things stay under control.)
So it’s not the gym regime, nor is it because of my eating habits. And I don’t throw up after I eat (not that often, at least), I haven’t gotten any stomach stapling or other procedure to keep weight off, and I am not addicted to cocaine, amphetamines or any diet pills (kinda). However, I do have a few ideas as to why I’ve kept the weight off:1) Something inside of me is alive and it’s eating all of my food. Remember, I’ve traveled to numerous exotic and unsanitary places in my life - hell, I grew up in Philly, spent every summer at the Jersey shore, and live in an apartment with a toilet that explodes once every two months - and have had a number of questionable sexual encounters, mostly involving non-native English speakers (if they were English speakers at all). I easily could have picked up some parasite along the way that’s now nesting in my colon, listening to Van Halen, smoking cigarettes and being surly.
(Actually, that’s the perfect description of my old roommate Brian.)This would also explain all of my poo problems, which, let’s be honest, are getting downright terrifying. One of my last poos looked like a shillelagh. I felt like I was trying to reel in a marlin during that one: lot of rocking, lot of sweating, lots of boats around.
(Note: actual picture of my poo)2) God is setting me up a major fall. For the most part, things have been extremely good for me for the last two or two and a half years, what with all the fame, fortune, and the never-ending stream of blowjobs. Keeping the weight off with no effort is just the latest good thing to add to that list. This means that any number of calamities will strike me in the next 10 to 14 days. The front-runner right now is a bizarre subway accident resulting in the loss of my genitals, but that’s followed closely by a bizarre ski lodge fire in which I do not lose my genitals, but instead they are badly damaged.
3) My scale is broken. Yeah, this is probably the right one.
Gentlemen and ladies, it’s one of the most wonderful times of the year – fantasy football drafting season.
Regular readers of this site know that I’m a bit obsessed with fantasy sports. I’m the commissioner of a league called Iron Sheik involving ten of my buddies. We’re now on our 7th year of playing together, and this football league represents our 23rd (we do baseball, football and basketball). And simply put, I am really good at fantasy sports. I’ve won four titles in the IS league with a fifth on the way (this year’s baseball) and have finished in the top three 10 times. So while I may not be an "expert", this advice is as good as any you’ll find, I think.
But enough small talk – let’s get to the good shit. First my general draft tips, then position-by-position breakdowns.
Draft Tips
1) Do your research. This may seem obvious, but if you wing it, you’ll lose. Sure, anyone with a fundamental knowledge of football can navigate through the first few rounds, but what happens in round 8 when you’re looking for a 3rd receiver and are deciding between Donte Stallworth and Mark Clayton?
At the very least, visit the fantasy sections of ESPN, Yahoo, and CBS Sportsline to get a general idea of two things: what statistics players put up last year and where players are being drafting. Yeah, odds are good that Peyton Manning will have around 30 TDs and he’s a high pick, but what about a guy like Phillip Rivers? Where’s he being drafted in relation to John Kitna or Vince Young?
Go into the draft with some stuff printed out with last year’s stats. That’ll give you a cheat sheet to look over during the draft. Additionally, I like to highlight certain guys I like, making notes on the side. Do whatever makes you comfortable, but you should have a little bit of paperwork to refer to during the draft and to keep you grounded.
2) Lie and manipulate. If you are in a league with friends, constantly engage them in conversations before the draft. Feel them out about their battle plans, who they like, etc and reciprocate with information that is entirely false. The important thing is to be sincere and seem honest. A good way to do this is by saying stuff like, "You know, I don’t even know if I should tell you this, but I think John Kitna is going to blow up this year" when you secretly think his shoulders going to detach from his body in Week 3.
Say you have the 6th pick in the first round, and your buddy has the 5th. You really, really want Frank Gore, but think your buddy at 5 is going to take him. The solution: talk up another player. "Dude, I love Addai. I love him in that Colts offense this year. But c’mon – don’t take him, dude. I’m calling dibbs on him." More than likely, your buddy at 5 will take Addai, in the hopes of screwing you over, and you’ll get Gore. Remember, the other owners in your league are just as soulless as you are, just much, much dumber. The point is, NEVER show your true hand. Flaunt your fake hand constantly.
3) Don’t panic, and start or stay off the waves. Countless mistakes are made during the draft because the manager was panicking. Don’t be like this. As your pick comes back to you, be sure to have at least two choices ready. This way, if the guy ahead of you takes the player you wanted, you don’t make a rash decision and end up taking a kicker in the 5th round.
A good deal of draft panic derives from position runs. This happens when a number of players of the same position are selected in a row, causing owners to think, "Holy crap! All the [QBs, WRs, TEs, etc] are going! I have to get one now!" The result is that they wind up with a not-as-good player, because they jumped on the wave too late.
My advice is to either stay off these or start them. I usually stay off rather than start them, just because it’s easier. But say you’re in the third round, and the guy a few picks before you takes Donovan McNabb. Then the next guy takes Marc Bulger. Then the next guy takes Vince Young or Matt Hasselbeck or someone. Then it’s on. You’ll see a flurry of managers selecting QBs that shouldn’t be selected. In this situation, I would back off, take a RB or star WR, and wait a few rounds before taking a serviceable QB (Kitna, Cutler, etc).
Runs or waves most often happen late in the draft when people pick kickers or defenses. I usually completely ignore these, preferring instead to take a third RB or another QB. Which brings us to…
4) Fuck tight ends, kickers, and defenses. Simply put, these don’t matter very much. There’s something to be said for having Antonio Gates or Tony Gonzalez, but if you don’t get them in round 4 or 5, forget it. In a 16 round draft, I won’t take these three positions until rounds 12-16. And even then I don’t put much thought into it. I’d rather pick up a different defense every week and draft a backup RB with starting potential than take the Pittsburgh defense in the 8th.
5) Know your enemy. When you’re picking, it’s important to know who the managers around you already have on their teams. For example, say you have the 8th pick in a 10 person league. It’s the 3rd round, and you’re really looking for a QB, but you see that a nice WR has fallen to you. Check to see who the 9th and 10th owners have. If they already have a QB, take the WR with your 3rd round choice and then get the QB on the wrap in the 4th round, following the logic that if the guys picking after you already have a QB, they’re not going to take another one. This knowledge is key.
6) Think "best available." I’m all for filling out your roster positions, but at the same time I adhere to the principle of "best available," meaning take the best available player, regardless of position. For example, say by the 3rd round I’ve drafted two quality RBs and a decent QB. In round 4, if I see another very good RB who I think has lasted too long, I will take him over a WR that I have less confidence in. Sure, it means that I have one RB too many, but it also means that my competitor won’t have this RB on his team. It’s a wise decision to draft best available because it means a) you’ll have trade bait and b) it’s offensive by being defensive.
7) Handcuff, handcuff, handcuff. Spend the last few rounds making sure you draft the backups of your marquee players. Players get hurt and their backups step up and often times play well (especially in the case of RBs and, to a less extent, QBs).
So there are your tips. Now onto the positions.
[Note: We will assume that this is a standard scoring league with ten teams playing head-to-head, the position break-down being: QB, RB, RB, WR, WR, WR, TE, WR/RB, K, DEF. "Sleepers" and "busts" mean that I think relative to where these players are being drafted, they will perform better or worse. If I say that Peyton Manning is a potential bust, I don't mean that I think he's going to throw for 6 TDs and 20 INTs. I mean that he ain't gonna perform like a #4 overall pick. Dig? Spaces between players indicate tiers.]
QUARTERBACK
1 Peyton Manning, Ind
2 Carson Palmer, Cin
3 Drew Brees, NO
4 Tom Brady, NE
5 Donovan McNabb, Phi
6 Marc Bulger, StL
7 Philip Rivers, SD
8 Matt Hasselbeck, Sea
9 Jon Kitna, Det
10 Vince Young, Ten
11 Jay Cutler, Den
12 Matt Leinart, Ari
13 Brett Favre, GB
14 Eli Manning, NYG
15 Ben Roethlisberger, Pit
16 Trent Green, Mia
17 J.P. Losman, Buf
18 Byron Leftwich, Jac
19 Steve McNair, Bal
20 Alex Smith, SF
Most leagues play one QB, so the position is almost an afterthought. According to Yahoo standard scoring, 10 of the top 20 point scorers last year were QBs (8 were RBs and 2 - Harrison and Owens – were WR). If you’re in a one QB league, you have the time to wait around for your top guy. If you’re in a two QB league, it might make sense to grab two top-flight QBs early, as the QB position – even more than the RB position – is the bread winner of the fantasy team. This year, I think it’s become clear that Peyton is the undisputed #1 fantasy QB, but there’s not much difference to me between Carson Palmer and Marc Bulger. I would strongly advise grabbing one of those top six guys, as there is quite a bit of a drop off after that.
Potential Sleepers: I am in love with Philip Rivers this year, and not just because he’s boyishly handsome. SD has a very good team again, and Rivers put up very nice numbers (a 92.0 rating) in his first year in the system and at just 25 years old. In deeper leagues, I like Byron Leftwich (he has something to prove), Trent Green (ditto), and Alex Smith (another young, developing QB).
Potential Busts: I’m not really sold on Matt Leinart (although he too is handsome, but more in a devilish than boyish way), and I think a lot of people are jocking John Kitna because he has Roy Williams, that white guy, and Calvin Johnson to throw to. I could be wrong, because I know both those guys will be throwing a lot this year, but I think they’re being drafted too high.
Guys Who Might Kill Me Because I Hate Them: Eli. God, I hate this whiny bitch, in no small part because I’m 70% sure I could beat him in a fight. Part of me thinks he could tank, but another part of me (the Eagles fan part) wouldn’t be surprised if he threw for 28 TDs, 4000 yards, and led the Giants to an 11-5 record. Still, I hate him.
RUNNING BACK
1 LaDainian Tomlinson, SD
2 Steven Jackson, StL
3 Larry Johnson, KC
4 Joseph Addai, Ind
5 Frank Gore, SF
6 Shaun Alexander, Sea
7 Rudi Johnson, Cin
8 Brian Westbrook, Phi
9 Willie Parker, Pit
10 Travis Henry, Den
11 Laurence Maroney, NE
12 Reggie Bush, NO
13 Maurice Jones-Drew, Jac
14 Ronnie Brown, Mia
15 Willis McGahee, Bal
16 Clinton Portis, Was
17 Deuce McAllister, NO
18 Cedric Benson, Chi
19 Thomas Jones, NYJ
20 Edgerrin James, Pho
21 Brandon Jacobs, NYG
22 Marshawn Lynch, Buf
23 Cadillac Williams, TB
24 Marion Barber, Dal
25 Ahman Green, Hou
26 Jamal Lewis, Cle
27 Jerious Norwood, Atl
28 Chester Taylor, Min
29 Fred Taylor, Jac
30 DeAngelo Willams, Car
31 Brandon Jackson, GB
The situations in Atlanta, Dallas, Minnesota and Carolina (and to a lesser extent Washington and Jacksonville and possibly even with the Giants) are a mess for fantasy owners. What I’m going to target this year are guys who are clearly their team’s starter AND goal line back (I rate Reggie Bush at 12 because I expect him to improve on his rookie season, like his pass catching abilities, and the NO offense is so good it’s an exception to this rule). Ideally, you’re looking for two of the top 16 guys on this list, but I think there are some bargains to be had later on.
Potential Sleepers: Travis Henry (a power runner who should succeed in Denver’s system and be around in the early second round), Willis McGahee (wasn’t he the #4 overall pick two years ago), Clinton Portis (ditto, but with some health issues), Marshawn Lynch (just a good feeling about him), Cadillac Williams (he’s only 25 and has a semi-decent QB this year), Jerious Norwood (much more big play potential than aging, little Dunn) and Lamont Jordan (why not?).
Potential Busts: A lot of people are all over Larry Johnson because of his boatload of carries and long holdout, and I think these concerns are valid. I’m a little concerned about Maroney’s health issues and his first year as a full time back, and so will probably stay away from him in most leagues. I also think that the Bears are going to be a bad football team this year and Cedric Benson is not going to help with that.
Guys Who Might Kill Me Because I Hate Them: None really stick out, although for some reason I’m very anti-Willie Parker and I have no idea why. I also hate Ahman Green for destroying several teams of mine a few years ago and wouldn’t be suprised if he has a very nice season.
WIDE RECEIVER
1 Steve Smith, Car
2 Marvin Harrison, Ind
3 Chad Johnson, Cin
4 Torry Holt, StL
5 Terrell Owens, Dal
6 Reggie Wayne, Ind
7 Larry Fitzgerald, Ari
8 Roy Williams, Det
9 Anquan Boldin, Ari
10 Lee Evans, Buf
11 T.J. Houshmandzadeh, Cin
12 Javon Walker, Den
13 Andre Johnson, Hou
14 Donald Driver, GB
15 Randy Moss, NE
16 Marques Colston, NO
17 Chris Chambers, Mia
18 Hines Ward, Pit
19 Plaxico Burress, NYG
20 Santana Moss, Was
21 Laverneus Coles, NYJ
22 Darrell Jackson, SF
23 Terry Glenn, Dal
24 Reggie Brown, Phi
25 Deion Branch, Sea
26 Joey Galloway, TB
27 Braylon Edwards, Cle
28 Mark Clayton, Bal
29 Jerricho Cotchery, NYJ
30 Vincent Jackson, SD
31 Kevin Curtis, Phi
Ah, the wide receiver position, always year in and year out a crap shoot. You’ve got the guys you know are gonna be good (#1-6) but then a bunch of guys who have very little consistency and could give you 80 catches for 1100 yards and 12 TDs, or score four times. I hate this position. Draft your two or three RBs first, but then try to get three of the top 21 listed above.
Potential Sleepers: I like Andre Johnson in Houston with Schaub as his new QB and Kevin Walter, who I’ve been hearing good things about, starting next to him. I like Chris Chambers, though I feel like I say this every year, but perhaps this is finally the year he rises to the top with Trent Green throwing to him. I like Anthony Gonzalez as the slot receiver in Indy. I don’t think he’s nailed down that role but I think he could, and that means he could be good for 6 or so TDs, which wouldn’t be bad for your fourth receiver. I like Joey Galloway, too.
Potential Busts: I’m down on the Cardinals receivers, as I’m down on their QB. I don’t think Colston’s numbers will be as gaudy and there’s a great chance he gets drafted too high in your league, as I still have that "7th round pick out of Hofstra!" angle burned into my brain.
Guys Who Might Kill Me Because I Hate Them: Man, I know the temptation with Moss is there, but I’m just not feeling it. I still have trouble envisioning Moss as a success on this New England team. I think he’ll play well enough, but we’re talking 900 yards, 6 TDs well. I know I may eat these words, but that’s how I’m feeling right now. Also, I obviously hate TO. Like, a whole lot.
TIGHT END
1 Antonio Gates, SD
2 Tony Gonzalez, KC
3 Todd Heap, Bal
4 Jeremy Shockey, NYG
5 Alge Crumpler, Atl
6 Chris Cooley, Was
7 Kellen Winslow, Cle
8 Vernon Davis, SF
9 Jason Witten, Dal
10 L.J. Smith, Phi
11 Ben Watson, NE
12 Heath Miller, Pit
13 Owen Daniels, Hou
14 Ben Troupe, Ten
15 Daniel Graham, Den
After Gates, there is some decent depth – a guy like Jason Whitten, who could produce six TDs fairly easily, could be available in round 12 or so. My philosophy on TE stays the same: if I can’t get Gates, I’ll take one late.
Potential Sleepers: LJ Smith is a bit hurt right now and many are down on him, meaning he could slip farther than he should. I would happily take a flyer on Vernon Davis based on his potential. When is Ben Watson going to have his 10 TD season?
Potential Busts: It’s hard to call any of these guys busts, because they’re generally low performing anyway. If anything, I’d stay away from Tony Gonzalez, just because he’s another year older and KC scares me with all their question marks on offense.
Guys Who Might Kill Me Because I Hate Them: I hate Shockey but I don’t fear him – it’s obvious what he’s going to produce.
KICKER
1 Adam Vinatieri, Ind
2 Nate Keading, SD
3 Shayne Graham, Cin
4 Robbie Gould, Chi
5 Neil Rackers, Ari
6 David Akers, Phi
7 Josh Brown, Sea
8 Jason Elam, Den
9 Josh Scobee, Jac
10 Matt Stover, Bal
I won’t do sleepers and busts with kickers, because, c’mon, they’re kickers. My two rules for picking a kicker are to pick one that a) that plays with a team with a high-powered offense; b) to plays on a team in nice weather. But again, this is such a crapshoot – the highest scoring kicker in 2006 was Robbie Gould; in 2005, Neil Rackers; in 2004, Adam Vinatieri – that a kicker should not be drafted until the last or second to last round.
DEFENSE
1 Bears
2 Ravens
3 Patriots
4 Chargers
5 Eagles
6 Broncos
7 Dolphins
8 Cowboys
9 Steeler
10 Jaguars
More important than kickers but more difficult to predict are defenses. Unless you use some crazy scoring systems, the most important indicator of a good fantasy defense is how many TDs it scores (whereas in the NFL defenses are ranked on yards allowed). How the hell can you guess how many TDs a defense will score? Frustrating owners further is that statistically, there is only a slight (or at least erratic) correlation between the NFL’s best defenses and fantasy’s. Fuck. So use this list, use another list, or just make it the fuck up: as long as you don’t take a defense too early, we can still be friends.
***************
There’s your 2007 fantasy football primer. I apologize for any misspellings, but it pretty much took me forever to write this baby and I’m not running the spellcheck through it because of all the names.
I need a nap. Be back tomorrow.
(If I learned anything during my time in LA, it’s that I’m a much better person when wearing a robe, especially sexually-speaking. How can you not think you’re an incredible lover while making love in a robe? And by "making love" I mean "masturbating in the empty fitness room at 5am.")
It was a very unplanned thing; I didn’t decide I wanted to do it until the day before I left, and had no idea where I’d stay. I didn’t think finding a place to stay would be a problem, thanks to Priceline. I don’t know if you guys are familiar with it, but the name your own price function of Priceline is pretty solid when it comes to hotels. Back when I was writing my book, I had such trouble concentrating in my apartment that on a Friday afternoon at about 3pm, I’d go to Priceline and name my own price of $110 a night for a three or four star hotel in NYC. Since it was already 3pm, my price would be accepted and I was often given the option to get two nights for that price. So I’d hole myself up in an anonymous four star hotel somewhere in midtown Manhattan, buy about six bottles of wine, put on a robe, shut off my phone, and write until I physically couldn’t type anymore, too drunk from the wine. I’m not gonna lie – it was totally fucking awesome.
Naturally, I figured that I’d do the same for my weekend jaunt to San Diego. I wanted something luxurious, since in my book luxury = productivity. Also, this was a vacation in a vacation in a city that I had never been before, so I wanted something nice and centrally located.
So on Friday afternoon, as I had done numerous times while in NYC, I named my own price of $120 a night and searched for four star hotels in San Diego. This price was roundly and immediately rejected. Usually, if your price is rejected, a little note appears asking you to bump up your price a little bit or change your criteria to include areas outside the main part of the city, to increase the chances of your price being accepted. However, my price was so thoroughly rejected that a prompt came up basically saying, "Dude, you’ve gotta be kidding. Take that price and shove it up your cheap ass, fatty."
I won’t get into the downward spiral that this reject spun me into, but I was so insulted that my price was so extremely rejected that Priceline wound up winning and I wound up paying an egregious amount to stay at a nice hotel right on the water in San Diego. Weekend of luxury, here I come. Whatever.
Because of late meetings and traffic, I didn’t get check into the hotel until 10pm on Friday night. Though I was paying an arm and a leg, the hotel was indeed nice, with my room looking out onto the Pacific Ocean and the harbor (or marina or whatever) below, the boats bobbing to the rhythm of the ocean in their docks. I put on my robe, ordered a gigantic room service meal, and popped open one of the bottles of wine I had bought before leaving LA. I was asleep, passed out with contentness with a belly full of wine and room service, by midnight.
The next morning I awoke fairly early, determined to make the most of the weekend. I had decided, however, that for the rest of my stay I was going to live as cheaply as possible. Having splurged not only on the hotel but also the room service meal, I planned on drinking my cheap wine, cheap beer and eating nothing but doritos all day Saturday to help ease the financial burden of the weekend. All this thinking about how much money I was spending got me nervous and I did what I always do when I’m nervous: poop.
One thing I often do while pooping at hotels is remove the roll of toilet paper from its dispenser thingee. I don’t like reaching back and forth to rip different sheets of when wiping, and so I prefer to have it sitting in my lap when I’m wrapping up the process. This hotel, like most hotels, had a double toilet paper holder, so I grabbed the nearest one when I sensed that the fun was about to end.
As I let out the last vestiges of the previous night’s steak, I turned the toilet paper roll around in my hands. Only seconds after my last big push did I make my horrifying discovery. There was a "substance" on the side of the roll of toilet paper I was holding, splattered in various spots on the roll around the tube. It wasn’t poop, though. It was blood.
This…this was disappointing on a number of levels. I am, for better or worse, more comfortable with feces than almost anyone I know. I don’t exactly celebrate it, but I know it, and I know it well. I can even handle blood, growing up as I did watching my friends beat each other to pieces and now enjoying myriad murder shows. But a stranger’s blood – and not a small amount of a stranger’s blood – completely grossed me the F out. There I was, sitting on a toilet, wearing a robe, having just pooped, holding a bloodied roll of toilet paper in my hand. This was not the luxury I had hoped for when I planned my weekend.
Fortunately, the other roll of TP did not have any blood on it, so I was able to successfully use that. I washed my hands thoroughly after the poo, even though I had never directed touched the blood. Once finished, I had to decide what I was going to do.
I am typically not one to ruffle feathers. The surest way to never go on another date with me again is to send something back to the kitchen or be a dick to the waiter or otherwise make a big fuss out of something that does not meet your standards. However, I am not a pussy. And after thinking it over, I decided that I had to tell the hotel about this – blood on a toilet paper roll at a four star hotel warranted a complaint, I thought.
So I called down to the front desk and said I wasn’t sure who to speak to, but that I found something gross in my room. I could tell that the woman I spoke to was more than mildly terrified of what I had found and so she didn’t ask any follow up questions. She said she’d send someone up shortly.
A solid ten minutes later, there was a knock at my door. A dude who looked about 23 years old introduced himself to me as the head of housekeeping at the hotel. He looked like your typical SoCal surfer dude, except that I was sure he was the most effeminate of his surfer friends. I looked down, expecting him to extend his hand for a handshake, but he did not do so because he was wearing rubber gloves.
He tried to be jovial about the situation, saying he had heard that I had found something unpleasant in the room. He, like the woman who took my call, was terrified and tentative with his words and movements. I smiled, said "Well…" and walked into the bathroom, returning to produce the bloody toilet paper roll.
He looked it for too long without speaking I thought, and so I said, "There’s blood on this toilet paper." At that point, he let out a little shriek and gingerly took the toilet paper in his hands and put it into a bag he’d left just outside the room. When he returned to the room, he took a deep breath to compose himself, then apologized profusely, saying that that was one of the grossest things he’d ever seen. I said that it was no problem, that I just wanted to let someone know. He then said, "I noticed that you’re paying for the room yourself this weekend [it's a big convention hotel] and that you had ordered room service last night. We’ll take care of that room service for you, as well as one night of your stay, and really, if there’s anything else we can do, just let me know."
This was more like the luxury I had hoped for when I planned my weekend. A free meal and free night at a hotel, saving me a substantial amount of money, all because of some blood on a roll of toilet paper. Jackpot.
(Needless to say, I know what I’m doing during my next hotel stay. I wonder what a blood soaked robe could get me? I need to start drinking fluids now.)
Not surprisingly, I dropped out of the class after one session. Not, primarily, because it was so early (although this was certainly a factor), but because in that first class the professor had us singing – actually fucking singing, at 9am no less – scales. Though I loved and still love music, I was not about to wake up at 8:30am three times a week to sing do-re-mi-fa-so-la-ti-da in front of a bunch of strangers.
I took some other non-arts class that semester instead and the following semester five buddies and I signed up for "Introduction to Theater" in order to knock out the fine arts requirement. I was a little apprehensive about theater because, well, theater is for gays and crazy chicks. But successfully nestled in the back of the classroom in my cocoon of buddies, the class went just fine. I actually grew to like it and saw it as a nice break between laborious history classes. Also, I wound up getting a beejer from some chick from the class a year later, which was totally sweet.
One of the plays we read in this class was Moliere’s The Misanthrope. The play is about this dude who basically doesn’t give an F. A guy that he knows wrote this terrible poem and rather than say it was good to be polite, the protagonist says it sucks. Hilarity ensues. The main character eschews politeness and social convention because he doesn’t want to play nice, and in the end goes off and lives alone in a cave somewhere. I think.
I enjoyed the play, in no small part because I could relate to the character in certain ways: we both don’t like poets, we’re both don’t like French people, and we both fall in love easily. But I didn’t realize the extent to which I would become a misanthrope many years later.
******
On Friday night, my friends Jeremy and Brian came over to my place and we drank 23 bud bombers between us while pre-gaming (bud bombers, remember, are 16 oz cans of beer). We then went out to a local bar to meet some friends. Within 45 minutes, I had pulled an Irish Exit – pretending like I was going outside to make a call but then leaving the bar and going home. I couldn’t stand being there.
On Saturday night, my friends Jeremy and Brian and I went over to Hoboken to our friend Brendan’s place for a BBQ. It was incredible; cappicola and fresh mozzarella for appetizers, then half-pound burgers stuffed with bacon and cheese. The four of us drank 49 bottles of beer before going out. I was able to last longer than 45 minutes at the bar, mostly because I was marooned in Hoboken and it wasn’t feasible to return to Manhattan without Jeremy and Brian. So I took comfort in the Golden Tee machine and didn’t so much as look at anyone who I didn’t come to the bar with.
Because of these and other examples, it has become apparent to me that I hate other people. I’ve always had an inkling that I disliked being around people I didn’t know, but I’m finding that as I’m getting older, this "dislike" is growing into something like "rageful passion."
When I’m out at most bars, I look around and immediately think that most everyone is a douchebag. This is probably because I’m insecure. I don’t really know why I feel this way and, to be honest, it concerns me. Do I feel not up to par with the open-shirted former frat boys doing jagerbombs? Am I sad because I’m not as cool as the I-cut-my-own-hair hipsters? Am I resentful because I realize that 99.6% of the women in the bar have little interest in talking to a man with an unruly beard who smells like cheap whiskey and whose only claim to fame is his uncanny ability to joke about how small his penis is? I think it’s all of the above.
But whatever the cause, the bottom line is that my misanthropy is seriously affecting my social life. After the events of Friday night, which found me retreating from the bar faster than a black man escapes the responsibilities of fatherhood, and Saturday night, when the only things that kept me from immediately running back to my apartment were a video game and the Hudson River, I realize that something needs to be done. I have two choices.
1) Do cocaine.
I do not like cocaine. I feel that if you are over 25 and do cocaine – and you are not rich and/or famous – you are gross. Cocaine is gross.
But on the other hand cocaine is awesome. And it would certainly help with my recent bouts of misanthropy; if I had been coked up on Friday night, I probably wouldn’t have left the bar in 45 minutes and instead would have stayed until the lights came on, dancing and having scintillating conversation all the while, which would invariably continue over diner food well into the early morning hours. Instead, I went home and quietly wept to myself in my shower. So doing cocaine is option one.
2) Start a social club.
I kicked around the idea of owning my own bar on here before, but there’s one obstacle to that problem: owning a bar would cost a lot of money and I don’t have money. So there’s that.
On Saturday while barbequing, Brendan, one of my more ambitious/entrepreneurial friends (which isn’t saying much) brought up the idea of a social club. Basically, he suggested we rent a loft space and fill it with a bunch of cool crap – sweet stereo system, big screen tv(s), video game set ups, etc – and a bar. Brendan, Brian, Jeremy and I, the four at the mini-bbq, would be original members, and each of us could invite five other peoples to be members. For a fee – maybe a few hundred dollars a month – each member would have access to the place at all times, at which he could chill out, watch a game, have a beer, smoke a joint, etc. The membership fee would cover rent of the space, upkeep, and keep the bar stocked.
Well.
I really, really like this idea, for many reasons. First and foremost, it’s more social than the four of us sitting in my apartment slamming beers (not that there’s anything wrong with that), and much less annoying than going to bars packed with douchebags. I think it’s the latter that’s so appealing to me; the ability to control who I spend my time with and around is very exciting and possibly arousing for me.
If I were rich, I’d have everyone close to me live on a complex. In the middle would be my home, a modest but tastefully luxurious house in which I’d live alone. To the right of my home, would be a large house filled with all sorts of fun things like a movie room, music studio, batting cage, etc, in which ten or so of my closest friends would live. On the other side of my house would be another modest but tastefully luxurious house in which my wife and children would live. The rest of my family would live within an hour’s drive. But maybe the complex would be hard to find, so they wouldn’t come out there unless they really needed to. Also, the complex would have some sort of Sex Pit or Intercourse Shed, probably in the back of my house. I’m still working with the architects on this.
But until I hit the lottery, my mega complex is only a dream. The social club, however, is fairly attainable. Say monthly rent in a modest loft is $3600 a month. If our little social club had 24 members paying $250 each, that’s $6000. That remaining $2400 a month should cover the cleaning, stocking of the bar, and other miscellaneous costs (cable, internet, etc), with enough leftover to help offset the initial costs (TV’s, sound system, etc). For the record, we’re not talking about a social club with oak paneling and hot 19 year old bartenders pouring from $70 bottles of scotch; more like a bunch of friends sitting around in a half decent loft with nice enough stuff that no one will pee on. Really, with most of my friends, that’s really all you can ask for.
I’m sure that this idea, like all of our ideas, will die soon, if it did not already die when Saturday evening ended. But I’m going to obsess about this for at least a week, and anoint this the true cure for my misanthropy.
(And also I’m going to play the lottery - I owe the architects $21,000 as a consulting fee for my Complex of Solitude. I hope they have bad lawyers.)
(Special almost double edition since I haven’t done this for so long)
"Red Reflection" Spindrift
I spent a lot of time in my sweet sea foam green Ford Taurus rental car in LA, driving from meeting to meeting. I didn’t have any cds, so I mostly listened to the radio. Early in the morning and late at night it’d be 97.1 for Adam Corolla or Love Line. But in the afternoons, I’d listen to either 101.5 (oldies), 93.9 (R&B jams), 95.5 (which was classic rock, but really must have been the official home of the band Boston, since they played them so much) or 103.1 (indie rock). There was some British asshole who had an afternoon show on the indie station who always played incredible, incredible music.
It was on his show that I discovered this song, which sounds like something off the "Dusk Til Dawn" soundtrack. It’s got this bluesy/sexy/dark/mysterious sound to it that makes you want to fuck a dragon (I love it so much I put it on my MySpace page). I’ve currently added it to my "Let’s Make Out or Something" playlist, but it’s so dark and scary that I’m not sure it’ll last on there. I’ll have to ask the next girl I bring home. Provided, of course, she’s not deaf. You know, like four of the last five.
"Maps" The Arcade Fire
Speaking of scary, this is a cover of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs song and is downright terrifying. Listen at your own risk, and expect nightmares.
(Also, I am pretty sure that the members of this band would hate me. On one end of the intensity scale, there are love triangles that end in murder, The Arcade Fire, and hate-fucking. On the other end of the intensity scale, there’s sour cream, me, and water balloons. So I don’t think we’d get along in real life.)
"How Many More Times" Led Zeppelin
Every fan of Led Zeppelin knows the famous riff, but I want to focus on the part of the song that starts around the 5:30 mark, when Robert Plant starts screaming "Oh Rosie!" I don’t know how else to say this, so I’m just gonna let it out: when this part of the song comes on, no matter where I am, I have to take my penis out. It gets so dirty, so funky, so depraved, that my penis just has to come out of my pants. I can’t explain it either. It’s just how it is.
(Seriously though, when he’s singing, "They call me The Hunter…" is there a better example of dirty rock/cock rock than that? I feel like Robert Plant is actually fucking me when he sings those words – and I dig it, I totally fucking dig it. Forget Page’s guitar, which is incredible, but between JPJ’s bass and Bonzo’s drums, like I said, the penis, it comes out. Thank God this part of the song is only about 90 seconds before going back to the main riff.)
This song makes me want to start a band, not only because the riff is so thunderous yet easy you could play it while barely conscious, but also because I bet I could make myself climax if I were rocking out to this song hard enough. If you sing, play drums, or play guitar or bass, please let me know (I can cover either the bass or the guitar part, but not the rest) – or just let me know come over to your basement, get high, and watch you guys play it.
(With my penis out, of course.)
"Yeah! Oh Yeah!" The Magnetic Fields
I was a little high doing the dishes last night and this song came on and nearly blew my brains out. While I don’t want to give it away, I kind of have to: it’s about a failing marriage that ends when the husbands kills his wife – not exactly a lullaby, I know. But unlike the other songs mentioned, I don’t find myself particularly frightened by this song. Maybe it makes me feel a little cold (none of the Magnetic Fields’ music should be listened to in warm sunny weather – this shit is for winter), and it definitely makes me intrigued, but I’m not scared. Maybe I’m turning a corner.
"Stardust" John Coltrane
I don’t know anything about jazz, but I do know that if I had to pick one song to listen to immediately after my wife tells me she’s been fucking my agent – who, coincidentally, I’ve been fucking – this is the song I’ll listen to. Translation: this song is soothing and calms me down.
"Walk On" Neil Young
Up until about two years ago, I really didn’t like Neil Young. Maybe even hated him. I don’t know what happened around that time, but now I’m kinda of in love with him. Last year I went to Maine with some friends and did a CRAPLOAD of drugs and booze and listened to this album, "On The Beach," from which this is the opening track, over and over again. Now, whenever I hear this song, it brings me right back to that beach house, sitting on a deck at 3am watching the ocean break against the sand, eating a whole bag of Cool Ranch Doritos, hoping to God the mushrooms start to wear off because I’m pretty sure that I’m going to start wielding a knife in, like, 30 seconds.
Magical, magical times.
(Also, really great song.)
"Don’t Matter" Akon
Because nobody wanna to see us together, but it don’t matter, no.
"Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me" Mel Carter
One of my five favorite songs ever. When I hear this, I am reduced to a sobbing, blubbering mass who just wants to hold hands with and/or smell a woman’s hair. This is why I will marry the first woman who asks me to slow dance with her. And also why all of my male children will be homosexual. At this point, whatever.
"Black Like Me" Spoon
This is a very, very good album, friends. The single "The Underdog" is exceptional, as is "You Got Yr. Cherry Bomb", but if I had to pick a favorite, it’d be this one. I could talk about how I am in love with the chord progressions in this song, but fuck it – it’s just a great little rock song that sounds unlike anything I’ve heard in a long time. This song was added to my "Sitting & Drinking" playlist before it had finished its first play on my iTunes.
"There Is A Mountain" Donovan
I’m pretty down on Donovan, because it seems like he’s been playing the "I was friends with the Bob Dylan and the Beatles" card forever and I can only name two of his songs. Also, I once checked out his iTunes celebrity playlist and no lie, seven of the ten songs were by him. Major, major turn-off.
However, this song makes me wish I was a fucking hippie. Real bad. I want to have a picnic in Central Park and buy some bongos just so a bunch of strangers and I can sing and play this song together. He may be a douche, but it’s a hell of a catchy song.
"Steal Away" Robbie Dupree
This song has been in my head for about 22 years, even though I don’t think I had heard it for about 15 years until I downloaded it recently. And though I admit it’s catchy, it’s also just about the worst song I’ve ever heard – in a critical sense. I mean, I can feel my musical tastes getting worse every time I hear this song, with that stupid catchy "doo-doo-doo-doo/doo- doo/doo-doo-doo" hook throughout – it’s like I want to kick my own ass for kinda liking it.
Why do I recommend it on here? Because like I said, I’ve been suffering with it for 22 years. Now you have to. Welcome to my nightmare.
[Have a good weekend]
[PS – I am going to get really, really drunk tonight.]
1) I’m fat.
2) I’m super hairy.
3) I have a baby penis.
4) Women, they are not attracted to me so much.
5) I drink a lot – it makes me feel good.
6) Seriously, I have a really small bird. To be honest, I’m not even sure it’s there anymore; I haven’t seen it in weeks.
That’s about it. Sure, I make fun of my friends and family sometimes and occasionally provide scathing social commentary, but I’d say 82% of this site comes from those six jokes. Thank god y’all are just so bored at your jobs that you keep coming back. God bless you, you magnificent sons of bitches.
Anyway, it’s those days when something out of the ordinary happens to me, thus giving me something new to talk about, that I’m most grateful for. Like, for example, when something strange happens on my way to work, or I get a call from a buddy telling me a funny story, or my dad writes an editorial from the Philadelphia Daily News titled, "My Son Jasin [sic], The Half-a-Fag," and 100 people I grew up with forward it to me. These give birth to new posts that don’t revolve around the Six Jokes. Which is a good thing, I guess.
But sometimes something out of the ordinary happens to me that, even though I know it will make for great material, I wish had never happened to me at all. Like, for example, the events of yesterday.
On Tuesday night, I went out for a drink and left the bar just after 2am. I felt spectacular; I had a good time and a solid buzz that loosened me up nicely without causing me to worry about a hangover the next day. It was my first night out in NYC in weeks. It was a warm but clear and lovely night, the streets winding through Soho on the way back to my apartment were empty and felt like mine. I looked forward to getting into my apartment, cranking up the AC in my bedroom, and falling quickly asleep, content to be home.
But it was only seconds after I opened to the door to my apartment that that dream was quickly ruined. I noticed that, for the second time in three months, my toilet had exploded, spewing toilet water all over my bathroom and into my kitchen. But unlike last time, when the water was mostly clear, this water had stuff in it. This water was a murky greenish-brown, with soggy strings of toilet paper and what appeared to be shredded lettuce in it. And there was something else even more vile: chunks of brown matter, some as large as a baby’s fist, passing like ships in the water. We’re talking feces here, people - real, live poopy, floating in my bathroom, spilling into my kitchen.
Yikes.
And, [sound of me throwing up, pooping myself, then lighting my apartment and all my possessions on fire.]
Before I could process what was going on, I acted. The toilet was still exploding, so I quickly ran into my bedroom, threw on an old pair of boots and grabbed every towel I owned (save for one) and headed into the mess. If I learned anything from my toilet fiasco last time, it’s that in order to stop a toilet from exploding one must turn the toilet value against the wall on the lower left side of the toilet, effectively cutting off water to the toilet. This is first thing I did, in the hopes of preventing further damage. It was only after I had done this that I was able to assess what was going on: I was standing in my bathroom at 2:30 in the morning, half-drunk, in a inch of feces-filled water, wearing work boots, and holding my soon-to-be very unluxurious towels in my hands. Personally, I would have preferred to end the night with a handjob or a slice of pizza, but this would have to do, I guess.
I then went about the grim task of laying towels down to sop up the shit water, covering up the little balls of shit on my floor. As I did this, I was recovering from the initial shock and started to assess the situation. I would lay the towels down, then I would change. I still didn’t have a contact number for either my super, a drunk Italian man in his fifties who drinks wine all day at the Italian restaurant I live above, nor for my landlord, who can usually be found in the back office of said restaurant. Because it was almost 3am, the restaurant was closed. So I decided that after laying down the towels I would do some googling and hire the people who clean up after murders to come into my apartment and forever rid it of any traces of feces. They would probably come in the morning, and after they did their job, I’d promptly had the bill to landlord. This was the second time this had happened in three months, so obviously it didn’t get fixed the first time by plumbers the landlord chose, so they were going to pay not just to get it fixed, but for the clean up and the repurchase of all my bathroom stuff. F that.
Then it occurred to me: the poop I was standing in was not my poop. I had just returned to the apartment at 3am Sunday night/Monday morning. It was now Tuesday night, just about 48 hours later. In the meantime, I hadn’t even shit at my place yet, instead doing my duty at work. So the feces that I was now crushing under my previously luxurious towels belonged to either a) the tourists who ate in the Italian restaurant below or b) my Chinese neighbors.
Before I had time to process this thought and subsequently rip my own genitals off in disgust, the toilet exploded again – with extreme prejudice. While I was not hit by any of the turdish water pouring out (I was outside the bathroom in the kitchen at this point and the bathroom door was partially closed), poo water shot out of the toilet and the water level in the bowl soon rose and spilled over, again flooding the bathroom floor.
Again, yikes.
This was not supposed to happen. I had shut off the toilet valve, meaning no water should be coming into the toilet at all. But here it was, rising like the creature from the black lagoon out of the bowl, seeping slowly onto the towels on the floor after a quick shotgun blast.
This is where the real panic set in. I needed to call someone, and fast. I ran outside my apartment to see if anyone was in the restaurant – no dice. I called the restaurant, hoping at least for a machine, but there was no answer (it was 3am and dark inside the restaurant, so it was a shot in the dark). My super lives in the building next door, but the outer door was locked and the building doesn’t have a buzzer. So I wasn’t going to be able to get in touch with either my super or the landlord. Terrific.
The only recourse, I thought, was to call a plumber now. Like I said, every towel and dish rag in my apartment was now stemming the tide of the shit water, and it was working. Therefore, I had bought myself some time. So I sat at my computer and googled, "24 hour plumber NYC." Dozens of hits came up. I checked the Yahoo yellow pages – dozens of 24 hour plumbers as well. So I got to dialing.
I was up until after 4am calling these "24 hour" plumbers. Only one of the two dozen I called answered, and he said he’d be at my place at 9:30am. Again, terrific.
I walked over to my bathroom. The shit water was still coming out of the toilet, but at a much slower pace – it seemed generally less angry at me now. The towels were holding up and stemming the tide of shit water, not yet saturated. To be sure, I went and grabbed some old t-shirts to lay on top of the towels for extra absorption. Then, with nothing else to do, I went to bed, shit-spewing toilet and all.
******
The next morning is a blur of rage and feces. The plumber I called came, but he was sent away by my still drunk from the night before super, who refused to pay his price. This cause such a great deal of hubbub that one of the brothers of my landlord arrived at the scene. Instead, the super called his own plumbers, the same Russian guys who showed up before and previously "fixed" this problem. They soon showed up and began to work on the toilet.
By the point, after having slept about three hours the night before, I called my office to let them know I was working from home to make sure this problem was resolved. While the Russian plumbers worked away in my bathroom, I sat in my home office, trying to get stuff done. After about two hours, I heard a knock on my office door.
It was the landlord’s brother, an Italian-America guy with a thick Long Island accent. "It’s done," he said, "It’s fixed. But could you believe that?" Feeling that he might be blaming me, I said that I couldn’t believe it and didn’t know what caused the problem, pointing out that I returned two nights prior from a three week trip out of town and haven’t even shit in my bathroom since. Surprised, he asked if the plumbers had shown me was caused the problem. When I said no, he shook his head in disgust and said one word: "Tampons."
Apparently, he continued, someone in the building had been flushing tampons down the toilet, causing a building-wide septic system back-up that released itself on my apartment. "And," he added, "I think I know who it was."
There are eight apartments in my building: my apartment, an old Italian lady who lives on the top floor, and then six apartments filled with Chinese families. The landlord’s brother speculated that there was not one Tampon Bandit, but two – in this case, a set of Chinese twins maybe 12 years old who lived in the building. The landlord’s brother, with great gusto and a passion reserved for the most intense conspiracy theorist/lunies, said that it must be these twins, a few floors up and newly pubescent and therefore unschooled in the ways of tampon disposal, that were flushing their tampons down the toilet, nearly ruining the plumbing.
I was stunned listening to this, but just when I thought it couldn’t get any better – Chinese pubescent twins causing feces to explode into my apartment because of their tampon flushage? – he added, "And I bet they’re Chinese tampons, like real industrial-grade shit. You know what I mean? Probably not biodegradable and real serious shit, you know what I mean?"
Um, no. I have no idea what you mean at all, actually. But I’m glad my toilet’s fixed.
I spent the remainder of the day working with cleaning crews to clean the mess up, which they actually did a good job doing, and then spent my evening/night cleaning the place myself, which I did a pretty solid job of. While I probably wouldn’t eat off my bathroom floor, I bet it’s probably cleaner now then it was before Shit Expo 2007.
I don’t know if there’s a lesson in this story, because I’m very tired. And I suppose I’m glad I got a good story out of it – after all, it has all the dramatic elements needed: industrial strength tampons, 12 year old Chinese twins, a whole lot of shit, and a half-drunk protagonist.
But really, next time I’m hard up for something to write about, I’ll figure it out. The shit on my bathroom floor caused by tampons…that, I could live without. Really.
Hope y’all can make it.
Well, that was interesting.
I got back to NYC last night (at 2am – thank you, Delta, for being a paragon of punctuality) after three weeks in Los Angeles. And what I’d like to say is…wow.
What I’d also like to say is: I’m sorry. I’m sorry for disappearing most of these past three weeks, but I assure that I was thinking about you the whole time. At work, at home, in the bathroom, even during Uncle Jason’s Private Time, you were on my mind. It’s just that, well, I was exhausted.
Whereas I spent my first week in LA spending my afternoons lackadaisically (and lovingly) loving myself through various lengthy self-love sessions (lot of love there), the last two weeks of my trip were pure chaos. I moved out of my hotel early in the second week and into my buddy Dan’s place in Santa Monica. Dan is a buddy who is a teacher and who returned to Philly over this summer break, so he let me crash in his bedroom and at his place with his roommates, Donnie and PJ. This meant that my commute was no longer six minutes to and from work. This also meant that my days of lying on a hotel bed, robed, spread eagle, grunting and spitting and tugging at my genitals, were over. Which sucked. Pretty bad.
Another factor that stopped my seemingly unending tide of masturbation was that the number of meetings I had increased. Remember, I went out there to pursue another entertainment industry-type thingee that I can’t really get into (lest I embarrass myself if/when it fails), but I worked out of my firm’s LA office every day from 6:30am to 2:30pm, so I could take meetings in the late afternoons/early evenings. This allowed me to pursue my other interest while not burning a ton of vacation days to do so. Sweet.
And for a while, it was pretty sweet. Work was actually pretty intense and I was constantly groggy, but I could deal with that. The main "problem" was that the number of meetings I took drastically increased over the length of my stay (and I realize this is not a bad problem to have had, but I am very big and tire easily). For example, in my first week in LA, I had two meetings all week long; on my last Friday there, I had three meetings on that day alone. As my number of meetings increased meaning I had longer days and less "me" time, even if I had been able to masturbate in peace, I probably would have been too tired to do so.
(Author’s Note: The previous sentence is kind of a lie. Thank you.)
And if you’ve ever even heard of LA, you know that it has a crapload of traffic. So I’d wake up at 5:20am, work eight or nine hours, then spend several hours driving to all the corners of Los Angeles, sometimes back and forth into the Valley, sucking down diet cokes, fumbling with mapquest directions, grunting and spitting and tugging at my genitals.
(Hey, I was crunched for time; if a man can’t make time for him and his bird, he’s not a man at all. And it was a rental anyway, so who cares?)
Leaving home when it’s dark and returning home when it’s dark really, really sucks. I can’t stress this enough. Not only did it wear me out, but it nearly destroyed my friendships. The number of texts, emails and phone calls I did not return while I was in LA is not in the hundreds, but probably right around a hondo. I couldn’t hang out with my LA friends during the week because I was often too tired to even wipe my own ass, let alone meet at 9pm for drinks halfway across town. And I didn’t speak much to my friends back East because I was too worn out and basically didn’t feel like answering the multiple questions they’d have about how things were going/what I was doing in LA. Of course, they’d ask these questions because, you know, they’re good at being a friend. I’d not return their phone calls because I’d rather spend the hour I had between dinner and going to sleep lying in bed, listening to the sound of my own breathing and wishing I’d hit the lottery so I’d never have to wake up early again. And I’m terrible at being a friend.
(Seriously, I was the worst friend ever over the past three weeks. And I’m sorry for that. So sorry I don’t even have a joke here. So you know I’m for real.)
But this past weekend, my last in LA, was the time when I was to make it up to everyone, when I’d suck it up, drink as many vodka red bulls as I could fit in my belly, and rage, rage against the dying of the light. I had completed three intense weeks in LA and now it was time to rock out with my cock out – no excuses.
Or at least that was the plan.
When I got home in the evening from meetings on Friday, I took a quick nap. I woke up an hour later, shivering. Because Dan and his roommates are hypochondriacs, they had a thermometer handy. I took my temperature: 102.1.
Crap.
So I wound up very nearly spending my last weekend in LA literally raging against the dying of the light, as I lay in bed, shivering, then sweating, then spitting up mucus (sorry, Dan , but I did wash your sheets really good before I left). I had noticed during the day on Friday that my throat was sore, but I thought this was because I had been talking so goddamn much over the past few days. I never thought it was a sign of something else; and anyway, what’s the big deal about a sore throat? Didn’t they prescribe whiskey for sore throats until like 1977? I was going to be fine.
But when I took my temperature, it was all downhill from there. I shut it down big time on Friday night, loading up on acetaminophen and leaving bed only to go to the bathroom, hoping to crush my illness in one fell swoop so that I could salvage the weekend by going out on Saturday night.
Shortly after I woke up on Saturday morning, my temperature was 102.9. That was about all she wrote. I spent my entire Saturday in bed, sleeping for short spells, sweating and moaning. I realize this sounds very sensual, but I assure you it was not. Not at all, really.
I was scheduled to fly back on Sunday, but as I lay there on Saturday, I contemplated flying out on Monday. There was no way I could take a 5.5 hour flight feeling like I did. On the other hand, I need to get the F back home, back to NYC, back to my apartment and my stuff. I feel asleep on Saturday night hoping that I’d wake up well enough to make the flight home.
Yesterday, Sunday morning, my temperature was just over 100, so I medically cleared myself to make the trip home. I packed up my things and headed out to LAX, saying goodbye to Los Angeles on the way out. I prayed to myself, God and Allah for a quick and painless flight home.
I don’t think I’d be able to pick my favorite part about my flight. Maybe it was the 2.5 hour delay that meant I arrived in NYC at 2am. Maybe it was the Arab gentleman who sat next to me and took his shoes off during the flight, nearly knocking me unconscious with the stink of his feet (I don’t claim to be an expert on Arab culture, so I ask: is it customary to carry decomposing mice in one’s loafers? I honestly will not be able to taste food for at least a week). Or maybe it was the baby who not cried but shrieked from the moment we took off until the moment we landed. This baby sat ten rows in front of me and I had headphones on the whole time and still it was arguably the most annoying noise I’ve ever heard in my life. When the plane finally landed and the lights came on, I noticed that the people in the rows surrounding this baby looked like they wanted to kill themselves and one guy had tried to give himself a vasectomy using only a butterknife and the free Delta headphones (they hooked us up because of the delay – thanks guys). I actually should have been more angry about the baby shrieking the entire time, but I felt like Ron Burgundy after Buster ate the whole wheel of cheese: I was too impressed to be mad. How a child of twenty pounds could not only ruin a flight for two hundred people but also make noise at such a high volume level for such a long time…it was truly amazing.
But the important thing is that I’m back. I plan on eating a shitload of Thai food tonight, taking a long shower, and going to bed at 9pm, but I’m in NYC for the foreseeable future. That means I will resume regularly scheduled posting. I have two posts that I started but didn’t finish that I wrote while in LA, so maybe I’ll put those up on here and back-date them (though I usually don’t like doing that). I will also dig through the emails that I’ve neglected over the past few weeks. But all of this is just details. The point: I’m committed to you. I worked hard, suffered a Lindsay Lohan/Dave Chappelle bout of exhaustion, and spent three weeks out of my element, but I’m back. And I promise Uncle Jason will make everything better.
Now let’s never be apart again.
In New York, I have many different groups of friends. Some I went to high school with, others I met in college; some I know through work, others I befriended while out in the city; some are former lovers, others wouldn’t sleep with me if my semen had large hunks of diamonds and/or luxury sedans in it.
But what’s great about the city of New York is that it’s easy to bring different groups of people together. If I’m out with some college buddies in the Lower East Side and I get a call from two guys I know from work on the Upper West Side looking to do something, I can say, "Hey, why don’t you hope into a cab and meet us down here?" And if they want to, they can be on the Lower East Side, $15 and a 20 minute cab ride later. Easy. Accessible. Conducive to maintaining various friendships.
In Los Angeles, I also have many different groups of friends. I know some people from high school and/or college out here, I met and befriended a number of people through my "entertainment industry" endeavors, and I also know a number of friends of friends who I share with the occasional drink with while on the west coast (I am, as you can probably tell, a pretty popular guy). After a rather long and difficult week last week, I looked forward to a weekend of reconnecting with everyone, getting drunk, socializing, and hearing, "Man, you really gained a lot of that weight back, huh?"
Unfortunately, it was not to be. I learned a very important LA lesson this weekend that goes something like: In LA, where you live determines everything about your social life, your romantic life, your professional life, and even possibly whether you end up in heaven or hell.
On Friday night, after yet another In-N-Out burger and a quick nap, I decided to meet my friends Dan and Donnie out in Santa Monica. I am staying in Westwood, which is only five or so miles from Dan and Donnie’s place two blocks from the beach in Santa Monica. Our plan was to meet there, have a few drinks, then go out somewhere in Santa Monica. My personal plan was to get bombed, act charming, and try to touch fake boobies. If this should fail, I had a pretty solid back-up plan: eat a whole pizza. One way or another, I was going home a winner.
So I started letting all my LA peeps know where I was going to be, either via call or text messages. The responses I received over the course of the night and their implications were horrifying.
You all probably know that in LA you need to drive in order to get around. That’s fine and understandable; not every place can be as compact and have as good public transportation as NYC. But this need to drive severely limits social opportunities. On Friday night, for example, when I was out in about in Santa Monica, one of my friends informed me that he was going out in Hollywood. Another was at a party in Hermosa Beach. A third was at a party in one of the canyons in the Hollywood Hills.
Even though each of these areas is only miles apart, I might as well have asked my friends in NYC where they were going to be that night, since I had as much a chance of seeing them as I did my friends in LA. In NYC terms, let’s say Santa Monica is the East Village (note: this is comparison is for purely geographical purposes and does not speak to any social and cultural similarities). Santa Monica is to Hollywood is to Hermosa Beach is to the Hollywood Hills as the East Village is to Astoria is to Roselle Park, New Jersey is to Manhasset, Long Island.
I have few complaints about Los Angeles, but this is my greatest. LA is provincial in a way that New York is not. Sure, New York has the eternal Manhattan vs. Brooklyn vs. Hoboken debate (living anywhere else is your own fault and so you deserve to be limited to that area), but when you live in say Marina Del Ray or Brentwood, your life will be restricted to those areas. This is not by force but by choice. Sure, one could reasonably venture out into other areas, but it seems to me that most people limit themselves to their neighborhoods. If you want to see a friend who lives in Beverly Hills, well, goddammit, you’d better get your ass into Beverly Hills. In this way, LA can be difficult, inaccessible, and make it difficult to maintain various friendships.
On Friday night, I hung out only with the people I met in Santa Monica. On Saturday night, the flurry of text messages and different locations made the prospect of going out so daunting that despite the fact that I had showered and prettied up, I got undressed, put on my robe, and got absurdly shitbombed alone in my hotel room until 4am, reading Wikipedia entries.
[Again, welcome to Saturday night in Los Angeles. It was quite a scene; my hotel room does not have a fridge, so one of my first purchases was a cooler. There was me, in a robe, drunk, going back and forth to the ice machine between the hours of 11pm and 4am to get ice for the beers in my cooler. I lieu of VH1 Classic, as mentioned I opted to read Wikipedia entries of VH1 Classic-type people. If you have the time, I would recommend Patti Boyd (she was even more of a muse than I thought) and Stevie Nicks (did you know she got breast implants in 1977 which she later blamed for her chronic malaise?). I actually had a wonderful little night on Saturday, with my robe, cooler, beers, and Wikipedia. And once again, ladies, I am single.]
This is Los Angeles, and I am helpless. I am chubby and lazy in a strange city and my friends are dispersed over this vast land. But as long as I have my robe, my beer-filled cooler, and a whole pizza nearby, I will thrive.
Working in New York hours in Los Angeles has one major advantage: I leave the office at 2:30pm.
But working New York hours in Los Angeles has one major disadvantage: I leave the office at 2:30pm, go straight back to my hotel room, and masturbate like a mental patient for hours and hours.
(And hours.)
You see, I don’t really know what to do with myself when I get out of work that early. I know a few people in LA, sure, but they’re all still working when I knock off, so I can’t exactly meet up with them for a drink. I suppose I could go sightseeing or something, but why would I drive around in horrendous midday LA traffic to see the Chinese theater or the Strip? In NYC, I walk around a lot, exploring the nooks and crannies of the Village, Soho and the Lower East Side, but in LA walking consists of a) walking to the car in the morning; b) walking from the car in the afternoon. I’m staying in Westwood, a neighborhood around UCLA, but aside from a strip of cafes, there ain’t much going on.
(Also, one of you warned me that UCLA has a lot of programs for high school students going on right now, so it’s in my best interest to stay away from the area, or at least always look down on focus on baseball stats while there, lest something regrettable and/or awesome happen.)
What I should be doing is work. Not the 9-to-5 kind, but the "I’m trying to write poop jokes for a living" kind. But the problem is that I’m a night person. There’s no way my ass is sitting down at a computer to "write" when it’s the middle of the afternoon and the city is teeming with life. I find inspiration not when the sun is shining and people are out and about, but when it’s dark, when it’s quiet, when it’s lonely; I like being awake when most everyone else is asleep. In a related story, I like to strangle and be strangled when I have sex. So there’s that.
(The other problem with doing work is that I’m a drunk. Like most things in life – fighting, sexing, robbing – I’m better at "writing" when I’ve had a few (or more than a few) in me. Last night, I went out and bought a bottle of white wine and a 12 pack of Natty Light, hoping to set up a proper boozing and writing session, which would hopefully last well into the night. Instead, I had two beers and fell asleep in my bed with my laptop on my lap and my lights on. Welcome to my Thursday night in Los Angeles, Party Capital.)
So faced with no other options, I get home from work around 3pm and play with myself with extreme prejudice, stopping only when it’s dinner time. Between the porn I can order on TV (to compliment the porn in my laptop), the freedom of being completely nude in a fully air-conditioned room, and the gloriousness of climaxing into a hotel towel with the curtains open wide and looking out onto Los Angeles, I mean…I don’t even know how to end this sentence.
(Seriously, there is enough semen in the towels strewn about my hotel room to create an entire race of half-human/half-towel children that could possibly conquer civilization as we know it.)
Needless to say, it’s been an uneventful first week in LA (though I hesitate to call the way I masturbate "uneventful," what with the yelping and teeth gnashing and kicking and all). But I have high hopes for the weekend that do not involve being ashamed to make eye contact with the hotel maids. Wish me luck.
Ok – so I may have made a horrible, horrible mistake.
When you think about it, it takes so little to ruin someone’s day, doesn’t it? Seriously, try it. Tell a stranger that you pass by on the street that his or her shirt is ugly. Tell a waiter that it was the worst meal you ever had. Tell a host that his/her party sucks. A handful of words, a few seconds, and that person will stew over your asshole comment all day long. So little can affect such a significant and damaging impact.
And so it is something so little that is ruining my time in LA. What is it, exactly? About a half-second.
Though my firm has an office out here in LA, I am working "remotely." I don’t know exactly what that means since I’m a technical retard, but when in my office in NYC, I sit down, turn on my computer, and everything I need is right there at my fingertips. LA employees have this luxury as well. Like I do in NYC, when they sit at their computers, everything is right there, familiar and easy.
But I am not in the NY office. Nor am I an LA employee. Because I am basically squatting in the LA office for a few weeks, I’m remotely accessing my NY computer. Again, I have no idea what this means or why it’s necessary, but instead of simply logging on and finding everything at my need at my fingertips, I have to enter a series of passwords and navigate through multiple log-ons, only to get kicked off the system every few hours. While the getting kicked off would be enough for some people to seriously damage their computer with their fists, feet and possibly teeth, I don’t mind it (I time each log-off with a poop/soda break). What bothers me most, perhaps more than I have ever been bothered before by anything in the history of my life and humankind, is the half-second delay for everything I do.
During my work day, every single time a letter is typed, there is a half-second to full-second delay before it appears on the screen. I touch a key, and instead of appearing instantly, it appears a fraction of a second later. The result is that I type faster than the words appear on the screen. For example, under normal circumstances, I can type the following sentences in a few seconds:
“I like balls because they are delicious and nutritious and STICK ‘EM IN MY FACE!”
But because I have this delay on the computer, in the same amount of time I can only get out:
“I like balls because they are dicliosou and nutritiouos”
Notice if you will the typos. Because of this delay, everything I write is riddled with typos. I then have to go back and correct these typos, which, again, appear in everything I write. All day long. Every day. The result is that I’m taking up to three or four times longer to do simple tasks at work, like discussing fantasy sports trades via messageboard or emailing my old roommate Brian to argue which is the best Bad Company song, “Shooting Star” or “Can’t Get Enough of Your Love.”
(Even if this is your first time visiting this site, you can probably guess that I’m in the latter camp, since, truly, I can’t get enough of your or anyone else’s love. Brian argued that the two really can’t be compared, since “Shooting Star” is “more of a story song, a story about a guy who F’s and fights who he pleases.” He’s got a pretty valid point.)
This delay does not just apply to keystrokes either. If I move my cursor to "File" in Word, it takes a half or full second before "File" is highlighted. If I click on "File", it takes another half or full second before the drop-down menu appears. If I move the cursor immediately down to "Save," it’s another half or full second before "Save" is highlighted. I know that it must have been very tedious for you to have read that description, but imagine living it. Every day. All day long.
I consider myself a generally rageful person, in that I often fill with rage and like to curse and pull the hair out of my beard and celebrate anger in all its forms. But I will only embrace rage up to a certain point; I like being angry, but I’m able to cool it before people or cars start getting pumped. But this delay…it’s pushing me to the brink.
You’d think one would get used to and adapt to this remote working and the delay in everything that it causes, but it’s quite the opposite really. I’m able to deal with it in the morning, but as the day drags on, and things seemingly get slower and slower, my anger grows and grows. It does not help that because I have to wake up for work at 5:30am, I drink anywhere from six to eight caffeinated drinks per day. This combination of a slow/1996-speed computer, my easy anger, and lots and lots of caffeine can only mean on thing: I am going to rip my penis off and beat my computer to death with it sometime in the next 48-72 hours.
(Yes, I’m being generous in writing that I’m able to destroy my computer using my penis as a weapon, when I know full-well that it’d be more akin to trying to attack a refrigerator with a thimble. Please allow me this exaggeration.)
But other than the brutal work situation, the homicide-level rage that I leave the office with, the bucketful of money I’m spending on my hotel, and the DUI that there is a 264% chance I get in the next two weeks, everything is great in LA. Just great.
This morning, I woke up at 5:30am, quickly showered and dressed, picked up my rental car from the valet (a sweet-ass seafoam green Ford Taurus), and drove to work. I have never felt more like an adult than I did this morning, waking up while it’s still dark and driving, actually driving to work. I am used to walking past dozens of 300 year old Chinese people to my local subway stop, where I will get on a train and sit for a few minutes watching a homeless man masturbate, before arriving at work. But today, I drove. I sat in a car, rolled down the windows, turned on the radio and drove. Like an adult. Like a real, live adult.
More than an adult, I felt like a man. A man who rises before dawn, a man who is the first at his office, a man who works hard to provide for his woman and her children (because he is sterile and she was briefly entangled with a slow but highly fertile man named Ron before they met). This is how I felt as I drove along Wilshire Boulevard in the pre-dawn light, the mist leftover from an overnight shower coating the buildings, sidewalks, and parked cars. And I was hard. Totally, fully erect. Bonerized.
I all but disappeared from public life at the end of last week, as I hastily prepared for this trip. First, there was the matter of tying up my work responsibilities. While out here, I am continuing to work for my firm (we have an office in LA). The catch is that I’m working NY hours, which, in local LA time, is 6:30am until 2:30pm. And while I imagine it will be nice to get out of work at 2:30pm, it may be difficult for me to consistently get up at 5:30am in the morning. While this morning’s drive was glorious, empowering, and disturbing sexual, I am fairly certain that the allure of waking up early, driving to work, and masturbating in your parked car will wear off. Well, maybe not that last one.
Secondly, I needed to tend to the other affairs that I will be pursuing while I’m out here. I can’t really get into it, but “other affairs” mean more than just lying in a robe in my hotel room, drinking wine, and watching prison documentaries on MSNBC Investigates. Not much more, but more. A little more.
But now I’m here, enjoying the weather (despite the fog of today and Saturday, yesterday was about a 14 on a scale of one to ten), the scene (drinks with my buddies Dan and Donnie on Saturday night, staring at fake boobies), and the food (two double-doubles animal style at In-N-Out since my arrival on Saturday, with plenty more on the horizon). I’m staying at a hotel in Westwood right now, but soon will be moving to a buddy’s place in Santa Monica (he’ll be out of town for a while and so he graciously offered me his room; thankfully, since Uncle Jason ain’t made of money and 23 nights at a hotel is a little out of his range).
But friends, this is a test. I’ve always loved LA, but every time I’ve visited I’ve always felt the same way: it’s great, but I could never live there. For the next three weeks, I’ll be living here – working full time, having meetings after work, driving the city and surrounding area, hitting up the bars and restaurants. I will be very (VERY) busy and will spend my time at work drinking red bull and will probably have to do cocaine while driving, but in the bigger picture, I’m not rushed. This is not my standard LA trip, four days of visiting friends, getting bombed non-stop, then shipping out. I have time, three whole weeks, even if I will be busy during these three weeks.
Last week, I turned 28. There are certain things you can’t do when you get older, either because they’re no longer cute (saying “It’s been awhile” after prematurely ejaculating is just not cutting it anymore) or because at some point, you have to concede that you are an adult (buying pot in bulk and selling it to your friends for video games is ok in college, but not near 30). And while I’m not saying I’m too old to move, I will like the window is closing for me to pack up everything, say “Fuck it” and move out of my comfort zone and across the country.
Simply put, this is an audition for Los Angeles. These next few weeks will determine a number of things, but mainly I will find out if my infatuation with this city is merely that – an infatuation that can be sated by the occasion visit – or if it’s something deeper.
But only time will tell. All I can do is welcome this experience with open arms, take full advantage of my situation, eat a shit ton of burgers and Mexican food, and make sure that every time I bring myself to climax in my rental car I make sure to clean up. Because they really rake you over the coals for ejaculate removal. Been there before and don’t want to go back, thank you very much.
Anything you want in Chinatown you can buy off a little Chinese lady on the street. Fake Prada bag? Check. Hot DVD? Check. Cool sunglasses? Check. Gimpy child from China-type country to do light housework and light your cigarettes? Check. Umbrella during rainstorm? Check.
When it’s raining – and even before it’s raining, when the sky is looking ominous – literally dozens of little Chinese ladies pop up all over my neighborhood with carts selling cheap umbrellas, ranging in price from $3 to $5 (not expensive, but these umbrellas cost about 14¢ to make in the PRC). I live off these umbrellas, precisely because I am bad with umbrellas. Why spend $25 for a decent umbrella when I’m going to lose it when I can buy a cheap one for $3? Sure, the cheap one will break after three or four rainstorms or I’ll lose it in a few weeks, but so what? It’s only $3.
This morning when I woke up, it was very overcast and looked like it was about to rain. When I got out of the shower, I saw that the heavens had opened up and it was now pouring. Naturally, I did not have an umbrella, but was unconcerned – I could just buy one right outside my door from a Chinese lady.
So I left my apartment, stood under the awning of the Italian restaurant I live above, and took stock of the rain. Make no mistake, this was a torrential downpour, with raindrops the size of penises. The large, heavy drops smacked against the pavement and street with a heavy thud that gave me pause; this was a classic, mid-summer, angry NYC rainstorm. Fuckin’ A.
My Chinese neighbors were scurrying about, trying to wield their cumbersome umbrellas against the driving rain. Even with an umbrella this was going to be a difficult walk to the subway.
But there was one problem – I didn’t see any Chinese ladies selling umbrellas. I looked left, I looked right, and nothing. They were not there. I felt a little anxious, but there was nothing I could do. I didn’t have an umbrella and I had to get to work. Perhaps, I thought, a Chinese umbrella lady would be on the next corner. So I took off.
I ran for a block and stopped under another awning. Already, I was drenched. In my mad sprint I tried unsuccessfully to jump a puddle that had formed on the street, almost four feet in length, and landed almost smack in the middle, soaking my one foot through to the skin. My shirt and pants were wet enough to be rung out. I took my iPod off and out of my pocket and buried it deep in my gym bag to protect it from the rain. I looked once more for the Chinese umbrella ladies – any Chinese umbrella lady – and could not find one. I was beginning to lose hope.
Desperate, and with no other recourse, I ran another block under another awning. When I stopped under this awning, a sad realization set in: I was fucked. For whatever reason, the Chinese umbrella ladies, normally a fixture in my neighborhood even under the worst weather conditions, had abandoned me. I felt like a shipwrecked survivor on a raft who went unseen by a barge passing in the distance. I was alone, I was wet, and there was nothing I could do. There were no Chinese umbrella ladies, and they weren’t going to come to save me anytime soon. Standing under the awning, I took a deep breath and felt the droplets of rain slide from my hair down my face. I felt like I was wearing a full body sponge instead of shirts and pants. I closed my eyes. I cried a little.
Then I took action. I ran the rest of the way to the subway, like a magnificent son of a bitch. I am a survivor. Fuckin’ A.
***********
As I write this, I am sitting in my office, one hour after I arrived, still soaked. Worse, I’m not sure what percentage of the moisture on my body is rain versus sweat. Despite the rain, it is still a warm, humid day, and as the rain water dries on my clothes, it seems to seep deeper, onto my skin, causing me to sweat. I’m guessing today is not going to be a very productive workday. Nor would it be a good day to seduce me (just an FYI if you were planning on doing so).
Yet the mystery still remains: where did you go, sweet dependable Chinese umbrella ladies? I realize that this morning’s rainstorm was especially intense, but I’ve seen you hawking your wares in worse conditions. Though I don’t claim to be an expert in the art of street commerce, if anything I’d think you’d make it a point to be out on a day like today – I personally would have paid much more than $3 or $5 for an umbrella in this morning’s storm (I probably would have handed over my debit card, given you my PIN, and said, "Fuck it – go nuts").
But nothing. My only hope is that the reason that none of you were present is that you all are at some sort of convention, possibly in the Midwest, at which you all share stories, compare notes, then eat shrimp cocktail and get drunk off call vodka at a large party on the last night of the conference. This is what I hope, at least. Also, maybe there’s a juggler at the convention. Jugglers are hilarious.
If not, and if you’re planning on no longing servicing the greater Chilita area with inexpensively-priced umbrellas during rainstorms, please have the courtesy to let me know. I don’t want to drop $25 on an umbrella that I’m gonna leave in a cab in three weeks unless I have to, but I can no longer come into work dripping and nearly electrocute myself on my computer. Something’s gotta give here.
Today is my birthday. I am 28 years old.
28 is an interesting year because it confirms what was already suspected: I am in my late 20′s. No doubt about this. It’s not the age that concerns me – in that I’m getting older or closer to dying or should be "settling down" soon or whatever – it’s that at 28, one loses much of the abstract concept of his or her "potential." Meaning that at 28 and in your late twenties, you are very close to what you’re going to be.
(Bear with me here, I promise I’m not stoned).
I think that, barring mid-life crisis during which I shave my head, come out of the closet, and join a hippie commune that grows wheat germ (which is really 50/50 at this point), now that I’m in my late twenties, I don’t think I’m going to change much. Sure, over the next few years I may become less interested in poop jokes and seeing how many beers I can drink before breaking the seal and more interested in my 401K and home ownership, but what I have right now is about all what you’re gonna get. And I know that nothing much has changed between 27 and 28, but with the passing of this year, now that I’m firmly planted in my late twenties, I’ve lost just that much more of my "potential." This is how I generally view birthdays. Every year that goes by I am more who I am. I’m not sure if that makes sense, but I really don’t feel like trying too hard to explain it – nor do I have to, because it’s my birthday.
(Also, I was lying – I am a little stoned. Sorry. What, I can’t get high on my birthday?)
Otherwise, I feel good about my life so far up to 28. I have a job that I like. My family is great. I have cool friends. I’ve slept with a lot of women.* I live in the greatest city in the world. I get drunk until 4am every weekend. I still masturbate with the same frequency I did when I was 15. I eat with reckless abandon and at some of the nicest restaurants in the city, and I’m still nearly 40 pounds lighter than I was when I was in high school. I have a big screen TV, two iPods, four guitars, and 800 thread count sheets. Life is good. The only thing really missing in my life is that I’ve never experienced a championship by a Philly sports team. This is a source of great (GREAT) sadness for me, but all things considered, it’s not a bad regret to have if it’s your only one.
[* Or at least more than I ever thought possible when I was a freshman in college who didn't drink and stayed in on the weekends to masturbate in the dorm laundry room.**]
[** God, I wish I was joking about that.]
Tonight, to celebrate my birthday, I’m going to get high in the shower and masturbate my penis. You may ask how this is different from any other Tuesday night in my life, and I will tell you that it is not different at all (although I may push the grundle button a little, as it’s a special occasion). But therein lies the theme for my 28th birthday and the next year of my life: Keeping It Real. My plan, for my 29th year on earth, is to keep it as real as possible. I’m not sure what this will entail exactly, but I’m guessing I’m going to have to stop tanning and hanging out with people I despise in order to advance my career in fashion. It matters not – I’ll work out the specifics later. But Keeping It Real, at this moment, sounds like a good plan to follow for the next year. Let’s make it official and add it to the list of previous years’ birthday slogans:
25 - "Are You Gonna Finish That?"
26 - "Whore For Attention"
27 - "I Like Meatballs"
28 - "Keeping It Real"
(If you’d like to buy me a beer, I will fall in love with you a little more. You can do so by clicking on the "make a donation" button on the right. If you decide to do so, I can promise you this: whatever monies you donate will not be spent on rent, student loans, food, or even cab fare; I will spend it only on booze. Maybe a nice case of beer or a nice bottle of bourbon or a good bottle of wine, but it’s gonna be alcohol, no doubt. Thank you in advance for your consideration and if you are not able to buy me booze, I’ll settle for you throwing some good karma my way – and it goes without saying that boobies are always welcome. Booze, karma, and boobies. I’m a simple man, just keeping it real. Happy birthday to me.)
This is for two main reasons:
The first is that our DUYS tour went off without so much as a hitch. Really, as far as pub crawls go, it was a model of efficiency. We had a good turnout, with at least 150 people, possibly more. We started, as planned, at Casey’s at 6:30pm, where we drank for almost two hours. There, we had a short installation ceremony during which we named our dear friend Chucky captain (or "craptain," if you will) of the 9th Annual tour. I said a few words, most of which couldn’t be heard because I hadn’t yet figured out how to use the megaphone (I’m a moron), and we presented Chucky with his special 9th Annual tour shirt, complete with a "C" stitched in the upper left of the shirt. There was then a photo opp a la NBA lottery draft picks ("With the first selection of the 9th Annual DUYS tour, Flood/Mulgrew select…"). Prior to leaving Casey’s, as has become a mini-tour tradition, I pooped. After all, I am a tour founder, so who better to christen the tour?
And then, as they say, it was on. We went to the #1 Tavern, which is not my favorite bar, but a necessary early stop on all North Wildwood pub crawls because of the Tullynut, the #1′s specialty drink. The drink, which costs $8, is a red fruit juice cocktail that supposedly has a blend of five liquors. Two of these Tullynuts will provide a nice foundation, four will get you sloppy, six will put you in the hospital. Because I was still Johnny Pub Crawl at that point, selling t-shirts, directing traffic, and answering questions, I only had two. (Relative) Sobriety: ad majorem tour gloriam.
And then, as they say, it was really on. Other tourgoers did not show as much restraint as I did and stumbled out of the #1 gorgeously drunk and wonderfully sloppy. The next bar, Westy’s, had a nice outdoor patio and dancing. It was at this bar that I officially lost control of the tour, since few people wanted to leave (or at least leave when I asked them to). So yes, again I was playing the role of Tour Nazi, but it was much easier this time around. Mostly because I didn’t really care and instead focused on smiling at the empire I (and David) created, watching over 150 friends and family getting bombed together, dancing, and in some cases already making out with strangers (this was at about 9pm – bars close at 3am). It was, in a word, glorious.
Our fourth bar, Echo’s, provided the second reason why my recap is not as thorough as it should be. As I said, up to that point, I had been fairly well-composed, pacing myself, trying to play perfect host and making sure everyone had a good time. At Echo’s, I met a new friend, Jim, a reader of this here site. Jim, bless his lil’ heart, proceeded to buy me three shots of whiskey in a row, as well as two bud lights. I showed my gratitude to Jim by pounding the shots and shuttling down those bud lights as quickly as possible. From that point forward, it was pretty much lights out for me. The switch had been flipped and there was no turning back. Fathers, lock up your daughters; pizza shop owners, prepare for the reckoning.
[There was a surprising turnout from readers of this site, with people coming from as far away as Oklahoma (!). Needless to say, I'm humbled and grateful to those of you who made it out - especially grateful for your drinks. This was the first time I met readers of this site en masse, and I learned an important lesson: I better be prepared to bring it. Wow. You guys were not joking with the whole "Here's a drink - now get drunk, fat chops!" thing. It was awesome, don't get me wrong, but if y'all come again next year, I'm going to have to start practicing a few days before the tour. Yowza.]
I remember some of the rest of the night. I know I made it to the two remaining bars, and I know I made some lame attempt at corralling others to join me (very unsuccessfully). But that’s about it. I don’t remember the circumstances at these bars or getting home or seeing people (I got an email from a friend today, telling me it was nice to see me, but I have absolutely no recollection of seeing her on the tour). I woke up in my bathroom with my shower running, but this is (partially) explainable. Because my hangovers after the last two DUYS tours had been so, so terrible, I was determined to do my best to prevent major brain bleeding the day after the tour. To that end, I guess I tried staying up as long as I could, drinking water, and running the shower (it is my contention that running water – particularly from the shower – has an amazingly ameliorative effect on drunkenness and hangovers; I will write a best selling self-help/"So you’re a drunk" book on this topic one day). It was still dark out, so I don’t think I was asleep there long, and then I was off to bed. The next day, minimal hangover. Success.
We’re still piecing together exactly what happened on the tour. I’m pissed at myself, because I took great pains to pack my camera before leaving NYC – along with extra battery – but at the first bar, my camera battery died and I had left the replacement battery at home (again, I’m a moron). So no pictures from me. It appears that, from the emails I’ve been seeing, our friend Brown Eye has the early lead for next year’s captaincy. Brown Eye (real name Danny) didn’t wear a shirt - any shirt – for much of the night and grabbed a hold of the megaphone early and used it as his own personal soapbox (I believe he was encouraging random bargoers to shit). I also know that David’s girlfriend was a disaster, but she can’t be captain, due to her affiliation with David; we probably should have told her that ahead of time. I learned that when I went home, I left 40 tour t-shirts at the bar, but they were fortunately salvaged and not stolen (we have extra shirts, by the way; if you want one, you can order here).
The weekend otherwise was lovely – my friends Ryan and Becky got kicked out of their hotel room because of a cheesesteak (such a complicated story I dare not try to tell it) and stayed at my place for the weekend; ten of us went out to a big dinner on Friday night with ten bottles of wine; and I made top six scores in each animal category on the Big Buckhunter machine at Gateway 26 on the boardwalk (I’m kind of addicted to that game). Today has not been kind.
But always keepin’ on keepin’ on, David, my tour co-founder, emailed me this morning about brainstorming ideas for next year, our 10th anniversary DUYS tour. I don’t want to give too much away, but he wants to get an animal mascot. And this animal shits. A lot. So mark it down now: July 12, 2008 – the 10th Annual Drink Until You Shit Tour. I think I’m going to start practicing now.
This is me, signing off for a long weekend down the shore and the drink until you shit tour.
Please have a happy and safe weekend and wish me luck.
(I am definitely going to need it.)
Love,
Jason
We may have a serious problem.
In college, I was obsessed with these frozen chicken cordon bleu thingees. Practically every other night, my roommate Joe and I would throw two in the toaster oven, cook up a big ass bag of rice, break out the Country Crock, and go to town on our little meal. Senior year, before I started seducing an adorable little sophomore with a meal plan, this is what I ate every other night.
(To be fair, it was a relationship based in utility for both people: I used her for a couple of sandwiches a week from the cafeteria, she used me for 40 cans of Natty Light every weekend for her roommates. The hooking up part was inconsequential and could be described by both of us as "Eh.")
Even after I met the girl with the meal plan, I still cooked up these chicken cordon bleus. They were delicious: breaded chicken, oozing with cheese and ham, everything about them totally artificial (which translates to "totally good" in my book). They were easy to make, cheap, filling, and tasted good. In short, I was falling in love with them. We were going to be happy for a long, long time.
Then one day, shortly after Joe and I dined on the cordon bleus, I got violently ill. I was sitting in our common room, watching a college basketball game, when something exploded inside my belly. I ran to the bathroom and violently threw up. I spent the next few hours there, laying on the bathroom floor (a bathroom floor shared by three seniors in college – yikes). I threw up a few more times and spent the next two days looking pale and with a major pain in my stomach. Physically, I would recover. Emotionally, I would not. Knowing that the cause of my illness was the chicken cordon bleu, I gave them up then and there. After being so badly burned by something I trusted and loved so much, I wouldn’t allow myself to be betrayed again.
(To make matters worse, my relationship with the sophomore went downhill shortly thereafter, leaving me without food-less and makeout-less. Not a good time for me.)
To this day, almost six years later, I still haven’t eaten one of the chicken cordon bleus. Every once in a while I will see them in my grocer’s freezer, we’ll look at each other, and I’ll feel that pang of nostalgia and regret – and not a small amount of affection. I may even open the door to the freezer to reach in to touch them. But invariably, I end up walking away, alone. It is not easy for me to forgive and forget.
But I have adjusted, moved on, and met new and exciting foods to love. Among them is the carrot cake at Dean & Deluca. This carrot cake is breathtaking. I mean that literally – when I eat it, I have trouble breathing. I focus solely on how good the carrot cake is that I forget to inhale and exhale. Then I choke and cough and crumbs of carrot cake shoot out of my mouth. It’s embarrassing, but it’s absolutely worth it. If you love carrot cake and have not had the carrot cake from Dean & DeLuca, you do not love carrot cake. You love garbage and your life is incomplete.
I’ve been feeling kinda down because I’m turning 28 next week. Though I’m successful in terms of loving luxury and owning luxurious things (books of poems, decanters, a cleaning lady, fine sheets, etc) and participating/running various drinking tours and wine drinking competitions all over the country, I still feel unfulfilled. Sure, maybe this is because the highlight of my summer will occur on Saturday night when I get so drunk that I (hopefully) shit myself, but I’m not a psychiatrist. So whatever.
Yesterday, with the general anxiety of my birthday hanging over me and after an especially crappy day at work, I decided that I would get some air and walk from my office to my local Dean & DeLuca to get a carrot cake. If there’s one thing I learned from growing up fat and in a broken home, food is love. And if food is love, this carrot cake is rapture.
So I walked and sweated my way through the rush hour streets of Lower Manhattan, slogging through the 90° heat and 90% humidity, up through Chinatown, into Soho, and finally to Dean & DeLuca. The carrot cakes come in two sizes, small ($9, four slices) and large ($20, eight slices). When I looked into the glass case, I saw that they were sold out of the small ones, so I had to get a large. Man, I was pissed I had to get a large one [sarcasm]. I mean, what I am going to do with a whole, large, giant, delicious carrot cake [more sarcasm]? Also, I think Dominicans are wonderful people [even more sarcasm] and am totally not afraid when they ride in the same subway car as me [extreme, extreme sarcasm]. By the way, I would never make out with a dude [sarcasm meter exploding].
I grabbed a quart of milk to enjoy with my carrot cake and was shortly on my way home. When I got back to my apartment, I cut the carrot cake into sixths and ate a monster-sized slice. It was, as usual, incredible. After I was finished, I spent the next thirty minutes breathing heavily and making ga-ga noises in my oppressively hot apartment (also, I wasn’t wearing a shirt). My name is Jason Mulgrew, I’m 28 years old, and I had a giant piece of carrot cake for dinner while not wearing a shirt. And yes, I am single.
This morning for breakfast, I had another giant piece of carrot cake (seriously – totally available, ladies). I again had a tall glass of milk with the cake, so there I sat, watching Sportscenter, eating carrot cake, drinking my milk, having a great time getting ready for work. When I finished, I went about my morning routine and got ready for work. It was when I had put my gym bag around my shoulders and turned off my kitchen light that it hit me.
Something exploded inside my belly. My mouth started salivating and boom – before I knew it, I was doubled over the toilet, dressed in work clothes, puking. It wasn’t exactly one of those "I’m crying and I need my mom" pukes, but it was still a mighty one. Short, but thorough, it was a bout of vomiting that demanded respect.
But again, worse than the physical pain was the emotional trauma of the vomiting. I had eaten nothing in the previous sixteen hours aside from carrot cake, milk and water. Therefore, one of these had to have made me sick. The thought of it being the carrot cake nearly caused me to faint.
God, I hope it wasn’t the carrot cake. Losing the chicken cordon bleus was hard enough, but I was much younger than and had much less at stake. I’m older now and realize I don’t have much time for games. To have to cut this carrot cake out of my life might be the end of me. I’m not even prepared to consider this.
My hope is that it was the milk that made me sick. What I didn’t mention is that I bought the milk not from a closed-door refrigerator in Dean & DeLuca, but from a dairy case. When I grabbed the milk, the first one in the line, it was covered in condensation (remember, it was extremely hot and humid in NYC yesterday). By the time I had walked back to my apartment, cut the cake, and was drinking the milk, it was only slightly cooler than room temperature. Under any other circumstances, I would have dumped the milk out or at least put it in the fridge to cool some more, but I was so hard for that carrot cake that I needed to have it right away. This morning, after a night in my fridge, I didn’t notice anything strange about the milk, but again, this carrot cake has a strangely intoxicating effect. I could have been drinking antifreeze and would not have noticed the difference.
But tonight will be the true test. I plan on having the carrot cake again for dinner, but this time with a new milk (and maybe I’ll wear a shirt this time ’round – it’s raining out, so it should be a little cooler). If I don’t get sick or experience any discomfort, all will be right with the world. But if I wind up puking in my work clothes again…this will be the worst birthday ever. Pray for me.
We will meet at Casey’s at 3rd & New York at 6:30pm. We will congregate there and any tour participants who do not have shirts will be able to buy them at Casey’s. Shirts are $15.
(Re: shirts – As some of you know, we stopped selling shirts over the internet to non-tour participants, for fear that we might run out before the tour. If we have shirts left over after the tour, we’ll put them back on sale here.)
At approximately 7:15pm, there will be a short installation ceremony, during which we will crown the Captain of the 9th Annual Tour, our dear friend Chucky, whose stellar drunken performance last year earned him this year’s captaincy (or, if your prefer, craptaincy).
Shortly thereafter, we will be on the move and the tour will be underway. God help us and be with us at that point.
As I wrote, I don’t expect any of you to attend, but it will surely be a good time. For those of you who can’t make it, I will be taking lots of pictures and reporting back on here. My personal theme song this year will be "Photograph" by Def Leppard, since I haven’t been able to get this song out of my head for about seven weeks now. I am going to rock the fuck out. I can’t make any promises, but I only hope at the end of the night I don’t crawl into bed with my buddy Kyle like I did last year. I can’t help it – I get very lonely and confused when I drink.
Finally, my birthday is in exactly one week (July 17). I will be 28. If you want to buy me a beer, please feel free to click on the "make a donation" button on the right. A pint of Guinness is $6, a bottle of Bud Light is $5 (it’s a travesty, but it’s NYC), and a Manhattan, which I’ve only gotten into since my last birthday, costs $12 at the Pegu Club. Not that I deserve any of this things, but it would be nice gesture. If not, a simple "Happy Birthday" greeting and/or boobie shot will do. Thank you in advance for your consideration.
My weekend sucked.
(Mostly.)
I stayed in on Saturday night, drank a bottle of wine, had a half dozen or so Bud bombers, and watched Braveheart until almost 5am. Also – and I’m not sure about this – I may have cried during the course of the movie. Maybe a few times. Maybe more than a few times. Very emotional movie.
After Braveheart, I hit the tivo for this classic performance that achieved “Save Until Manually Deleted” status as soon as I first saw it:
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Two minutes into this video, I was crying and masturbating and there were some pretzels involved. This happens every time I see The Faces perform.
This is a beautiful treatment of this song. Not only does Rod’s whiskey-soaked throat gently through the Pines of Love, but these guys are terrific musicians who take a fairly sappy song and give it some real cock (and balls, even). Gets me every time.
And if you can’t pick up on the heat between Rod and singer/bassist Ronnie Lane when the start singing with/to each other around the 2:45 mark, well, you have something seriously wrong with you. I’ve had sex five times before in my life, and never did I look at the woman/uncooked chicken breast with as much passion as these two look at each other in this video. There’s love, there’s passion, and there’s the look that Rod and Ronnie share. Holy geez. I want to write a poem after watching this video, and possibly buy an engagement ring, just in case.
[The next day, discussing this video with some friends, the discussion came up as to how much it would cost to have The Faces reunite and play this song at a wedding. We settled on $1.5 million, just for the one song. This may seem like a lot, but The Faces had Rod Stewart and Ronnie Wood, who now plays guitar for the Rolling Stones. The discussion became moot, however, when we learned that Ronnie Lane is dead. So I will take that $1.5 million and spend it on something else at my wedding, like ninja outfits for all the guests or bringing my wife’s family over from Vietnam, so she doesn’t get lonely and, more importantly, leaves me the fuck alone when I’m taking my baths.]
Finally, on Sunday, I went out for a late afternoon/early evening drink with my buddy Jeremy, where we met some ladies. When one of them told us she grew up in Trinidad, I was interested – not only because who grows up on Trinidad (?), but also because she was white as the driven snow and didn’t have dreadlocks or an island accent or immediately offer me cocaine or ask if I want to “party.”
I asked her what that was all about, and she said her dad was an oil industry exec who worked out of Trinidad. Hmm, I said. And then I said, “So did you guys have slaves or…I mean, how does that work?”
It was not very well received.
Of course, I realize that asking a stranger who probably grew up quite privileged on an island with many impoverished black people if she had slaves when she was a kid was not the best idea in the world. But these girls, particularly the one who grew up in Trinidad, seemed pretty cool. Yet to be sure, that coolness went right out the window after my little “joke.”
After navigating through a few “What does that mean?”/”What is that supposed to mean?” questions, I more or less told everyone to lighten up, which is never the right thing to do. Needless to say, Jeremy and I did not get any numbers that night.
And you know what? That’s a shame. I think I’ll always be single because you know what I think the right answer to my slavery question/joke is?
“Yes, we had about two dozen of them. My favorite was Pogo, a slightly lame boy of twelve who took care of our pool. He was slow mentally, but he taught my sister and I several charming Trinidadian folk songs. She later married him. It was a beautiful wedding. He’s dead now.”
If this girl had responded in that way, I probably would have proposed to her right there. Instead, she got offended and the evening took an irrevocable turn for the worse. Oh well.
So yeah, my weekend sucked.
(Mostly.)
I can’t say I’m surprised here – I mean, this just ain’t right – but I’m bummed. Anytime an ugly guy loses a hot girl, ugly dudes the world over feel his loss. Closer to home, I’m bummed because Salman (we’re on a first name basis) is a writer – not an actor or athlete or rock star – who scored a very attractive wife. Of course, I’m not even technically a writer anymore, but I certainly aspire to be. I also aspire to sleep with women who are way out of my league. Salman and I, we are brothers-in-arms, and when he hurts, I hurt.
The good news for Salman is that he’s probably going to bounce back pretty well (I think this was his fourth marriage). But in the meantime, Salman, keep your head up. Pretty of fish, my friend.
(And Padma, if you’re tired of talented writers and are looking for guys with blogs who write about poop, you know how to find me.)
************
I gotta say, if this is what they write about you when you’ve died, you’ve had a good run. A really, really good run.
I’m actually pretty close to this description, except I don’t know what the word "louche" means and don’t feel like looking it up. Also, my homosexual orgies are not so much "extravagant" as they are "intimate." One could argue for the pluses of each, but I’m a more low-key, Roberta Flack "Set the Night to Music" kinda guy when it comes to having sex with twelve dudes at once. That’s just how I roll.
*************
Finally, please take a moment to vote for my buddy Matt’s girlfriend Lauren, as she vies to become a Celtics dancer for the next basketball season. It will only take a second and I would be very grateful to you. Thank you in advance.
[Again, just click here to vote. Her name is Lauren. Also, I get free beers if she wins. So please help her and me. Thank you again.]
[Have a good weekend.]
Death, snackwraps
On Sunday, Kyle and I had tickets to return to NYC via Amtrak (hello, afternoon train boozing!), but our buddy Bill, who was driving to the Jersey shore from Boston, offered us a ride back.
Bill was, to put it mildly, still very shit-canned from the previous night. He woke up at 2pm and we could still smell the booze coming off of him when we hit the road at 5pm. Also, he smelled a little like hoagie, but that’s his natural scent.
I’ve written before that I’m convinced that I’m going to die in spectacular fashion. Hotel fire is still number one on the last, but "fiery eight car crash" is not far behind. Now of course, Bill was not drunk driving when we got in the car – at least, not in the traditional sense. He hadn’t had a drink for about twelve hours, so really, there was nothing for me to be concerned about. But, coming down from such a long and "exciting" weekend, I felt nervous and hypochondriacal as the booze escaped from my body. Not a good feeling.
It was with great anxiety that I got in the car, but soon I saw that we were fine. We scooted out of Boston and along the Masspike without a problem, and I calmed down. We saw a sign for a McDonalds and stopped for some food.
I wasn’t that hungry, but hey – fuck it. Also, Bill spent ten miles from when we first saw the sign to when we arrived at the McDonalds talking about how good their snackwraps are. I had never had one, but I knew Bill wouldn’t steer me wrong. I got one ranch and one honey mustard. Bill did the same and added a cheeseburger. Kyle didn’t get food and instead pooped.
I thought we were going to eat at the rest stop, but Bill wanted to continue driving. This made my anxiety returned, but I realized that if anyone can eat while driving, it’s probably Bill.
I sat shotgun with our McDonalds bag in my lap, and passed Bill his burger. I went to town on my snackwraps, which, as Bill said, were delicious. They are basically taco bell tacos but with chicken fingers instead of horsemeat. So, yum.
So there we were, two fat guys in the front seat, passing food and garbage to each other, while Kyle sat in the back and said things like, "Man, you guys are some serious fatties" and "Jas, do you think if you gave Bill a sneaker he’d notice? Or would he just eat it?"
We approached a toll near the end of the Mass Pike. Bill was going pretty fast, but he was in the center E-Z Pass lane with no car in front of him. Bill asked me to pass him a snackwrap. As he watched me, I reached into the bag to pull out his snackwrap, raising my eyes from the bag just in time to see a silver SUV cutting across our lane.
Bill did not see the SUV, as he was hypnotized by the snackwrap I was pulling out of the bag, and did not slow down. I screamed, "Bill! Bill!" and he looked away from the snackwrap, saw the SUV, and slammed on the brakes. The car jerked to a sudden stop, tires screeched, our sodas in the cup holders went flying, and we all lunged forward. Bill leaned on the horn and the SUV honked back. In two seconds, it was over.
I have only been in a car accident once, and in that case we were driving around the back streets behind Upper Campus at Boston College, going about ten miles an hour down an icy road, and we harmlessly hit a telephone pole while listening to Prince’s "Seven" (it’s really the perfect song to listen to while driving around on ice). I was in the backseat, but even as we lost control of the car, I didn’t get scared, since I probably could have punched the telephone pole harder than we hit it (there were minor damages to the car and telephone poll and no one in the car was hurt).
But in this case, I was crapping myself (almost literally). We were going pretty fast toward the E-Z Pass toll and had we hit that SUV – which we were about two seconds and ten feet from doing – there would have been some serious, serious damage. We all were wearing seatbelts, but after drinking so much and sleeping so little over the weekend, not to mention my so-high-it’s-almost-hilarious blood pressure, I would have probably died from fright if we had been in an accident. I’m kind of a pussy.
But, God spared us and saved us (this time). After we took a second to collect ourselves, we started driving again. Bill then said, "Jesus Christ, Nass - I thought you were yelling at me to grab the snackwrap!"
Bill knows that a snackwrap would inspire such emotion in me. He knows me well.
Please, have sex in my bed
Apparently, my friends and I have a communication problem. Because I’m a good friend, I always let friends crash at my place – some even have their own keys (not necessarily to come and go when they please, but to make last minute stays easier). But the problem is that when I say, "Sure, you can stay at my apartment," they hear, "Sure, you can have sex in my bed."
Sunday night, after nearing dying on the road and a punishing weekend, all I wanted was to crank up the AC and sleep in the comfort of my own bed, which, as I’ve stated before, is arguably the most comfortable in America. A very simple and very attainable goal, I thought.
Not so. The trouble started upon entering my apartment, when my buddy Kyle used the bathroom and yelled, "Dude, your toilet’s broken." To that point, I had forgotten that my friend – who we’ll call Prudence – had left me a voicemail Friday afternoon, asking to stay at my place. I forgot because I was partying and didn’t call her back, but I kinda didn’t want her to stay at my place when I wasn’t there anyway. She has a lot of friends in NYC and could have made other plans, so whatever. Not a big deal, and I forgot about it.
But now my toilet was broken. Nothing serious, but still broken. So Prudence had to have stayed there. I then noticed that a Playboy magazine of mine (love those articles) was on my coffee table. Next, I walked into my bedroom to find the bed haphazardly made, which I was sure I didn’t do. Then, most damningly, I found two half-full wine glasses on my night table next to my bed.
Well.
As Kyle pointed out with a laugh, I don’t think Prudence drank both of these herself. Grossed out to the umpteenth degree, I immediately started stripping the sheets. It was then, much to my disgust, that I discovered matter in my bed. Matter that comes from something like making love.
[Rage]
Seeing as I haven’t had sex in my bed in, oh, seasons (told you – I’m going through a floor phase right now), I knew that I could have not left this evidence behind. Putting it all together - the broken toilet, the Playboy, the two wine glasses, the sex mark – it seemed that Prudence had indeed made some kind of love in my bed.
[Rage building]
I called our mutual friend to ask if he knew whether or not Prudence had stayed at my place and he said that yes, he thought she did. All our mutual friend knew was that Prudence had a date on Friday night in Manhattan.
[Rage - rage - rage]
Look – I love wine and I love making love. And I hope that my friends find happiness in wine and making love as well – just not in my bed. I can not express the extent of my disgust at this situation. Strike one was crashing at my place without getting my explicit permission. Strike two was bringing some stranger back to my apartment and in the course of the evening reading my Playboy, breaking my toilet, and drinking wine together in my bed. Strike three was doing the dude in my bed. The thought of my friend and some random dude lying, likely naked and post-coitus, drinking wine in my bed…I mean, I am filled with rage right now. Rage. Everywhere. All over the place. Walls. Ceiling. Floor. Rage.
And as I said in the beginning, this is, unfortunately, not the first time this has happened to me. Not with Prudence, but with other friends. But those others have owned up to it and bought back my love in the form of meals, drinks and even sheets. Also, what’s different this time around is that these other transgressions were by my guy friends. Something about Prudence being a girl and a random guy sleeping in my bed is much, much worse than a guy buddy doing a random chick in my bed. Call me sexist, but that’s where I am, baby. Random guys = gross. Random chicks = hi, I’m Jason.
Barring a major setback, I will be in LA for three weeks in late July/early August. I was planning on basically giving my apartment over to my friends to use however they see fit (my buddy Brendan called me this weekend in Boston and complained that I can’t go away because my place is the clubhouse and when I’m gone my friends don’t have a place to congregate before going out, which I found oddly touching). But now, I’m thinking about actually boarding the apartment up with plywood and padlocking the doors. Because I’ll be damned if I come back to wine glasses on my night table and a strange dude’s goo in my bed.
[Deep breaths...deep breaths...]
[I think I need a snackwrap.]
But despite this early failure, the weekend in Boston was a great success.
Children and ball games
It started in earnest on Friday afternoon, when I had a beer with my haircut at State Street Barbers (God, I love that place). After that, we took a jaunt to Anna’s for, sadly, what was the worst Anna’s burrito I ever had, meaning it was only "very good." After that, we headed back to the apartment of my friends and newlyweds Joe and Danielle where we had some beers before heading out to the Sox game.
I’ve been to Fenway a bunch of times and really like the park. Sure, it’s built for guys who are 5’4" and 140 pounds, but otherwise, it’s a nice park with a lot of pluses: great location in the center of the city, colorful and joyously inarticulate fans, sense of history, etc.
One of the negatives is that vendors are not walking around selling beer (not sure if this is true of the whole stadium or just in our section). Therefore, we had to get up and actually go get beer each time we wanted more. This was a problem at first, but I timed so that with every piss I’d buy two beers. Perfect. Also, we were on the end of the row, meaning I only had to climb over Joe and Dani to get to the aisle, rather than over a dozen people with my size 13 feet down the narrow, narrow row (seriously, the park was built for midgets).
(Note: I did not drop the "size 13" reference in there to subtly suggest that I have a large penis. Far from it. Having such large feet with such a small penis makes the whole situation much, much worse; I’d rather wear size 6 sneakers so I don’t have to hear, "You have big feet – you know what that means!" whenever someone discovers my shoe size. Yes, I know what it means: Nothing. It means I have big feet and can stick my dick in the cap of a water bottle if it’s frightened enough. Asshole God. Giving me big feet a little bird. What a dick.)
What I haven’t mentioned yet was that I was rocked at the game. Friday was one of those loads where you have one beer and immediately feel a difference; I walked out of the haircut place with what felt like a solid buzz after just one beer. The Anna’s "sobered" me up, but after that it was right back to heavy drinking at Joe’s, and by the third inning I couldn’t pay attention to the game. All six of us sort of forgot about it (it was a pretty boring 2-1 Sox win anyway) and talked away. To our dismay, we couldn’t curse, because there was a girl about five years old sitting directly in front of me, between her mom and her aunt. So our discussion about the biggest cockhound we know would have to wait for another day.
The guys in our row further down were also very rocked at the game. They were your standard Red Sox fans, four of them, maybe a few years older than ourselves. They weren’t especially obnoxious (so maybe they weren’t "standard" Red Sox fans), but they annoyed us in that they kept getting up very often, causing my six friends and I to repeatedly stand up so they could squeeze by. Every once in a while this is fine – c’mon, it’s a ball game – but one of the four would get up every half inning. That’s too much.
By the seventh, I had just returned from a beer break, was holding two beers, and was really, really feeling it, in desperate need of a second wind. I sat slumped in my seat while my friends were all out buying more beers or food or taking bathroom breaks. Seeing as it was just me and five empty seats, two of my neighbors decided it would be a good time to walk by me and head for more beers or whatnot.
You can probably figure out how the rest goes: two guys walk by drunk Jason, he struggles to stand and balance himself with a full beer in each hand, they pass by, and as Jason tries to sit down his spills not a small amount of beer in the little girl’s chair in front of him. Fortunately, the little girl was sitting on the edge of her seat, so the beer didn’t directly hit her. Instead, it ricocheted off the back of her chair and splashed her back. Great. My drunk ass had just poured beer on a little girl.
I apologized profusely as the girl fled onto the lap of her mom. I didn’t have any napkins so I began rubbing by bare arm (I was wearing short sleeves) on the back of the little girl’s chair, saying "I’m sorry" over and over again. The adults she was with kept saying, "That’s alright," but it was one of those "that’s alright" that really mean "You’re a real fucking asshole." Again, great.
The good news, however, is that this incident provided me with that much-needed second wind. I was so moved by embarrassment that I was reinvigorated. Now, more awake and alert, I rode this second wind until the bars closed at 2am, enjoying it all the way.
So, little girl, I’m sorry, truly sorry, that I spilled beer on you. Please believe me – I’m a scumbag and a drunk in many ways, but I never thought I’d be the type of drunk who spills his beer on little girls at baseball games. My greatest hope is that you are not scarred by the incident and for the rest of your life you will stay away from fat guys with beards, all on account of my drunkenness. Please accept my apologies. We’re not all like that.
(Actually, it’s probably best if you stay away from fat guys with beards. You’ll be better off in the long run.)
Party floaters, cysts and pepper vodka
Saturday started with a monster hangover and my buddy Bill and I got Anna’s once again. This time I went without the extra cheese and it proved to be a great decision – the burrito was phenomenal. My faith in Anna’s was restored.
(I know – I never thought there was such a thing as "too much cheese," but I’m sad to say there is, my friends. I’m sad to say there is.)
Bill and I then joined Joe, Danielle and Kyle (Kyle was staying with Joe and Dani; I was staying with Bill) for brunch. Bill and I didn’t eat (I originally had "of course" in there, but I don’t think it’s appropriate with Bill and I – the two of us eating again would not have been out of the question) but we had beers and once again, it had started.
Brunch turned into a three-hour affair with several beers and sangria on a rooftop bar on Boylston whose name escapes me. I shouldn’t have to tell you that it was lovely: old friends, warm sunny weather, booze; Trinity of Love.
After brunch, it was back to Joe and Dani’s beautiful apartment on Boylston for several more beers. I took a small nap and before long, it was 8pm and time for some action. We decided to go get some dinner.
(I know – rough weekend. Sleeping, eating, drinking, repeat.)
Without getting too into it, some ugliness ensued. All I’ll say was that the four of them (Joe, Dani, Bill and Kyle) wanted to get sushi, but I don’t like sushi. I pleaded with them for us to go to a restaurant that we all could enjoy, but they didn’t budge. Like a petulant child, while the four of them had dinner at a sushi place next to Bill’s apartment in Beacon Hill, I sat in Bill’s apartment, alone, drinking beer and eating a chicken parm sandwich from a local pizza place. Stupid jerk friends.
The four came back to Bill’s place for more drinks. After 11pm and after much debate and discussion, we finally decided to head out. While out, we met up with our friend Cara and some of her friends, and some of Bill’s co-workers joined us, and the night was in full swing.
But because we’re talking about Boston, the night ended too soon. Just as everyone started enjoying themselves, last call was announced and we were kicked out of the bar. Disgruntled, about 15 of us thought it would be a good idea to head back to Bill’s (tiny, one bedroom) apartment nearby for some nighttcaps.
Things get a little blurry from this point forward.
For one, Bill had a limited amount of alcohol in his apartment. From what I could tell he had maybe 16 beers, a 40 (Joe’s from earlier in the day), a half a bottle of vodka, and a full bottle of Absolut Peppar, which is described as "containing a complex taste of green jalapeno peppers and fiery capsicum spices like paprika and chili." Spicy vodka. Terrific.
Of the 15 people who came back to Bill’s, about six cracked open a beer, had a few sips, then left the party, leaving behind their floaters that were anywhere from half to mostly full. This, I thought, was not a good use of our limited resources.
If you guys have picked up anything about me from reading this site, you know that I’m a team player. My own happiness matters little compared to the happiness of those around me, so I do whatever it takes to improves the lives of those I’m with. I’m just wired that way.
Therefore, I figured it would be a good idea for me to drink these floaters so that everyone else could have fresh, full, new beers. To that end, I discreetly collected the floaters and brought them over to a corner of the kitchen where I could work undisturbed. I then combined them into as few beer cans as possible (from the six I made three nearly full cans), put two open cans in the fridge, and started drinking the other one. Never mind the fact that I only knew two of the people whose old beers I was drinking and probably gave myself hepatitis, the party benefited because of my actions. Winner.
(Did I mention I that I turned 28 in a few weeks?)
Around floater number two, we started exploiting Bill’s cyst. You see, my buddy Bill, formerly of "Average Joe: Hawaii," has what we believe is a cyst on his back. He first showed this to me about two months ago when he visited me here in NYC, and it was nothing more than a small bump on his back. Now, however, the cyst is somewhere between a golf ball and a racquetball – and appears to be getting stronger. I imagine it is only a matter of time before it is talking, and world domination should follow in about three months.
All weekend long, we were bothering Bill about the cyst, making fun of it but also slapping him on the back or pushing him on the back, just to piss off him and the cyst (apparently, they are painful). But now, drunk at just about 3am, our harassment took on all new levels. We decided that we were going to try to burst Bill’s cyst.
In addition to slapping, Kyle and I spent the night throwing a tennis ball at Bill’s cyst, often doing alley-oops to one another from across the apartment. Joe hit the cyst with a belt. I hit the cyst with a phone book. Bill helped his own cause my getting drunk, falling into his trash cans, cyst-first. Despite our best efforts, the cyst would not burst – it just got purple and red and mean-looking.
Lastly, we ran out of beer (I drank those floaters pretty quickly) and regular vodka. At about 5am, the only thing we had left was the Absolut Peppar – and no ice. Of course, we drank it anyway. I have only one piece of advice to anyone about to drink Absolut Peppar: Don’t. Put it down or, better yet, dump it out into the sink. You’d be better off sucking the alcohol out of your own blood than drinking this vodka. It’s one of the most disgusting things I’ve ever tasted and your next-day burps will instantly kill any elderly or infirm people within ten feet of you. And yes, we nearly finished the bottle.
(What else were we gonna do?)
******
Tune in tomorrow for Part Two, featuring a brush with death because of a McDonald’s product and finding another man’s semen in my bed!
Here is the question. And here is my answer.
Um, after reading the other responses, I probably should have taken it a little more seriously. Whoops. I think that’s about it for my career in relationship advice.
(Also: is the Torquemada joke too cerebral? I sent my response to a few friends before passing to the Savvy Miss people and they had no idea who Torquemada is. But my friends are dumb. So I went with it. Now, I don’t know how I feel about it. Such is life.)
(By the way, I turn 28 next month.)
So have a good weekend and wish me luck. In the meantime, please enjoy this video clip, which had me crying tears of laughter and snorting at my desk when my buddy Ryan forwarded it to me today. Just when you think it can’t get any better, it does. I don’t know how this guy wasn’t seriously, seriously injured, but that’s the power of booze, I guess. I only hope to find a little of that power this weekend in Beantown.
[Have a good weekend.]
Though I love obviously luxury and refinement, I am still not fully schooled in their ways. Recently my friend Meredith, professor-to-be but waitress-right-now, was over my apartment and, good host that I am, I offered her a glass of wine. She accepted, so I poured her a healthy measure of wine from my fine decanter. She took the glass, put it to her lips, then stopped and asked, "Are you serious?"
Off my puzzled look, Meredith asked how long the wine had been in the decanter. I told her that I didn’t know, but I guessed a week or two. It was at this point that my luxurious facade began to crumble.
I had thought that the purpose of the decanter was two-fold: 1) to hold alcohol; 2) to say to visitors, "Look at me - Look at how fine my things are, look how I enjoy pleasure. I belong in places like Monte Carlo and Monaco; you belong in prison." But Meredith pointed out that wine decanters serve a particular purpose. I don’t recall the exact purpose because I wasn’t listening, but basically you can’t have wine in a decanter for longer than a few hours, as otherwise it goes bad. Meredith made me smell the wine, which smelled a little vinegary and was even getting a little yellow. Whoops. I had always had wine in the decanter, drank from it, and never really noticed that I was drinking rancid wine. I guess I’m not quite the oenophile I pretend to be.
Lesson learned. I immediately dumped the wine from the decanter into the sink, poured her a glass from a freshly opened bottle, and grabbed myself and my other friends cans of PBR from the fridge (I can’t be all luxury, all the time).
Yesterday, while home from work sick, I decided to wash the decanter. The problem with cleaning the decanter is that it has a small opening/mouth, so it’s impossible to really get in there to clean it up. Usually, I just fill it with warm water and soap, shake it up, pour the water out, and repeat until I think it’s clean/I get tired. But this time around it wasn’t so easy. Because the wine had been in there for some time, there was a stain rimming around the inside of the decanter, only three inches or so off the bottom, which would not wash away. Crap.
I tried squeezing the sponge in order to slide it into the decanter to reach the stain, but it did not fit. Even if it did fit, it wouldn’t have reached the stain line; the best case scenario would have been that the sponge popped into the decanter then expanded – I never would have been able to get it out.
Frustrated, and without an ounce of forethought, I stuck my middle finger into the decanter. I, as I should have known, couldn’t reach the stain. When I went to pull my finger out, I couldn’t. My finger was stuck in the decanter. Completely, 100% stuck.
What followed was arguably the most terrifying two minutes of my life. I struggled and struggled to get my finger out of the decanter. As I pulled harder, I felt like I was only getting more stuck; I began sweating, my heart started pounding, my eyes darting, my body and limbs beginning to tremble. I pulled and pulled and pulled and pulled and my finger was stuck in there. I was in full panic mode.
My first and only rational thought came about 90 seconds into the ordeal, when I realized I might have to reach below the sink into the cabinet and grab my hammer in order to destroy the decanter and somehow free myself. But just as quickly as it started, my finger jolted out of the mouth of the decanter with a plop, sending my body backward for a step. Immediately, freed from the decanter, my heart rate decelerated back to normal, I stopped sweating, and calm was restored. Crisis averted. Deep breaths. Deep breaths.
What struck me about the situation was how intense it was. Those fleeting moments when you’re trapped in a elevator or locked in a bathroom or otherwise stuck in a place or position you don’t want to be in are really, in hindsight, not that big of a deal. But the rush of terror that overcomes you in these moments is a powerful, powerful force. My middle finger was stuck in a decanter and I almost started screaming like a wild monkey. A few more minutes and I would have begun gnawing off my own finger. There was no limit to my hysteria.
So today, after work, I’m going to Bed, Bath and Beyond to get one of these things. Because I will never stick my finger in a decanter again. Promise.
*******************
I wrote on here that about a month ago, I got a banjo (note: not my actual banjo). It was a love at first sight. I can play the guitar and the bass and a little bit of the ukulele, so I was able to take the banjo out of the box and make sounds that were at least not painful to the ears. So happy was I by this development, I played with myself. Hell, even if I sounded terrible I still would have played with myself, but you get what I mean.
You’re supposed to play the banjo with finger picks, but the banjo didn’t come with any and I didn’t have any lying around (I don’t know how to fingerpick on the guitar; I’ve never had a guitar lesson, so for the past fifteen years I’ve been winging it). So for my first two weeks of banjo ownership, I played using my fingers but without picks on them, going over so simple fingering (tee-hee!) patterns I found the internet.
I found the patterns were quite easy and came naturally to me. Even though they were the basic and simplest patterns on the banjo, I dreamt of becoming a world-renowned banjo player, a bluegrass musician so famous I would soon marry the most beautiful girl in all of Appalachia.
I still wanted to learn with the picks though, and enlisted the help of my friend Jeremy to grab me some. Jeremy lives on the same street as my nearest guitar store, which closes at 6pm everyday. As I’m usually still working at that time, I asked Jeremy to pop in the store and pick me up some banjo picks, which he could then give me next time we hung out. He did and he did. So soon I started practicing with my banjo picks.
Almost immediately, my hopes of marrying the Helen of Harlan County were greatly diminished. I sucked with the finger picks. They were cumbersome and made me clumsy. Each time I hit a string, I had to do so very delicately, lest the pick fly off my finger. How the hell would I ever be able to fingerpick as quickly as Tony Trischka or Bela Fleck does?
Knowing the my musical virtuosity could not be at fault, I blamed the picks. Jeremy had gotten me some bad picks, so I’d need to go to the guitar store myself and really get in there, try out different picks, see which ones felt comfortable, and get those. I mean, c’mon. Clearly I don’t stink at banjo. It was totally the picks. I’m fucking awesome.
About a week later, I stood in the same local guitar store at which Jeremy originally bought me the picks. It’s a mom-and-pop type store, small in size, with a staff that is actually friendly, as opposed to the megastores with "associates" who are monster assholes and take every opportunity to remind you that they are not only much better at guitar than you, but also know a lot more about guitars than you do. Fucking jerks. Bro, a word of career advice: your band has been touring for 19 years and you haven’t hit it big yet – it might be time to throw in the towel. Just a thought.
Anyway, there I stood in the nice mom-and-pop music store, trying on finger pick after finger pick and to my dismay, they fit exactly like the ones Jeremy got me. Sure, I was able to find a few that were a little more comfortable, but still, trying these on, I had no idea how anyone could play the banjo with them. How the hell could I possibly get used to plucking a string and the pick nearly flying off my finger?
As I grew more frustrated, a gentle hippie salesman appeared before me on the other side of the counter. He asked if he could help me and without looking up I told him that I had just gotten a banjo and was trying to find finger picks that fit me properly. I continued to try on different picks as the two of us stood there in silence, me trying on and tossing back various picks, him looking over me. After a few more seconds of watching me grow frustrated, the gentle hippie said, "Um, you know, you’re putting those on backwards."
Um, oh. I didn’t know that.
Maybe this was the reason I found it so hard to fingerpick the banjo. I was putting the fucking things on backwards.
I am generally a stubborn man, but in few areas does this stubbornness manifest itself as in music. I take so much pride in the fact that I’ve never had a guitar lesson that it has hindered my development; rather than biting the bullet and getting lessons to really get good at the guitar, my playing ability has increased only marginally over the past, say, six or eight years, because I have this "I can do it myself" mentality. I try to stay away from guitar tab sites on the internet because I like figuring things out by ear, even though doing so usually takes hours and possibly days off my life because I get so frustrated and angry in the process (and though my cholesterol is surprisingly low, I have the blood pressure of a 52 year old professional poker player and former drug mule).
So when I got the banjo, I ripped open the box and started playing right away. A friend whose brother played the banjo mentioned to me that banjo-playing was all about fingerpicking patterns, so with no other option I deigned to find some of these on the internet and learned them. When I got the picks from Jeremy, I immediately put them on my fingers in the way I thought they’d fit: the "pick" portion of the finger pick laid on top of my fingertip, thereby essentially extending my fingernail – it looked like I had a fake, metallic fingernails on my fingers. I didn’t think twice about whether this was the way the picks were supposed to go on.
When you play the banjo, your index and middle fingers are plucking in an upward motion against the bottom strings of the banjo. My difficulty arose when each time I struck a sting with my new metallic fingernail, the resistance was so great that the pick would nearly come off my finger. This got old and frustrating. Very quickly.
It never occurred to me that a simple google or google image search might clear up this matter for me. This is the first picture that comes up when you search "finger picks" in google images (this is the correct way to wear the picks – I had them on the opposite way). This is the third. This is also on that first page. It’s pretty much all there.
But because I’m an asshole, I didn’t realize I was going about it all wrong until the gentle hippie showed me the light. Now, playing the banjo is much easier and much more fun, as the picks are not being ripped off my fingers every thirty seconds.
I think there’s a lesson here, something like, "Stop being so stubborn," but whatever. I’ve got to get back to playing the banjo.
(And shut up – I would have figured it out on my own eventually.)
Like they always do, it started innocently enough. I stayed in on Saturday night to "write" (goal: 5000 words; actual word count: 100 words) and because I had a punishing Friday night filled with vodka red bulls and foosball, capping off a week in which I went out and drank every single night. On Sunday morning, rested and refreshed, I contacted my friends Jeremy and Meredith to see if they wanted to get brunch. I had a lot of errands to run and things to do on Sunday since Saturday was a lost day because of my crippling hangover, and figured a nice way to kick it off would be with a lovely brunch.
So Jeremy, Meredith and I – along with our friends Chris and Robyn – headed over to the Village to check out a little of the gay pride parade (wonderful parade, by the way) and have brunch at AOC. AOC is a lil’ French place with a garden and a team of French waiters who act alternatively charming and arrogant. Because there were five of us, we couldn’t sit in the garden, but that didn’t make the brunch any less lovely. We sat and talked and laughed among the gays and Europeans and had a grand old time, congratulating ourselves for being so cultured and worldly. As for the food, I had my standard - omelet with goat cheese, mushrooms and bacon – but it was Meredith who stole the show with her fancy-pants hot dog sandwich, a hot dog on a baguette with swiss cheese and bechamel sauce. I didn’t know what bechamel sauce was prior to eating this hot dog, but let’s just say that I want to get to know more of this bechamel sauce. A lot more.
As brunch was ending, the idea of getting a drink was brought up. It was a lovely, sunny day and in were in the good company of friends, so why not? Also, none of us had gone out the previous night and were hangover-free. We wanted to be able to sit in a garden and drink, so after some deliberation we decided to go to Lorely for a quick and enjoyable beer before parting ways.
Well.
Before all was said and done, our bar tab was $394. Yes, $394. On a Sunday. Between five people, two of them girls who weigh a combined 205 pounds. We sat in that garden for eight hours, from 3pm until 11pm. All of us blew off every responsibility we had (for example, Chris and Robyn, who are engaged, planned to spend the day registering; I had to help a friend move an air conditioner; Meredith had to write up a syllabus) and got blind, stinking, stammering and slobbering drunk.
It was awesome.
It’s all the fault of those damn liters of beer, which are the equivalent of about three normal beers. While the girls drank pints, Chris, Jeremy and I hit the liters pretty hard. And no one wins when you hit the liters pretty hard, including your bank account and your work productivity the next day.
After having at least five and possibly six liters of beer on Sunday, I spent my workday Monday a complete wreck. More than the standard hangover, I felt beaten; I was sore, my muscles were tired, my stomach was a mess.
It was the last of these symptoms that distressed me most. A few months ago, I thought I had a ulcer, a fear which I wrote about on this site. Over time, my symptoms went away, and I concerned myself with more pressing issues (i.e. exploring the various forms of the Jersey Stranger, which is basically masturbating in the shower with one arm around the shower curtain, but really so, so much more). All was forgotten.
It was after Friday night’s boozing session that on Saturday afternoon I sat on the toilet and learned that apparently I had been shot in the heinie-hole. I’ve heard that blood in the stool is a bad thing, but this was more of a stool in the blood situation. I was so alarmed that I started crying on the toilet, but then went back to the Jersey Stranger and things got better.
I didn’t poop on Sunday, since that would have taken time away from drinking liters of beer and running up an obscene bar tab. Monday, however, was a true pooping parade. And each time, it was the same: someone had obviously been sneaking into my office and shooting me in the butt with a BB gun. One of my near and dear personal mottos is "I usually stop [wiping] when there’s more red than brown," so I’m not unfamiliar dangerous poos. But these poos…they were downright frightening.
I went to bed last night with stomach pains and anxiety. I woke up three hours later with the same, only more intense. Though I did not poo during the night, I convinced myself that I was bleeding internally and slowly (or not so slowly) dying. I thought about all the things I haven’t done – traveled to Asia, been to a zoo, had sex with four women at once – and all the things I haven’t done but really wanted to do – masturbated in Asia, masturbated at a zoon, masturbated with four women at once – and got sad. It was not a good night.
I called in sick this morning and have spent the day wincing and walking gingerly around the apartment, terrified to poo for fear of seeing a kidney or chunk of my heart in the toilet bowl. I’ve spent most of the day, lying in bed or on the couch, clutching my stomach and saying "Oww." God, I am such a pussy.
But there is a happy ending to this story. Just moments ago, I made a good, uneventful poo. Though not my best, anything that didn’t look like a homicide occurred in the toilet is considered a major, major plus. Though I only went to medical school for one year, I can say with 100% certainly that this normal poo means I’m on the mend.
So for the next few days, I will force myself to take it easy. I’ll eat bland foods (cereal, rice) and binding foods (bananas, painkillers). I won’t drink and will possibly even exercise. These next few days, I’m going to the picture of health, as my body heals.
This weekend in Boston, however, is another story.
I feel like I might do well this weekend, because I’m very hairy right now.
Prior to going out for a night on the town, there are a few ways that a man can ensure that he will not meet or get lucky with a woman. These include:
- Taking great care to clean one’s bedroom
- Bringing a condom out in one’s wallet
- Telling a friend, "You know what? I feel like I might get lucky tonight."
- Hiding all pornography
- Setting up matches and candle on bedroom nightstand
Doing any of these things prior to going out will guarantee that you not get laid. As a hairy guy, there’s one more: trimming the body hair.
To give you a little bit about where I’m at right now in terms of my grizzly bear-ness, I haven’t gotten a haircut in two months (since my buddy Joe’s wedding in April). My beard is not mountain man-ish, but is scraggly and hasn’t been trimmed for some time. My pubis region, usually the one beacon of kemptness among the unruly waves of hair all over my body, resembles not a well-trimmed hedge but a neglected junkyard. Most damningly, there are settlements being established in the lushest and most life-bearing regions of my back hair; I think I can make out a general store being constructed on the steppes of my left shoulderblade.
By further eschewing all desire to get laid and instead focusing only on getting drunk and eat late-night pizza tonight, this all adds up to one thing: I’m going to meet the woman of my dreams this evening. It’s been nice knowing you all. It’s about time for me to settle down.
(Of course, said woman will be horrified by my excessive hairiness and I will probably accidentally burn her with my pizza, but let’s meet her first and worry about that later.)
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I never thought I was a marketing genius or even a very smart man. But now I know this for sure because, despite this site having hundreds of thousands of visitors and maybe 30 million hits since its inception, I’ve been blown away by how many of you have ordered "Drink Until You Shit!" shirts. I was expecting to sell anywhere for zero to four shirts to y’all (closer to zero) and we’ve gotten considerably more orders than that.
(I also find endless enjoyment in the fact that people from all over the country and Canada, the UK, Ireland, Germany and the Philippines (!) will be wearing shirts from our pub crawl. I mean, wow.)
(Speaking of, for those international peeps that have contacted me about ordering shirts or those who I haven’t contacted yet, we need to discuss shipping. Because I don’t think it’s $2.)
If you haven’t ordered a shirt yet and want one, you should do so asap. Not just because they’re selling, but because I will probably be bored with this whole thing in the next four days or so.
For those Philly peeps, if you want to pick up a shirt, you can do so at Mick-Daniel’s Saloon at 2nd & Snyder in South Philly Tuesday and Wednesday nights from 7pm to 9pm. Ask for David – he’s co-founder of the tour and will take care of you. Have a drink, too – it’s a nice place. But please, get the shirts as soon as you can, since we will most likely sell out.
But really, you guys who have ordered have made me very happy and warm inside. Our little drinking tour is all grown up and I’m damn proud. Also, maybe now I’ll get my ass in gear and offer some other things for sale so as to continue with my expensive habits and fine living. Or maybe my days as entrepreneur will end when the shirts run out and I’ll go back to begging you guys for money on my birthday (which, mark your calendars, is July 17).
Yeah, the begging sounds right.
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I am notoriously bad at naming characters and am in the process of starting to create something new. I needed a name for a female character, which is difficult enough for me, but I also didn’t want to give her the name of any girl I’ve slept with or dated, lest these ex-lovers think the character was inspired by her. But by disqualifying the names of all my ex-lovers, I’m ruling out, like, five different girls names. Holy crap that puts me in a bind.
So I sent an email to a bunch of friends who know of my naming problems, explaining the situation and the character and asking for suggestions. My old roommate Brian fired an email back to me immediately that said:
Celeste, chloe, brianna. don’t know why, these just came to mind.
For those of you who are non-perverts, it may seem like Brian was trying to earnestly help by offering some suggestions. And, in fact, he was earnest in these suggestions. But do you know why these names just popped into Brian’s mind? Because they are all the names of adult film stars.
I called Brian as soon as I read his email and pointed this out to him and he was shocked at its psychological implications. I asked him for a name of a woman and what he immediately came up with was names of women who get paid to eat semen and get doubly penetrated.
This, dear readers, is why Brian and I are friends. And yes, this little anecdote will make it into a wedding toast/his eulogy.
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[The following was written not to try to make you laugh but rather to appease my rage. Thank you.]
A buddy and I went to Swift this week for a couple of after work pops. It’s an ok place, kinda douchy on the weekends but not bad during the week, and it has an extensive beer list.
Anyway, I paid for all the beers because I’m a nice guy and we had at least 10 pints between us, probably 12. And we’re talking fancy beers here, so the pints were $6 or $7 each, adding $1 per pint for tips. We sat there for about three hours, getting drunk, ordering beer after beer, tipping each time.
Not once did we get a free round.
I know that NYC isn’t a great place for buy-backs, but this was fucking ridiculous. We were there on a Tuesday night when the place was not crowded in the least. I spent at least $70, probably more, tipping on every drink. I even went to the same bartender each time, so it’s not like I was ordering from multiple people. But this fucking clown, on a slow Tuesday night when I was ordering from him only and tipping each round, did not get us back with one free round.
Please, friends and readers, if you love me at all, boycott Swifts. I am a nearly professional drinker with many years experience in NYC, and never before did I feel so rebuffed than I did by this bartender. You’re not missing anything anyway; you can find an equally impressive beer list at a dozen places nearby that don’t have bankers, beer snobs and assholes like me crowding the joint.
I mean, fuck. One free beer out of seven is not too much to ask. Fuck Swift and that bartender.
(I’d better move to something happier before I ruin my weekend.)
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I have not seen this show (The Flight of the Conchords) yet, but it’s waiting in my Tivo to be viewed. I’ve heard great things and if the following clip is any indication, methinks I will enjoy it.
[youtube]N7vgY0yEs9Y[/youtube]
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Six Songs
"You Make My Dreams Come True" Hall & Oates
In the canon of Hall & Oates hits, this song gets lost. Think about it – if I asked you to name five Hall & Oates songs, you’ll give me some combination of "Maneater," "Private Eyes," "Out of Touch," "Rich Girl" and "Your Kiss Is On My List" (and "I Can’t Go For That" might be in there as well). But this one is just as beautiful and wonderful as any song they’ve ever created. Not only that, Daryl Hall is simply going for it in that first verse; how many notes does he hit when he sings the word "flame" the second time? and what about the range he displays when he sings "I can’t explain?" This verse may, in fact, be Daryl Hall’s finest vocal performance. And that is saying a lot, my friends. Let us celebrate.
"Effect and Cause" The White Stripes
I gotta say: I’m very, very disappointed with the White Stripes new album, Icky Thump. Angry, even – I was out with friends this week talking about my disdain for the album and I felt myself on the verge of getting violent. First, the song "Icky Thump" is one of the worst and stupidest songs I’ve ever heard. Please, do not think I am using any understatement when I say this. What the fuck are those lyrics? "Icky thump, get drunk, you punk, move junk" blah blah blah. It’s like a bad rap song. And then these lines – "Well Americans, what, nothing better to do?/Why don’t you kick yourself out – you’re an immigrant too!" – I mean, I cringe when I hear that. Jesus Christ, Jack. You’re not Bono. Leave the political garbage to Neil Young, the rapping to Jay-Z, and focus on rocking the fuck out. God damn.
[And don't get me started on "Rag and Bone" - I'm not sure if that's a song or an Adam Sandler skit. ("You don't want these things? We can use 'em! Meg and I can use 'em! Just give it to us! We'll give it a home!") Good lord. And "Conquest?" Can we get serious here please? Rock is not a joke, Jack, you big jerk.]
Anyway, [taking deep breath] this is a very good song. No, it doesn’t rock, but it’s very catchy and very clever. At after listening to this album, I’ll take catchy and clever over some of the "rockers" on there any day.
I will not give up on this album because this band is dear to me, so let’s hope I get turned. Because right now, it doesn’t look good.
"The Bucket" Kings of Leon
God, this band is fun. Another great summer song, especially if you’re riding around in the back of a pickup truck drinking cans of PBR. Or sitting in your apartment with the TV and lights off finishing a post before you go out and drinking PBR. Either one.
"Rough Gem" Islands
I still honestly don’t know if I love or hate this song. When I listen to it, I kinda feel like a pederast. Read into that what you will.
"Whiskey River" Willie Nelson
Speaking of pederasts, I haven’t had whiskey in a while because it was a bit of a bad scene for Uncle Jason. But really, how can anything be bad that inspires such beautiful lyrics:
Whiskey River take my mind
Don’t let her memory torture me
Whiskey River don’t run dry
You’re all I’ve got – take care of me
God, that makes me proud to be an American. And a drunk. Both. It’s a versatile song.
"Leave A Light On For Me" Belinda Carlisle (not on iTunes; their loss)
Yes, I realize that this is the second (or possibly third) Belinda Carlisle song that I’ve recommended on here. But guess what? I’m in love with her.
[youtube]qJOjLoOD6i0[/youtube]
There, I said it. So there’s that. I bet if the person you were in love with was a musician, you’d recommend his/her songs, too. Now quit judging. It’s really starting to piss me off.
[Have a good weekend.]
I had been to Blue Smoke once before a few years back, when an ex-girlfriend, with whom I had a torrid affair after we broke up (and she started dating someone else) that was about fifteen times hotter than our old relationship and possibly even twice as hot as the sun, took me there for my birthday. That meal blew my fucking doors off and I had been dreaming about Blue Smoke since. This time, however, possibly because the prospect of birthday/monkey sex was not imminent (no offense to Nicole, of course), I was not as impressed. That doesn’t mean it wasn’t good, but it was certainly not as terrific as I remember.
(Likely the same sentiment applies to the post-break up affair between the ex and I; Uncle Jason is a little hard up for a steamy affair right now and may be looking at the past through rose-colored glasses. Also, he has an erection as he’s typing this. It’s been a slow summer. Sorry.)
Blue Smoke is a barbeque place – a classy barbeque place to be sure, but a barbeque place nonetheless. I feel like barbeque places lend themselves to getting several different kinds of food and making a pig out of diners. And boy, did Nicole and I get lots of different food, and I ate so much that I thought I blew out a knee when I stood up after the meal.
Nicole and I started with the creamy blue cheese and bacon dip, which came with homemade barbeque chips. The dip was terrific, almost too much (blue cheese? bacon? barbeque chips? if the waitress had flashed her breasts after delivering the dip or I was allowed to do a j in the restaurant, all of my main vices would have been covered). I went with the devilled eggs appetizers. This is a curious choice, I know, but I had not had devilled eggs since my grandmother, God rest her soul, passed away last year. And, unfortunately, the devilled eggs at Blue Smoke had nothing on my grandmom’s. They were good, but nothing spectacular; if you order devilled eggs at a restaurant, you expect something spectacular, or at least special. These were not. They were plain ol’ devilled eggs. Good, but just devilled eggs. Nicole’s appetizer was the barbecued mussels with tomatoes, chilies and smoked pork. These were pretty good, but I feel like you can only do so much with mussels and again, these were nothing spectacular. Also, as someone who is admittedly a 100% pussy when it comes to spice, they had a little too much kick for me. So the appetizers…eh.
The main course is where Blue Smoke – and Nicole and I – kicked it up a notch. Nicole ordered the pulled pork platter, which both of us had on previous visits to the restaurant. We agreed that it was easily the best pulled pork either of us had ever had. Tender, juicy, with the perfect combination of sweet and spicy, it is fucking incredible. It scores high marks across the board – taste, texture, temperature, smell, appearance – all of which inspire both a sense of awe and also ravenous lust. It doesn’t hurt that the portion of pulled pork they pile on your plate (alliteration alert!) is roughly the size of a volleyball.
I got the pulled pork as well, but as part of a larger plate. My entrée was something called "Rhapsody In ’cue" which (hang on to your seats, folks) had St. Louis spareribs, the pulled pork, smoked chicken and (why not?) a sausage link. Yes, there was a gauntlet. I was wearing it. I removed it. I threw it, with extreme prejudice, down to the ground. Last night, the barbeque and I, we danced.
And just like what happens when I dance in real life, by the time it was over I was left sweating, sore, tired, and wanting to go home to sit in air conditioning. And I haven’t even mentioned the sides we got, which were completely ridiculous: creamed spinach, mac and cheese, sweet potato fries with a maple dip, and hush puppies (which are like cornbread fritters) with a jalapeno marmalade. I mean, this…this was just too much.
And I think this is what made the meal less than spectacular for me. I was completely overwhelmed and outclassed. After each bite, I had too many choices – do I go with the pork, ribs, chicken, sausage, mac and cheese, creamed spinach, sweet potato fries, hush puppies, or back to the blue cheese and bacon dip? That’s nine different options, son. Total system overload for a fat guy like me. By the time we got out of there, I actually had a headache from having to think so much.
Since there were so many options, let’s break them down one by one:
- Pork: I covered this – incredible and a must-have if you go here.
- Ribs: I have a love/hate relationship with ribs. On the one hand, I think they’re delicious. On the other, I have a bit of weight problem as well as a beard. Meaning, I’m a little self-conscious about eating a bone with my hands and gnarling it down until I’ve ripped all the meat off of it. The platter came with four ribs, but I only had two; I could sense I was making Nicole uncomfortable with all my rib-eating and snorting. I will eat the remaining two ribs tonight in the privacy of my bathroom with both the shower running and the TV on to drown out my grunting sounds.
- Chicken: Surprisingly delicious. I try not to order chicken whenever I go out because, well, it’s chicken. But this is the one example where I was truly impressed with Blue Smoke; the chicken was very juicy, tender, and flavorful. Again, serious grunting involved here.
- Sausage: Very flavorful with a quite a lil’ wallop of spice that sneaks up on you. Not bad, but again, me = spice pussy.
- Creamed spinach: A little watery, but solid. Nothing to write home about.
- Mac and cheese: Very, very impressive. Very, very rich. This mac and cheese could do some serious, serious good for the world. I think if I put this on my penis before I went to bed, I’d wake up and would have a bigger bird. This is the only side that Nicole and I ate all of. No survivors here, but goddamn did they fight valiantly.
- Sweet potato fries: After trying a fry dipped in the maple dip, I said to Nicole, "You need to try this – it will make you a woman." I think this is a pretty accurate description.
- Hush puppies: I probably would have preferred plain ol’ cornbread. I never thought I’d write this, but frying food is not always a good idea and can be a little much. Cornbread is delicious because it’s soft and a little sweet and lovely – do we really need to drop it in a fryer? I feel like the people who liked fried cornbread are the same people who strangle themselves while masturbating or during sex to have more powerful orgasms. Sometimes it’s ok to leave "really great" alone, you know?
For dessert, Nicole and I got the banana cream pie. I had not had banana cream pie since I used to get it as a kid at Termini’s in South Philly. While good, like the devilled eggs, this banana cream pie did not compare with the banana cream pie of yore. Also, compared with the size of their other serving, the slice of banana cream pie was rather small for the hefty $7.25 price tag. I can complain about this because, even though I was stuffed, I have a separate stomach for desserts.
One last thing to note is that while our service wasn’t bad, our waitress was in our face for most of the meal – and not in a helpful way, either. When we got there, the bar was packed with people waiting for a table, and it was almost equally crowded by the time we left two hours later. It was obvious that the waitress was trying to move us along as quickly as possible, whereas Nicole and I (especially me) needed some serious time to rest, recuperate, and calculate how how much we raised our respective percentages of arteries clogged (I went from 47% to 51% – hello majority!).
Even though I left feeling a bit disappointed, I would still recommend Blue Smoke, but with the advice that one should definitely try the pulled pork and the mac and cheese, and maybe get the chicken, sweet potato fries, and ribs (in that order).
And maybe, just maybe, I learned something from the meal. Maybe I learned that nostalgia is a powerful deceiver, that life cannot be lived properly when constantly comparing the past to the present. Or maybe I learned that there is no limit to the sentimentality I can attach to a memory involving either food or sex.
Yeah, probably that last one.
The page is pretty self-explanatory, but if you have any questions, just drop me a line.
(One note: If you’re ordering multiple shirts, you can continue adding different sizes or quantities by selecting a size and hitting "Add to Cart." For example, if you want a L and an XL, select L and hit "Add to Cart" and then select XL and hit "Add to Cart." Dig?)
According to a study by the National Health and Social Life Survey, the U.S. circumcision rate peaked at nearly 90 percent in the early 1960s but began dropping in the ’70s. By 2004, the most recent year for which government figures are available, about 57 percent of all male newborns delivered in hospitals were circumcised. In some states, the rate is well below 50 percent.
The article continues:
[Circumcision] is most prevalent in the upper Midwest. In 2004, according to data compiled by the federal Agency for Healthcare Research and Quality, more than 79 percent of newborn boys in the Midwest were circumcised before leaving the hospital. Michigan and Kentucky had the highest rates, at 85 percent.
In the fast-growing West, the rate declined dramatically — from 64 percent in 1979 to just under 32 percent in 2004.
In California, the rate of hospital circumcisions among newborns was 21 percent. California — which has more immigrants than any other state — had the lowest circumcision rate in the study, which had comprehensive data on only 27 states.
I mean, crap.
Those who know me know that I am passionate about few things – creamed chipped beef, masturbating in front of a mirror, and, well, that’s about it. Those and, of course, circumcision.
I am about as pro-circumcision as they come. While the jury is still out about whether or not I can actually procreate a non-dragon child, if I do have a son, he will certainly be circumcised - even if I have to perform the operation myself or with the aide of a Franciscan monk and doctor named Michel. This is not because I believe in the health benefits of circumcision but for one simple reason: uncircumcised birds look totally fucking weird.
I, as you might have surmised, am circumcised. I am sure that when my parents made the decision to have me circumcised, it was based on a simple factor – that’s just what you do. At the time of my birth in 1979, popularity of circumcision reached a record high in the United States at 85% (see here). True, since 1979, new shit has come to light about circumcision, namely that all that stuff about it preventing penile cancer and facilitating genital hygiene may not be as true (or at least unassailable) as it was once thought. And as the CNN article implies, an increasing number of people view circumcision as unnecessary and potentially harmful.
I readily concede these points. But then there’s this: uncircumcised birds look like aliens.
Four of my buddies in college – out of a few dozen – were uncircumcised. They celebrated this and I admit, I was a little jealous of their exclusive little club and their weekly "Guys With Covered Wagons" poker games. But still, being a member of an exclusive club - even one that played poker every Wednesday night and got those potato skins from Rogie’s that were covered in sour cream – is not worth walking around with a penis that looks like a sausage.
Since I am circumcised, I intend for all of my male progeny to be circumcised as well, regardless of potential health benefit (although that’d certainly be a plus) or possible pain (don’t be a pussy – I don’t remember feeling a thing). The reason why I’d like my sons to be circumcised is that I don’t feel that I could properly relate to them if we had different-looking birds.
I’ve seen my fair share of uncircumcised birds, both after Billy Joel concerts and in countless hours of pornography, and in short, they terrify me. Admittedly, my natural inclination is to fear and hate what I don’t understand (dry ice, the Swedish language, love, etc), so when it comes to matters of the penis, a sensitive (get it?) topic to begin with, it should not come as a surprise that I have such a strong opinion in this matter. And I don’t mean to overly come down on my uncut friends – if your parents were hippies or immigrants or poor or wanted women to recoil at the sight of your penis later in your life, that’s fine, man. You know what I always say – when you’re judgin’, you’re not lovin’. But I just don’t see how there’s any way, when the doctor asks my wife/girlfriend/driver whether or not we’d like our son to be circumcised, I’ll say, "Fuck it - let him keep the alien bird. If he’s anything like his old man, the women he’ll be involved with won’t be able to tell if it’s a penis or a finger or a strong breeze anyway, so I might as well save the $1200."
(I confess that I have thought about a scenario in which if I had two male children, one of them would be circumcised while the other would not. This would serve as a real-life science experiment to discover once and for all which is better: to be circumcised or to be uncircumcised. However, after spending a few weeks thinking about it, I came to the "duh" conclusion that both my theoretical male offspring would be so fucked up anyway (think: bat wings, fangs, etc) that they would not make for an ideal sample of the population and the experiment would be useless.)
Because I will surely have so little to bond over or talk about with my sons, at least I can ensure that our birds look the same. I can and I must. Statistics, CNN and the liberal media, and the influx of Asian and Latin American immigrants be damned – my sons are gonna get their birds chopped, just like their Pappy did. That, my friends, is an example of a true American standing up for what he believes in. God bless America, God bless me, and, most importantly, God bless my normal-looking bird.
(Well, it’s kinda normal. It’s just miniature, more like a toddler’s than a grown man’s. Which is really a matter we should tackle another day.)
So really, what do you get for the father who doesn’t want much but has everything he wants? Why, a Beretta .380, of course.
Make no mistake: we did not make this decision glibly. I’ve written before that my dad suffers from chronic back pain leftover from an injury that put him out of work a few years ago. Since then, he’s been on a steady regimen of painkillers. Buying a gun for a man who is constantly on painkillers and muscle relaxers is not the brightest idea and should only be approached with caution and after diligent research. But like I said, my dad is hard to shop for. And that gun is shiny. So a gun it is.
My mom got wind of our idea and was vehemently against it. I asked her why, and the best reason she could come up with was “Because…it’s just not a nice present.” I pointed out to her that in the South a gun would make an excellent Father’s Day present, but backed off shortly thereafter when I realized that this was the woman who lived with and was married to my dad at the height of his powers back in the early 80’s, and had put up with his numerous nights of jail, his being stabbed, and a few “the gun went off” incidents. So she had every right to be against the gun gift.
(You guys will have to pay to read about these “mishaps” in the book. Sorry. Uncle Jason’s gotta make some money somehow.)
But also we knew that a gun was what my dad wanted, as he mentioned something to that effect to my brother on one of their recent trips to the firing range. So a gun he would get. The only problem was how to actually going about getting the gun.
Simply put, we feared that our father would not pass the background check. Our dad has had his share of brushes with the law in the past and though there’s been nothing major, we (his children) were not sure what exactly the background check would look for and what offenses would potentially weed him out (pun entirely intended). We decided that if he failed, one of us would go back a few days later and buy the gun ourselves and then give it to him. I think this is technically illegal, but I’m not a lawyer.
Fortunately, that was unnecessary. My brother sent me the email below on Friday, the day after he and my dad went and bought the gun. I tried to summarize for publication on here, but he pretty much nailed it, so here’s the relevant part:
"[T]here was an automatic background check so he got the gun immediately instead of waiting. Prior to the check he was talking to the dealer and was like, "So, this just checks for felonies, right?" He then asked the dealer if there would be an issue with the background check because of previous run-ins with the law over child support money. I thought that would be so many levels of irony there if I couldn’t buy him a gun on Father’s Day because of a previous issue with him not paying for my child support, but it was a non-issue."
So luckily, delinquent twenty-year-old child support payments notwithstanding (time really does heal all wounds), my brother and my father walked out of the gun shop with a brand-new weapon of destruction.
I called my dad last night to wish him a happy Father’s Day. He told me that he went around my grandfather’s house were a bunch of relatives gathered to celebrate over pizza and Kentucky Fried Chicken (between the gun and the KFC on Father’s Day, I’m not sure if my family’s still living in Philly or if they’ve moved to Arkansas). I asked him about the gun and could tell he was thrilled about it. He hadn’t taken it to the range yet, but I sensed that for once, we finally got him something he really, really wanted. A gun. A fucking gun.
So Happy Father’s Day, Dad. Just don’t kill yourself or anyone with that gun. Or else Mom’s going to look pretty smart.
On Sunday, my last day down the shore, I stopped by my aunt’s house to hang out with some family before I made the drive back to Philly (at which point I’d drop the car off and get a train back to NYC). It was about 1:30pm, and one of my uncles who shall remain nameless (remember, Dad one of ten kids and Mom one of six kids, so lots of aunts and uncles) asked for a ride to the bar on my way out of town. I said, "Sure, no problem," as it’s not unusual for someone related to me to start drinking at a bar at 1:30pm on a Sunday afternoon.
As we got into the car, me in the driver seat and him in the passenger seat, he asked how the car was running (all the men in my family are very into cars). As I was backing out of the parking spot, I said, "Well, it’s fine. It could use some new brake pads, though. And the right brake light is out."
This spooked my uncle.
Uncle: [scared] "The right brake light is out?"
Me: [confused] "Um, yeah."
Uncle: "Oh – I ain’t riding with you then."
At that point, my uncle got up out of the deep seat and started opening the car door, getting out of the vehicle, now stopped.
Me: "I don’t get it – so what if the brake light is out?"
Uncle: [speaking through closed door/open passenger window] "You could get pulled over for that."
Me: "So what?"
Uncle: "So what? I got a bench warrant out on me – We get pulled over, we get ID’ed, and I go to jail, homes."
My uncle started walking away from the car. "Fuck it – I’ll walk," I heard as he strutted away.
I love my family. I know this for sure because I was completely unphased by this turn of events, shrugged, and drove on back to Philly. Just another regular day, learning my uncle has a bench warrant out for his arrest.
[Shrug]
*****************
A few quick notes on the NBA Finals:
1) It wasn’t as boring as everyone is saying it was. Seriously.
2) Donyell Marshall is probably the worst basketball player in the NBA. His incompetence in all matters basketball is astounding.
3) The image of Gregg Popovich on a large plasma TV will haunt my nightmares for the next few years. I’m no Denzel Washington, but he is not a good-looking man (and he has shark teeth). However, he is a basketball coaching genius, whereas I’m going to get so drunk and feel so alone tonight that I’m going to suck the marrow out of a T-bone (see below). So he wins.
*****************
Six Songs
"The Latest Toughs" Okkervil River
Driving, catchy and quirky, it grabs you right away. This song is quickly become one of my anthems of summer. This is also a mainstay on my "I’m Washing My Balls and Rocking Out – What?" playlist, which I listen to while getting ready for a rousing night out (note: I use the word "rousing" in the broadest possible sense to include "staying in with a cherry vanilla sundae to watch six hours of prison documentaries").
"1-2-3-4" Feist
Talk about catchy – holy crap. This is almost too poppy or too girly for me to like, but because it has banjo in it (actually, two banjos if I’m not mistaken), it’s ok.
"Into the Sun" The Hiders
This is a very good band recommended to me by Katherine, formerly of Canada but now of the UK (unless she’s lying to me and making up faraway locations so I won’t track her down). They sound a little like Neil Young before he got all high-horse and soapboxy. Also, there’s a girl singer, which is cool. Love the whole "I should have…" element to the song. After all, the best advice I ever heard and the words I try to live by: "If you ever regret something, regret it because you did it, not because you didn’t do it. There is no greater regret than lost opportunity." So yeah, you should’ve.
(You can check out their MySpace profile here.)
"Have You Forgotten" Red House Painters
This song gives me the chills. I don’t like to pick favorites, but if you only download one of these songs, download this one.
"No Rest For The Weary" The Blue Scholars
A lot of my friends who are more into hip hop and rap than I am make fun of my inclination toward "soft" rap, and this song only gives them more ammo. Hey, I like rap about ho’s and guns and niggas trying to git at my shit, but I also like rap that sounds nice on my ears. Also, these guys are from Seattle, which I find kinda weird, but appealing.
"Rebel Rebel" Ricki Lee Jones
Terrific, unique cover of a terrific, unique song. This has to have been used in a movie or TV show. It’s so ambient I actually float away – physically and mentally – when I listen to it. Also I’m on mushrooms right now.
(Just kidding – I wish I was on mushrooms right now. Speaking of, can someone get me mushrooms? They’re for, uh, a friend.)
*****************
I’m going to a barbeque in Hoboken tonight at which there will be so much beer, testosterone and raw meat that the world may explode. Pray not only for me, but for yourselves.
This is the start of a very fun stretch for me where every other weekend I have something cool going on: I’m in Boston at the end of this month, then I have "Drink Until You Shit" in July, Milwaukee and LA in August, Boston again in September, and then Knoxville/Nashville in October. Not sure what’s going on in November (I’d love to go to the Caribbean) but then I’ll be in Seattle in December for the 2nd Annual West Coast Wine Drinking Competition, which, I’d like to point out, I won last year.
Life is good right now, thank you very much.
[Have a good weekend.]
This is your official reminder: The 9th Annual Flood-Mulgrew Quasi-Celebrity "Drink Until You Shit!" Drinking Tour will take place in North Wildwood, New Jersey on Saturday, July 14, 2007. Here comes fucking awesomeness.
We will meet at 6:30pm at Casey’s on 3rd & New York. We will be at Casey’s until no later than 8pm, at which point we will continue on the bar crawl through North Wildwood (exact itinerary still to be determined).
I don’t expect any of y’all to attend, but if you’re in the area, it’s a guaranteed good time – if for no other reason you’ll wear a t-shirt that says "Drink Until You Shit!" on the back. As I write this, Site Guy Brendan is creating a webpage dedicated to the tour, which will contain information on the tour and will give you the opportunity to buy a shirt (sizes small to XXL). A few things about t-shirt buying:- If you are going on the tour, you are strongly advised to buy your shirt ahead of time and as soon as possible. If you’re from my neighborhood in Philly, we will be posting times that shirts can be purchased (for $15) at Mick-Daniels bar at 2nd & Snyder. That information will be available in a few days (when the shirts come in).
- If you are going on the tour and not from my neighborhood, you are still strongly encouraged to buy your t-shirt before the tour. When Site Guy Brendan creates the new page, it will have a paypal link for you to submit payment and provide shipping info (I guess shipping will be about $2 a shirt). If I don’t know you and you’re coming on the tour, totally cool, but all I ask is that you don’t weird me out. I embarrass very easily. Thank you for your understanding.- If you’re not going on the tour and just want a t-shirt, that’s fine too. But the moral is, the sooner the better, because these bad boys are so fucking gorgeous they will certainly sell out (pics will be available on the new page). And David and I are WAY too lazy to get more.
To stress, we cannot guarantee t-shirt availability on the night of the tour as we have in years past. Get your t-shirts as soon as I post pick-up/order info, which I will do in the next few days.Again, I don’t expect you guys to come from far and wide just for a drinking tour (but really, if you’re going to travel for any drinking tour, this is the one), but you can find info about accommodations in North Wildwood here. Remember, the pub crawl is in North Wildwood, not Wildwood. There’s a big difference.
Personally, I can’t fucking wait. Last year, my main complaint was that we didn’t have an itinerary, but we will be distributing one to each tour participant the day/night of the tour and will also have an Original Member manning a bullhorn to let everyone know when it’s time to move and where we’re moving. Problem solved. The 7th Annual tour featured about 60 participants and the 8th had about 130. This year, we’re hoping for at least 200. Giddy up.Every year, we have a Captain of the tour, based on who exhibited the worst behavior on the previous year’s tour. Last year, our Captain was our dear friend Bucky, who, true to the spirit of the tour, actually shit himself in the course of the night on the 7th Annual tour. This year’s Captain will be Chucky (Eclipse). Eclipse, unlike Bucky, did not shit himself, but instead sat on a lawn near the bar at the end of the night and puked so violently that he looked like a giant, red-headed drunken sprinkler. [Though exempted, I made a run at the captaincy by making out with a childhood friend (in front of my mom) and then walking home alone and crawling into bed with my buddy Kyle, who was crashing at my place. Whoops.] Chucky’s official duties as captain are merely ceremonial – there will be a presentation of a t-shirt with a "C" on it at the start of the tour - and all tour participants are encouraged to buy Chucky (as well as myself and David as tour founders) drinks all night.
So that’s it for now. If you can join us, we’d love to see you on July 14 in North Wildwood, NJ. If not, you can expect many stories and many pictures shortly thereafter. Hopefully someone poops himself again. Because that was totally fucking awesome."The Drink Until You Shit Tour - An American Tradition Unlike Any Other"
As a half-man/half-bear, I do not do well in the summertime. Heat hits me hard, makes me sweaty, exhausted, stinky. I know that you probably think these are the universal effects of heat on human beings, but that’s because you’ve never met me and so have never seen me in the heat. You know how you feel when you’re getting changed in the moist, humid air of the gym locker room after a long workout? Well that’s how I feel right now, sitting at my desk. Because it’s 73 in my office. And I just had to type the word "moist," whose letters are all over the keyboard. God, I’m exhausted.
And so I celebrate and enjoy air conditioners in the summer, not just for personal reasons, but for health reasons. Because it’s literally a matter of life and death, I am not afraid to crank those motherfuckers up to 11 from mid-May to October. Crank it up, fuckers. To 11.
(If you get both of those references, let’s get married or at least have a beer. One’s easy, but the other’s a little harder.)
My apartment, however, presents a problem in the air conditioning department. There are three rooms in my apartment that require AC: the front room, which was formerly my bedroom when I had a roommate (Brian) but has since been converted into an office; the middle room, formerly Brian’s bedroom but now my bedroom; and the living room, which is only about nine feet wide but is roughly thirty feet long and includes my kitchen and sitting/dining/jerking area.
The middle room (my current bedroom) and the living room both have security bars on their windows, meaning I can’t just slip and AC in there, as the windows are only about 13 inches deep (I know there’s a joke here, but I can’t find it). I have addressed this problem in the living room by getting an in-room air conditioner, a cast-off from my mom. It’s big and ugly (it looks kinda like R2D2) and has an exhaust tube that connects to my window, but it works and effectively cools the living room. Always one willing to compromise looks for comfort (I’m wearing pajamas bottoms in my office right now), this ugly-but-working AC is ok with me.
I have no such in-room AC for my bedroom. Last summer, Brian used a small AC unit that was not very deep and fit perfectly in the window. However, despite my protestations and bribes, when he moved out, he took this AC with him. I offered to buy it from him, since he was moving to a place that did not have security bars on the windows and so could put any ol’ AC in them, whereas it was a bit difficult to find air conditioners that were short enough to fit in this particular window. However, he refused. Dick.
About a month ago, I began shopping for a small AC to fit in this window. My search took me to several places but I finally found a suitable air conditioner at PC Richard. For those of you outside of the NYC area, PC Richard is essentially a local Best Buy or Circuit City, but much, much shittier. They try to pull the "family-owned" and small business cards in the face of competition from giants like Circuit City, but PC Richards proves a point that I have long held: there’s a reason why Best Buy and Circuit City are huge corporate giants – because they are much, much better than stores like PC Richard. Just like I can take a dump in a box and put a guarantee on it, so can you call a store with crappy service and shittier products "family-owned" to test the intelligence of the consumer.
But despite all this, I still bought the AC at PC Richard (not a smart consumer, am I). Like I said, it’s not that easy to find a "short" air conditioner – especially so early in the season. And again, my health and happiness depends on me being able to sleep in a cool room. Also, the cold air masks that creepy baby/stale-old-man smell in my bedroom that I can’t seem to get rid of. I needed the AC immediately. And PC Richard had it. Done and done.
Installation of this air conditioner was, as you can probably guess, I totally fucking joke (I know I cried at least once), but fortunately my buddy Bill was in town that weekend and helped me through it. Soon the AC was in the window and I was keeping it on full-blast even was it was still dipping into the 50′s at night. All was right with the world.
But then, slowly, my AC started dying. I first noticed this when I woke up one morning just before 6am, wet. Usually when this happens I’ve either peed myself or my cleaning lady/lover Zoila has thrown a pail of water on me, as is customary after missionary-style lovemaking in her homeland (Belize? Guatemala? China?). In this case I was wet not with urine or the post-sex juices mixed with mop water, but with sweat. In the course of the night, the AC started blowing warm air; when I went to bed, it was nice and cold, but when I woke up, there was heat coming out of the AC.
I reacted to this with the hysteria reserved not quite for the national tragedy but more for the death of a beloved family pet. I was nearly inconsolable at the prospect of my brand-new AC dying, and chalked up its poor performance to a freak of nature, a one-time mess up. And wouldn’t you know it – that night I went to bed cold and woke up cold. The AC made it through the night without a problem. Hallelujah.
But alas, this success was short-lived. Since then, I have been faked and duped with great frequency – one night it’ll work, the next it’ll die; for two nights it’ll work, for two it won’t, etc. The story of my early summer (or late spring) has been alternatively sleep-filled and sleepless nights, with very little regularity. Each time I lie down in bed on my cool and crisp sheets, slip my hand down my pants, and prepare myself for slumber, I have no idea if I will get a restful night of cold sleep or will awake in a few hours with my hair matted to my forehead, breathing in my own sweat-fumes.
After an especially nasty and hot last night (even though it was cool out) during which I woke up several times to find my crotch could have been used as a slip and slide for miniature people, I decided to call PC Richard to arrange to replace the AC with a new one. Though the box was gone, I still had the receipt, had only bought the AC less than a month ago, and fo’ sho’ it did not work. It wouldn’t be a problem to exchange. I thought; the company’s slogan is "97 years of honesty, integrity, reliability."
Yeah, um, not really.
I was (extremely) rudely rebuffed by the "customer service" person at PC Richard. Though I explained my situation in a very calm tone and asked only that I get a replacement AC, I was immediately asked if I had bought a store warranty. Of course, I did not buy this warranty, since spending $50 on a warranty for a $120 air conditioner did not seem like a smart business decision on my part. After that, the conversation turned and the customer service woman’s tone went from "unhelpful and disinterested" to "you’re a fucking idiot." She ended the conversation by saying "Sorry – contact the manufacturer" – twice – and hung up on me (and I hadn’t even cursed).
There will be a point in my life in the not too distant future at which I stop giving a fuck. When this happens I will track this woman down. I will not hit her (I haven’t hit a woman in over three weeks), but I will certainly throw something at her. Not something huge, but maybe something like a can of Pepsi. That’ll show her.
So now, in short, my life is in shambles. My AC is broken and I’m terrified to fall asleep. I was beat for $120 and will have to buy another $120 air conditioner this week (that is, if I find one short enough). The stress has so affected me that I’ve been feeling a tingling in my left arm on and off all day long. All I’ve wanted for the past month was an air conditioner that worked. And maybe for Zoila to stop throwing water on me after we’ve had sex. I got neither. There is truly no justice left in the world.
Please, friends, learn from me. Buy your cds at Virgin, drink your Starbucks, run in your Nikes, have lunch at McDonald’s. If you stray away from the giants of corporate America, you will wake up in the middle of night sweating, spend your days exhausted, and the rest of your time plotting revenge on a faceless mean woman who was a dick to you because you weren’t smart enough to buy a warranty. Learn from me, is all I ask. If I know that my example has helped at least one of you avoid the troubles I’ve been through, I will sleep easier tonight.
(Though still sweating, of course.)
But today, after a good night’s sleep and with time to think it over, I’m ok with the ending. A lot of loose ends were tied up in the episode, and I was grateful for that. And any way you cut it, "bad" writing or not, I can’t remember the last time I watched any form of entertainment – tv, movie or otherwise – during which my heart was pounding like it was in that last scene. We were all completely frozen in place, completely enthralled. Very gripping stuff.
So I’m ok with it. Seriously. I am. And God will I miss that show.
[Here's a great conspiracy theory, courtesy of Deadspin:
"So here is what I found out. The guy at the bar is also credited as Nikki Leotardo. The same actor played him in the first part of season 6 during a brief sit down concerning the future of Vito. That wasn't that long ago. Apparently, he is the nephew of Phil. Phil's brother Nikki Senior was killed in 1976 in a car accident. Absolutely Genius!!!! David Chase is truly rewarding the true fans who pay attention to detail.
So the point would have been that life continues and we may never know the end of the Sopranos. But if you pay attention to the history, you will find that all the answers lie in the characters in the restaurant. The trucker was the brother of the guy who was robbed by Christopher in Season 2. Remember the DVD players? The trucker had to identify the body. The boy scouts were in the train store and the black guys at the end were the ones who tried to kill Tony and only clipped him in the ear (was that season 2 or 3?)."]
Second, this only gives further credence to what I stressed over and over again during my time as a TV writer: nothing is funnier than the bleep.
[youtube]EJJL5dxgVaM[/youtube]
Since I haven’t done this in some time, here’s a special bonus Six Songs.
Six Songs
"Sweet Thing" Van Morrison
I recently remade my make-out mix, formerly titled "Mood" (for secrecy’s sake) but now titled "Let’s Make Out or Something" (because I’m finding that secrecy doesn’t really help and/or matter). The remodeling of the consisted of removing all songs by popular artists and leaving only songs by lesser known artists. For example, in its previous incarnation, the mix included songs by U2, Phish, Fiona Apple, etc. Since the goal of the make-out mix has always been to "foster an environment conducive to making out, heavy petting, and, God willing, sexual intercourse, without making the objectives of the mix apparent and thereby raising suspicions of the female present," it is necessary that the mix is subtly suggestive (title notwithstanding) without being aggressive or cheesy. So gone were songs like "Trying To Throw You Arms Around The World" and the like. Now, the mix consists exclusively of songs by artists that only more serious music fans would recognize (i.e. Nick Drake, Joseph Arthur, Yo La Tengo, Beulah – maybe not unknown musicians, but remember, most of the women I make out with listen to Chingy and Fergie).
However, during this purge, I could not remove this song. Of course, Van Morrison’s voice is instantly recognizable and any unsuspecting woman would quickly become suspecting after hearing the first few notes of that acoustic bass, but I just…couldn’t…do it. It’s such a beautiful song that should be required on every make-out mix ever created. The voice, the strings, the acoustic guitar and bass, the high-hat, all work in unison to create not a mood but a movement, a movement that says, "Go ahead and hug for a while. Then maybe kiss for a little bit. Everything is cool. Relax and enjoy the luxury of each other’s company." It is for this reason that this song is one of my top ten favorite songs and will always be on any make-out mix that I create until the day I die (or am no longer able to make out).
(This song isn’t on iTunes, but it should be easy to rip this song from Limewire or some other file sharing service. And don’t feel bad about doing this; I think Van has enough cash.)
"Here I Am Baby" The Marvelettes
This song gets me moving – and grooving. The story goes: I went through a slut phase, then I became a career woman (with real hair, real fingernails, got a job, going to school, and don’t need nobody help me handle my bidness), and then I met you. For whatever reason, I dig you. Let’s do this. So it’s beautiful, really - and it makes me dance. You can’t beat that.
"Modern Romance" Yeah Yeah Yeahs
Confession: this is the first Yeah Yeah Yeahs’ song I ever heard and I heard it for the first time about three weeks ago. Like every "cool"/hipster-beloved band of the past six years (Strokes, Interpol, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, Arcade Fire, Arctic Monkeys, etc), it took me several months to even consider listening to them, so repulsed was I of the spoogefest that surrounded them. I am more than a little bit in love with the second part of this song, which I will cut and call "Modern Romance Part Two" and add to my make-out list. It’s a little scary, sure, but anyone who finds herself listening to my make-out mix in the first place can probably handle it (the weak are usually weeded out around drink two).
(Also, I still hate Interpol and Arctic Monkeys. Fuck them for making really bad music.)
(FYI: The version linked above is a live version which I can’t hear and haven’t heard, whereas I was writing about the studio version, which is not available on iTunes.)
"Wake Up" The Arcade Fire
Speaking of hipster-beloved bands, per my explanation above I hated this album when it came out. Of course, now I love it (and of course, I haven’t gotten the new one yet). The last minute forty-five of this song always put a smile on my face and a swivel in my hips. Also, I’ve decided that I want to put together a boy-girl band that will be described as a cross between Fleetwood Mac, Sly & The Family Stone, and The Arcade Fire.
"Here Comes the Meter Man" The Meters
I know I just recommended one of their songs a few weeks back, but spring and The Meters go so well together. Required listening when I’m walking around Soho in the warm weather, staring at women just a little too long, thinking I’m much more cooler than I actually am. This jam could be 40 minutes long and it’d still be too short.
"I Wanna Buy You A Ring" Huffamoose
An endearing and romantic song from a very good (yet very unknown) band from Philly. I hear so much from my friends about engagement rings that I’m pretty sure that I never want to buy one – and if this means not getting married, well then so be it. But this song is so sweet and simple that it restores my faith. In what, I’m not exactly sure. The second pre-chorus that starts "I wanna be in fifth grade again" makes me especially warm in my belly.
[I once went on a blind date with a girl who told me, quite off-handedly, that the strongest feelings she'd ever had for anyone was in grade school. It kinda blew me away, the way she casually mentioned something that made her, in my eyes, so vulnerable. It also helped that she was extremely attractive (thanks again, Johnny). Of course, after the date, even though we spoke on the phone like old friends prior to the date and had a great time during the date, she never called me again. I wonder if this is because she was about a 9.2 and I look like Daniel Baldwin with less hair and after a two week whipped cream binge. But I will never forget her saying this, and the way she said it. Oh well. She's probably now dating a guy who can do more than six push-ups, but he probably doesn't have a 42" plasma or a banjo hanging in his office. The jerk.]
[By the way, I got a banjo. It's blowing my mind. I might marry it.]
"Time Is Running Out" Muse
This song makes me feel like a 13 year old and a sex addict. It’s a very sexy song and one that I think I would have loved when I was 13, when I was confused and concerned about women and the only thing I knew about them was that they’d ultimately destroy me. Hearing it as a 27 year old, I still like it (and I know only slightly more about women and am more sure than ever that they will destroy me, but only creatively and financially).
"Femme Fatale (Live)" Velvet Underground
Speaking of women as destroyers, see: this song (the title, roughly translated, means "fatal female"). Before Hall & Oates (or as I call them, H&O) warned us about the "Maneater," the Velvet Underground decried the femme fatale. This live version is eons better than the original, not because I’m being sexist, but because it exudes coolness. I can’t put it any other way than to say that I feel cooler when I listen to this song and I feel even cooler that I own it. Many Velvet Underground songs make me feel this way. If you have low self-esteem, I suggest you invest in their box set. Trust me.
"Ain’t No Way" Aretha Franklin
You know what’s unfortunate about Aretha Franklin? My generation and the generations around mine, because of countless knock-offs, cheap imitations, and "American Idol" contestants, can’t appreciate her properly. We’re inundated nowadays with wannabe R&B/soul singers, all imitating Aretha, all pulling the black-female-soul-singer-who’s-maybe-a-little-big-but-has-a-bigger-voice thing, that we forget that Aretha was both the original and the best.
I mean, can you imagine being around when Aretha first broke onto the scene? Her voice is overwhelming in the most literal sense of the world; when I hear her sing, I get so overstimulated that I don’t know what to do. This song in particular is intense. This woman is not faking it – she’s not just reading lyrics off of a few sheets of music. She’s been there. And she wants you to know it. She’s just so much better than everyone who came after her, and we need to be aware of this.
(Hey, can someone please help me down from this high horse that I’m on? Sorry about that, but I dare you to listen to this song and not be blown away. This song, her voice; the reason why people started recording music. Aretha is the Michael Jordan, Tiger Woods, and Franklin Roosevelt of soul singers. No one compares. And it’s not even close.)
"Roscoe" Midlake
I was introduced to this band about a year ago via an email from a reader, who also included a picture of her boobies. It was, and still is, arguably the greatest boobie picture I’ve ever gotten. (Seriously, when I saw the picture, I stood up from my chair and applauded – spectacular).
But I had a hard time getting into the band, because I find them a little…creepy. This song particularly makes me uncomfortable, though I can’t stop listening to it. To me, it sounds like a song that would be used in a trailer in a movie about a real-life killer. And I’m not talking about a crappy serial killer movie, but one similar to "Silence of the Lambs" – something genuinely fucking terrifying, but also compelling. Yeah, maybe that’s why I find this song so creepy and appealing. Something like that.
(This song can also be heard on the band’s MySpace page.)
"Cheek to Cheek" Sahara Hotnights
What a tremendously strange and rocking song, which I’ve played approximately 50 times in the last week. When the horn breaks it down at about 2:10 into the song, well, it’s just about the coolest fucking thing I’ve ever heard.
(This song is not available on iTunes but can be heard on my MySpace page.)
[Author's Note: I just want to let you know that it was excruciatingly painful for me to write this restaurant review. I'm going down the shore this weekend for a long weekend and have spent the last few days getting my beach body together, running like a maniac and subsisting on nothing but water, vitamins, honey nut cheerios and chicken apple sausage - and maybe some gatorade after a run because I'm afraid I've lost too many electrolytes (whatever the hell they are) and may have a seizure. I'm just telling you this so you know how much I suffer for my art; I actually bit a chunk out of my telephone somewhere around the tenth paragraph.]
[Also, this is the May dinner because we ate it in May, even though I'm posting this in June. Just wanted to clarify.]
Last week, Nicole and I had our monthly dinner at Artisanal. This was Nicole’s pick.
Prior to going to the restaurant and based on my limited knowledge of French, I understood the word artisanal to me "expensive cheese that you’ve never heard of." However, after eating at the restaurant, I understand artisanal to also mean "When I die, if I’ve been a good person, this is what eternity will be like," or, more colloquially, "do you mind if I eat this fork? there’s some cheese still stuck to it."
This is the tenth dinner that Nicole and I have gone on during our eating tour of NYC, so it’s getting impossible to properly rank the restaurants. However, I tell you this in earnestness: we may have a winner.
I’ve have written before about my efforts to rail against fancy-pants cheeses. Each and every time Nicole and I have gone out for our monthly dinner and ordered a cheese plate, I have used the same (incredibly tiresome) line: "I like my cheese like I like my women: simple, white and fake." I say this because it’s true. Though I have shed many of the po’ boy ways that I picked up in the slums of South Philly growing up, I have heretofore refused to join the legions of cheese snobs that know the difference between gruyere and gorgonzola and can pronounce Sable du Boulonnais without sounding like they’re having a seizure. Also, I like easy-to-please white women with dyed hair and fake boobs. What?
At Artisanal Nicole and I started with a basket of gougeres. I had no idea how to pronounce grougeres, nor did I know what it is, but Nicole had heard it was delicious. Gougeres, to my delight, are little warm puff pastries, similar to a cream puff, sans the cream inside. Also, the pastry crust has a delicious cheese taste to it; think a light and fancy cheese nip. I could have eaten conservatively three dozen of these, and Nicole and I nearly came to blows over the last one. She would have won, but she graciously let me have it. This is why she’s the best dinner date ever.
We also got a cheese plate with three cheeses. I can’t recall their names, but one was creamy and I enjoyed it very much; one was a little sharp, which is not normally my taste but I liked it nonetheless; and the third was very strong and tasted like my belly button in August after a game of touch football and/or helping a friend move. Naturally, this was my favorite.
[Seriously, there could be a game show called "Cheese or Nasty" that asks blindfolded contestants if they're smelling cheese or something nasty, like toenails, belly button, ass, or Grandfather. If you lose, you have to eat the Nasty. Or kiss the grandfather. Whatever. I'll work on this.]
The highlight of the meal came next, when Nicole and I ordered the Artisanal Blend fondue. I had never had fondue before, as I believed it to be the exclusive bailiwick of the French and homosexuals, two groups I am not very familiar with (HALF LIE). I mean, I understood the nature of the fondue – bowl of hot cheese into which you dip food – but when in my life would I have ever had a fondue? Certainly not growing up, as fondue was far too cultured for me (remember, I didn’t see a horse for the first time until I was 19, and even then I thought it was a really big dog); my buddies and I didn’t have "fondue night" in college; and post-college, most of my dates with women have ended before the fondue portion of the meal, when I would ask "So how would you rate your bird-handling abilities? I’d guess a 7 out of 10. You don’t seem like the type who’s afraid of penis, but only has a rudimentary understanding of how to work it. Yeah, a 7 – I can see it in your eyes."
The fondue was just what I thought – a big hot pot of cheese. The fondue came with bread for dipping, but Nicole and I also got veggies (those went over to her side of the table, thank you very much), apples, and kielbasa (!).
I don’t know if I had a momentary lapse of reason, but as the fondue was being placed on our table, I did not expect it to be very good. Maybe it was the flame underneath that was making me sweaty, maybe it was the little jabbing forks that made me feel like a giant, or maybe I was just drunk (also, could have been all three). But looking at the fondue, I was unimpressed. It’s just cheese, I thought.
Well.
Fifteen minutes later, after I had eaten all of the cheese-covered kielbasa, most of the cheese-drenched apples, and even (gasp!) some of the cheese-saturated vegetables, I was standing next to the table, the scalding hot pot of fondue - now empty, save for some cheese still clung to its sides – above my head, threatening to smash the ceramic pot to the ground so that I could suck the cheese off its broken shards. Nicole was crying. The waiter has crying. I was crying. It was a mess.
Ok, so that didn’t exactly happen. But to say the very least, I have a new addition to my list of "Things I’m Going to Do When I Get Rich": eat a fondue with every meal and, if possible, try to incorporate it into sexual escapades. I mean, wow. I know this may sound like the dumbest thing I’ve ever written, but who knew that kielbasa covered in an intricate mix of melted cheese could be so delicious?
(You know, that definitely is the dumbest thing I’ve ever written. Sorry about that.)
But it didn’t stop there. For our main courses, Nicole and I got the asparagus risotto with wild mushrooms and pecorino and the prime hangar steak frites (guess who got which?). We also added a side of macaroni and cheese and the spinach gratin with parmesan.
Grades across the board: A (risotto), A (steak), A+ (mac and cheese), A+ (spinach gratin). I felt like a punch drunk fighter as we worked our way through the entrees; the fondue had put me on the ropes, but these – particularly the sides – were landing haymakers, blow after blow, making me dizzy, faint, fat. It got to the point that I was so full that when I’d put a scoop of spinach into my mouth, it would lamely fall from my open mouth onto the table, as there was simply no room left in my body for food. But it was so good that I had to keep eating.
(I’m starting to feel dizzy just writing about this.)
Finally, for dessert (fyi: I have a separate stomach for desserts), we got the warm chocolate soufflé cake with peanut butter sorbet and chocolate sauce and the strawberry panna cotta with rhubarb soup. Um, yeah. The first dessert has nine of my favorite 15 words in the English language in its title (the remainder: boobs, cockass, heinie, Elvis Costello, and heinie again) and despite not knowing what "panna cotta" or "rhubarb" was, I became intimately - possibly biblically - familiar with both in a matter of seconds. I was so moved by the chocolate cake that I unbuttoned most of my shirt, took some of the cake in my hand, and smeared it all over my chest. I don’t know why. I didn’t know what else to do. And I had to do something. That pretty much brought the meal to an end.
You know how when you’ve just started dating someone and you know it’s real because from the first time you saw her, you got that feeling in the pit of your stomach that you would do anything - anything - to bone her? And then, finally, when you two do have sex, it’s incredible, complete with equal parts hair pulling/biting and a violins/a candlelight reading of "She Walks In Beauty"? And then after you’re done that first time, you do it again and again, because if you don’t keeping doing it, your passions are so unbridled that you may actually commit a murder?
Well, this meal was kinda like that. Though there wasn’t as much anticipation as the metaphor above, I knew this place had a reputation for cheese that intrigued me. The fondue rocked my balls off. The steak rocked my balls off. The mac and cheese and spinach rocked my balls off. The desserts rocked my balls off. Rocked. Balls. Off. Everywhere.
Hear me now: I can not recommend this place highly enough. I didn’t even get into the wine, which was delicious (a very large, impressive and not-so-expensive wine list, by the way). This is an ideal date spot: it’s not that pricey, fondues are fun, the food is delicious, the service was great and completely unpretentious, the atmosphere is alive but not annoyingly so. My only complaint is that it’s a little too bright in there – darkness, with alcohol, are my greatest allies when on dates. I want to go back so bad that I think I may start walking up to women in bars and saying, "Look, you don’t know me, but do you want to have dinner at Artisanal next week? I don’t have any STDs - not that that should matter – and I’ll pay. What do you say? I mean, it’s free fondue!"
So that’s it. I’m not going to try to artfully end this, because I am spent. I don’t know if I feel more like I’ve just had sex or I’ve just been beaten up, but I do know one thing: I am going to go suck on a piece of cheese. If not, there may be a homicide. As important as my beach body is, sometimes you have to take one for the team.
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My friends and I are having difficulty meeting new women. "New women" is loosely-defined term, but basically it describes women that we do not know through friends (i.e. friends of friends) or work (including women met at work events or industry gatherings). Normally, women met socially through hobbies would count, but my friends and I don’t do any sort of activities or hold membership in any clubs, because that shit is gay.
Reason
This weekend, after living in New York City for six years and doing almost the same exact thing every weekend, we discovered the reason for this is two-fold. In order to meet new women, one must:
a) Go out before 1:30am;
b) Go to bars that, you know, women actually go to.
Shocking, I know. This blew me away, too. Let’s discuss.
On the former, I blame VH1 Classic. VH1 Classic is the pre-game entertainment of choice at my apartment. Starting at about 7pm or 8pm on at least one Friday or Saturday night per weekend, I will be joined by my friends Brian and Jeremy and usually one or two others (in the case of this weekend, my buddy Brendan) and we will drink and watch VH1 Classic. There will be some singing involved along with the videos, as well as some guitar playing, as well as in-depth discussions of such topics as "Separating the Goldmines from the Landmines: How to Tell Which Girl Necessitates the Use of a Condom and Which…Eh, We’ll Let It Slide and Hope That Cold Sore Is A One-Off" and "Def, Dumb and Blind: In A Post-Hysteria World, Does Pyromania Get The Respect It Deserves?" and "The Outer Bounds of Curiosity: Seriously, Would You Ever Make Out With A Dude?"
(The resolutions: look at her eyebrows, earrings and fingernails and you’ll know; no, especially since "Photograph" is one of the greatest songs of the entire fucking decade; and hey, anything’s possible with enough DiSaronno.)
The problem is that VH1 Classic has not been playing videos on Friday and Saturday nights. Instead, at these times they show either music-related movies or "classic" artists in concert. And while another documentary on Pink Floyd or Crowded House live at the Sydney Opera House in 1994 are appealing, nothing goes better with a 16 oz can of Bud than a Poison video. You can take that to the bank.
In an effort to combat this lack of videos, I have been tivoing video blocks, which appear from 3am until noon every day, making sure to catch all the great ones like "Metal Mania," "Rock Fest," and "We Are The 80′s." Then, when pre-gaming, I will replay these videos. This development makes it very, very difficult for my friends and I to leave my apartment at a reasonable time.
Remember, bars are open until 4am in NYC, so extensive pre-gaming in itself is not a bad thing. In the past, my buddies and I would drink and watch videos until about midnight, meaning we still had four hours to enjoy the bar scene. Sure, midnight is late to go out, but not too late. Plus, it’s hard for me to be in social situations unless my blood-alcohol level is at least .09. The upshot is that when I do go out I have a nice rosy color to me which makes me look healthy and alive, when really I’m dying inside.
But now that we have tivoed video blocks, we can explore twelve hours of videos in a single night, skipping the crappy ones and getting to the good stuff. Before, we’d leave at midnight when "Rock Fest" was over, tired as we were of the occasional terrible Asia or Kansas video (hey – both named after places!). But with the power of tivo and the almost unlimited access to rock videos, it is nearly impossible to get out of the apartment; we get drunk, the videos get better (skipping the bad ones), the tv gets louder, and before we know it, it’s after 1am.
(Also, did I mention I now have a gorgeous 42" plasma TV that I love more than God? This doesn’t make it easier.)
Again, the bars are open until 4am, so three hours at bar is not that bad. But here’s the problem.
By the time midnight or 1am rolls around, most of these "new women" we’re seeking to meet are already spoken for, or at least involved in group and in conversations. This Saturday, when we got out at about 1:45am, we looked around the bar and saw each woman or group of women already taken; some were off to the side, making out with their dudes; two by the jukebox were talking to three guys; four girls by the window had been descended upon what appeared to be members of the next terrible hipster rock band currently living in a studio on Clinton Street. There was nothing for us. Because we were late to the party, we missed out.
(I’m taking a leap of faith here and assuming that we’d actually talk to any of these women if given the chance, as opposed to standing in the corner mimicking masturbation and high-fiving each other. Just roll with it.)
This is reason one why we’re having trouble meeting new women.
For the latter reason ("One must go to bars that, you know, women actually go to"), I blame our no-nonsense love of alcohol and our hatred of douchebags.
(I’m going to slip into first person singular here but be aware that I speak for my buddies as well as myself on this.)
I do not like bars that are crowded. I do not like bars at which it takes a while to get a beer. I do not like bars in which people dance, as dancefloors are breeding grounds for douchebags. I do not want to have to yell to have a conversation. I do not like being surrounded by dudes who are out only to crush pussy, and, should that not work out, fight. Lastly, I do not like bars that do not have stall doors on their toilets. I’m sorry, but sometimes when I’m out I have to poop. It’s just my little cross to bear.
I don’t mean to sound like a party pooper, since it’s well-documented that I’m pretty fucking awesome. I love to go out, be rowdy, do shots, high five, piss in the bathroom sink, etc. But what I’m trying to get at is that the bars that my friends and I go to - bars that some would call "unpretentious" but others might call "dives" and even others would call "health code violators" – typically do not count many women among their patrons. Sure, there are some women at these bars – the past-her-prime actresses lamenting her missed big break over a vodka soda, the down on her luck waitress who drowns herself in rum on her only night off because her boyfriend is cheating on her, the slightly disfigured but charming prostitute who keeps asking me when I’m going to get her that $45 I owe her - but these type of women, well, are not exactly keeper material.
(Not that I consider myself keeper material - God help us if that’s the case - but you get it.)
(But I’m not all bad. I like poetry.)
This is reason two my friends and I are having trouble meeting new women.
Solution
The solution is simple: my friends and I need to start going out at 10pm to bars with dancefloors that require a ten minute wait for an $8 imported beer.
However, this solution is simply not feasible. I am a man of few principles, but asking me to forsake two hours of Led Zeppelin and Motley Crue videos so I can sip an Amstel Light and make comments like "The talent is tight in here!" at a bar in Murray Hill is just not going to happen. I have a better chance of getting my own survival show on the Discovery Channel that doing that.
So, some more realistic solutions:
1) Work for VH1 Classic, in the hopes that, once surrounded with all my favorite classic rock videos, I would get sick of them and so not mind leaving my apartment to go out. This plan is flawed, however, since there’s no way I can get sick of these videos.
[youtube]VZ5bS3_BCDs[/youtube]
Yep, no way. I could watch that all day long. And as soon as I’m done this, I probably will.
2) Go back to my female friends, hoping they introduce me to some new women. This option is not too promising based on my own past experiences with friends’ friends (I believe I practiced what most would call a "scorched earth" policy in this regard).
3) Open, with the help of my friends, our own bar.
I think we have a winner. If you have any suggestions for a name, drop me a line. It’s early, but I’m thinking "Larry’s Beer Here and Fuck Off" has the lead.
(And you can probably guess what will be playing on the TV’s.)
This is a sad turn not just for the blog world in general, but for me personally. Ace and Don Fiedler began Slack three years ago just after I started this here website, and since then we have had a symbiotic relationship, offering our views (usually laced with casual racism and sexual innuendo) on sports, politics, religion, and the world in general, wrecking havoc on the internet. And now, no more.
While I appreciate Ace’s fortitude and grace in quitting while he’s ahead (whereas I will only stop writing this kicking and screaming and wetting myself), I lose a piece of daily entertainment. Slack was, aside from Deadspin, the only blog that I read every day. And now it is gone. Sadness.
Ace, I wish you much luck with his new (well, not that new) venture Hidden Track. You are a magnificent son of a bitch in the truest sense of the word, and I will miss your internet friendship and insight greatly. God bless. Go with God. Godspeed.
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Speaking of blogs, we’re reorganizing some things around here, including our links section. If you want a link on this site, please email me with the word "link" in the subject line. You will have to link this site back and there may be a quiz involved, but it shouldn’t be too difficult.
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Finally, because it’s a slow day, here’s a lovely clip of my boy Ray Lamontagne and Damien Rice (who I strongly dislike, mostly because a friend worked for him before he got famous and he was a monster dickhead), doing a cover of one of my favorite Bee Gees songs. While I still think the original is better, it’s an interesting cover choice and an enjoyable version.
[youtube]cEVQZiTTcF4[/youtube]
(God, I have such beard envy of Ray. That is a real man’s beard, not the George-Michael-after-too-many-cherry-cokes look I have going on. Crap.)
My uncle is a career navy man and a fairly big wig who assured me and my family that it would not be too difficult to get in. I had the grades (or close to them), and since I was one of the few people in my neighborhood and Philadelphia in general who could read above a tenth grade level (just kidding, neighbors and Philadelphians!), getting the required congressional recommendations would probably not have been too much of a hassle. Adding momentum to the idea was that the Naval Academy is practically free, which was important since my family figured we could spend about $3000 a year on my college education (not a lot of colleges cost $3000 a year, even way back in 1997). All these factors, combined with the fact that I’d make my grandfather, a World War II vet, and my father, a Real Man unlike his Son Who Likes To Read and Fears Bugs, finally proud of me, made the idea of at least applying to the Naval Academy compelling.
But ay, there was a rub, namely my inability to do a single push-up or even look at a flight of stairs without getting short of breath. At that point in my life, I could barely get through a masturbation session without stopping mid-jerk to take a quick cat nap. (Indeed, the fact that I even used the phrased "cat nap" proved that I wouldn’t make the best military man.) All the running, yelling, getting told what to do, and running really turned me off. And the required service after graduation (four years?), well, let’s just say I wasn’t prepared to sign the next eight years of my life away at the age of 18, especially when the bulk of those eight years would involve a tremendous amount of exercising.So instead I didn’t apply to the Naval Academy and sent applications to a crapload of Jesuit schools and a few others, praying that one of them would deliver a nice financial aid package. You know how the rest of the story goes: after Boston College came with a generous offer, I went there, had a spectacular time, got a job in NYC after graduation, toiled for a bit but then became an international phenomenon, almost had a threesome, and now live such a luxurious lifestyle that I actually pronounce diamonds in three syllables (di-uh-monds). Seeing how my life turned out, with all its fine linens and expensive cheeses, I never regretted my decision not to apply to the Naval Academy.
Until this past weekend, that is.The past seven days have been Fleet Week in New York City. From my understanding, the purpose of Fleet Week is two-fold. First, civilians get a chance to explore battleships and aircraft, which are docked and, um, parked (?) in various places in the city. Second, sailors and Marines get to hang out and enjoy NYC - and sleep with pretty much whatever women they want without so much as having to buy a drink or even ask a name.
While I didn’t check out any military cruisers or planes this weekend, I witnessed first-hand the great "enjoyment" these sailors and Marines had in New York City. My buddy Jeremy had a friend in town for Fleet Week, a Marine named Booker, who rolled with a whole group of Marines, with whom we hung out this weekend. And, ladies and gentlemen, if I am not joining the Marines, I am at least getting myself a short hair cut and investing in some dress blues. Because, well, wow.The phrase "shooting fish in a barrel" would not apply to how easily these Marines were able to pick up women. Instead, it’d be closer to the fish jumping out of the barrel into the Marines’ hands. And then fucking them. And the fish also give them some money. Something like that. I’m not real poetic. Let’s just move on.
Women attacked our new Marine friends as soon as they entered a room. It was legitimately unsettling how quickly women would approach and touch these guys; I had only seen such bold displays of female aggression in strip clubs or in those fantasy sequences I play in my head in which I’m the warden in an all-female prison. All they had to do was show up and stand in one place and shortly (and I mean within seconds) they’d be surrounded by women.Early on, I thought that this might work to my advantage. After all, there simply weren’t enough Marines to go around (in our crew, at least), and by being buddy-buddy with them, maybe that would make me more attractive to these women; perhaps they’d think I was a former Marine, or that I hung out near Marine bases, or that I least could lift more than 40 pounds over my head. If not, again, odds were in my favor: my buddies Jeremy and Brian and I were hanging out with four Marines, and at least a dozen women were around these guys at all times. Even if each Marine could handle two women each, that left four women for me, Jeremy and Brian – and Brian’s eyes are usually closed just around midnight, when the booze catches up with him. Statistically, I had a real shot.
But no. Not even close, actually. I was way out of my element and completely out-classed. Typically, I go to certain kinds of bars (dives) to meet certain kinds of women (loners). This weekend, Jeremy, knowing he couldn’t take his Marine buddy to our dark, basement bars of choice, we bit the bullet and went to all sorts of douchey bars, including the infamous Sutton Place, which I have decried as the single worst bar in New York City. On most nights Sutton Place could double as a stop on the Long Island Railroad, so full is it of gelled-out over-tanned meatheads looking to fight and dolled-up over-tanned Barbie dolls looking to fuck. The night we went was no exception, but our Marine friends, real men who shoot people and fight for freedom, thrived, putting to shame the normal clientele of guidos, who can list the top five bestest suntan lotions on the market and spend 80% of their lives pretending to be Tony Montana or Tony Soprano.Meanwhile, I have an internet diary and a day job at a law firm. Jeremy works in the "music industry" and is actually physically afraid of most women. Brian works at an entertainment news show and, as mentioned above, his eyes were closed just after midnight.
So we saddled up to the bar, occasionally glancing over our shoulders to check out one of our new Marine buddies making out with a girl with $8000 boobs. Make no mistake; it was not jealousy that we felt. Well, ok, we felt some jealousy, but for the most part, we were happy for our Marine buddies. I have made almost a second career out of watching men who are not me make out with women at bars, but never before have I seen a group of guys so deserving of some heavy petting with loose Long Island girls.[Honesty compels me to report that I did play a small role as potential saboteur, buying numerous shots for the Marines, hoping that they'd get so drunk they'd pass out and be unable to tend to their now-riled up ladies' needs, at which point I'd step in and say something like, "Yep - they've had too much to drink. Greenies. I remember how drunk I got during my first Fleet Week. Of course, I'm no longer in the Corps, as once you say the lives of 1000 children you get a honorable discharge and free access to fighter jets 24 hours a day. Say, you girls like wine?"]
I spent a good portion of Saturday, the day after our night at Sutton Place, laying on my couch eating jello with my fingers. Do you know why I did this? Because I could. Do you know why I could do this? Because men and women like Jeremy’s buddy Booker and his friends are out there fighting for my freedom, making it possible for me to live a slothful – yet entirely and 100% awesome – life. So as I looked over my shoulder at my Marine friends at Sutton Place, I smiled. I smiled for my new friends, who were enjoying themselves with some lovely ladies, smiled for myself, as I would surely masturbate to the scene at a later time, and smiled for my country, knowing it was in good hands.(Now can anybody score me any sort of military uniform? Inquire within for sizes – I’m not posting my measurements all over the internet.)
On Sunday, I spent most of the day laying around in bed, recovering. Then my buddy Jeremy asked me to join him for dinner at our favorite Mexican place, Festival Mexicano in the Lower East Side. Ever hungry because of my weight problem, I agreed to join him.
I’ve written before about Festival Mexicano. It is one of those delightful places that sacrifices things like following health code guidelines and hiring exterminators for the sake of providing excellent and authentic Mexican food at reasonable prices. Read: eat at your own risk.
And though whenever I eat there I need to be taken home in one of those special cabs that have a toilet in them, I had never experienced much greater gastrointestinal distress than immediately having to poop as soon as I put my fork down. But as someone who has a lifetime of experience with an excitable colon, this does not phase me much and this mild discomfort is worth it for their delicious food.
Jeremy and I started with our standard appetizers, the bean quesadilla and the beef (picadillo) nachos. However when the order arrived, the waitress dropped off the bean quesadilla and the bean nachos. I hate sending back food at restaurants (dealbreaker for me, ladies: be a bitch to waitstaff and/or send back food), but I love those beef nachos – and we already had the bean quesadilla! Since whenever Jeremy and I go on our little "dates" he invariably plays the role of woman/bottom, it was up to me to do something about this mistake. I very nicely called our Mexican waitress over to our table the next time she passed and very nicely explained that we ordered the beef nachos, not the bean nachos.
For whatever reason, she did not take this well. She looked at her pad, looked at the nachos, then looked at me. We had a mini (four seconds?) staring contest before she looked back at the nachos and angrily picked them up and walked back into the kitchen.
She never said anything during our little stand-off - probably because of the language barrier – but she sure was shooting me daggers; little, pointy Mexican daggers that were probably lifted off the back of a truck. I didn’t know what I did to deserve this; I was totally nice about the whole thing and apologized profusely, even though she was the one who made the mistake. Maybe she was having a bad day. Maybe she thought I was being sarcastic. Maybe she was upset about the oppression in her home country of Mexico (or some other Mexico-type country). Whatever. I just wanted my fucking beef nachos.
My fucking beef nachos were shortly plopped onto our table. You could tell by looking at them they the beef had been inserted under the layer of cheese, rather than a new order of nachos created. (The nachos at Festival look kinda like these, and it was plainly clear that the cheese on each individual chip was lifted and the beef inserted underneath.) Understandable, I suppose, since I don’t like to waste food, but this seriously affected the quality of the nachos, which sucked. Still, that did not stop Jeremy and I from devouring them before moving on to our chicken burritos.
Our plan after dinner was to go to Circuit City in Union Square so that I could make one my Rash Hungover Purchases: a 42" inch plasma television. Actually, this purchase was somewhat thought out, since I had researched TVs and had been thinking about buying a plasma for some time. However, I could not pull the trigger until I was hungover enough to believe I was a millionaire.
(Of all the traits I could have inherited from my father – cigarette-eating, tattoo-getting, punching people in the jaw when they’re not looking, etc – I got his carefree attitude towards money. Growing up, my dad’s motto was, "What good is money if you can’t spend it." Maybe this is why we were on food stamps. Whoops.)
After we finished the meal, I felt that old familiar urge - Festival’s Revenge, we shall call it – and had to poop. But I rode out the storm; I stood up, walked around, and felt better. I could have pooed in the bathroom at the restaurant, but not even I could make that happen. The only place grosser than the restaurant that serves you food that gives you the shits is the bathroom in the the restaurant that serves you food that gives you the shits.
Feeling better, Jeremy and I hailed a cab and started off toward Union Square. In the cab…things fell apart.
My face became flushed and I could feel beads of sweat developing on my forehead. My stomach churned, groaned, tightened. I sat nearly doubled over and grew short of breath. I needed to find a bathroom immediately. This was no normal Festival’s Revenge. The poo cometh.
As Jeremy cringed in horror and sat as far away from me in the cab as possible, I redirected the cabbie from the Circuit City on the south side of Union Square to the Barnes & Noble on the north side. I know that Barnes & Noble and its bathroom very well. It would more than suffice.
I threw money at the cabbie and told Jeremy I’d call him when I was done and raced up the escalator. I thought the bathroom was on the second floor but when I reached it, saw that it was now women’s only and men’s room was now on the third floor. Up the escalator, stomach and buttocks clenched, I went.
When I closed the door to the bathroom stall, my pants barely hit my ankles before the first blast came. "Blast" is the most appropriate word that comes to mind; it was like shooting a pump action shotgun out of my heinie. It was sharp, sudden; had I not been in so much pain, I might have applauded its sheer force. Before I could properly appreciate the power of my bowel movement, the second blast came. I can say with certainly that this blast lifted me off the toilet seat – perhaps only two or three inches, but my body was definitely airborne. Crashing back down on the toilet seat, the third blast came, though it was not strong enough to be called a blast in itself. Rather, this was the remaining refuse jarred loose from my colon, seeping out of my heinie like water out of a drainage pipe. I heard someone using a urinal say, "Wow." Yeah. Pretty much.
It was over in seconds, but it felt like much longer. I sat on the toilet seat, head lolling to the side, breathing heavily, sweat dripping from my forehead down my face, trying to get control of myself. I suddenly had a surge of great respect for my ancestors. I cried a little.
Once I regained my strength, post-poo I felt great. I rejoined Jeremy on the first floor of the book store, invigorated. We left the store and walked across the square to the Circuit City to pick up my new TV.
But it was not meant to be. We arrived at the store at 8:04pm. It had closed at 8pm. My poo cost me the opportunity to get my dream TV. Not your ordinary Festival’s Revenge.
Little did I know that this was just the beginning. I went to bed at midnight but woke up only a few hours later to experience one of those unique "throwing up while shitting" scenarios known as the gargoyle. Repeat. Repeat. I actually called in sick on Monday because I didn’t think it would be a wise move to sit at my desk with my ass on a trash can. The 24 hours after that meal at Festival was 24 of the most trying and physically difficult hours of my life.
Now, I don’t like to throw around the word "assassination attempt" freely, but I believe an attempt on my life was made by the staff of Festival Mexicano.
[And not just my life - Jeremy also called in sick on Monday, suffering from similar ailments (leading many of our friends to suggest we spent the day fooling around, which, certainly, would have been nice, but not when I was feeling so poopy).]
Needless to say, this will seriously affect my relationship with Festival Mexicano. I love that place (still can’t use past tense) and it will be very difficult for me to not eat there. But, difficult as it may be, I have to take a stand. I was almost murdered, for Christ’s sake! And yes, "death by nacho beef" is probably the way I want to go, but I have at least two good years left in me. That Festival Mexicano tried to rob me of those two remaining good years, well, that really gets my goat (which, incidentally, I think they also serve at Festival). So that’s it – no more Festival Mexicano. It just has to be that way.
(At least for the next two weeks. C’mon – everyone deserves a second chance.)
So I did pretty much what I do every Saturday.
(One of the things mentioned above is not true. Please feel free to guess which one.)
Friday was my friend Corinne’s birthday and to celebrate eight of us went to a restaurant on India Row in the East Village. We did this a few months ago and had a ball; there is something to be said for eating food you can’t pronounce, drinking a ton of cheap wine, and having an Indian man call you "my friend" over and over again and rub your back for just a little too long.
I have a friend who exclusively dates Indian men, and though she did not attend this dinner, I asked her advice about what I should order, as she knows how afraid I am of unknown foods. She replied via email with a list of the safest of safe Indian food: korma, tikka masala, garlic nan, etc. Her email, though helpful, proved somewhat useless, since we ordered "for the table." This is a phrase that gives me pause me when eating unfamiliar cuisine with a group, for two reasons. One, I have rather strict tastes. For example, I can’t eat anything spicy, I dislike 80% of vegetables (a number that jumps to 97% when Cheez Whiz is not involved), and won’t eat any foods handled by a man with a moustache (long, incredibly painful story). It seems like when people order for the table, the table winds up getting all manner of dishes that frighten and disgust me, like spicy octopus (with grilled vegetables) or chicken feet (with grilled vegetables) or grilled vegetables (with grilled vegetables). Meanwhile, I find myself standing near the kitchen, bribing the waiter to bring me some cow-derived meat or at least a few extra pats of butter.
This relates to the second reason I don’t like ordering for the table: I am fat. Therefore, I want food. A lot of it. When I find something I like in an ethnic dish, I want it for me and not to share. In this case, it was korma, creamy delicious korma. I think I have had korma before, but after trying it on Friday night, I want to marry it, or at least have a torrid affair with it that ends only when one of us is killed in a tragedy of epic portions (I’m thinking of some sort of duel or Titanic-like boating disaster). Korma was one of the few things I liked (really liked) during our meal and though I tried my best not to bogart the korma, it was inevitable. The korma was mine, all the korma. But really, my friends should expect this from me.
The good news is that everyone got very drunk very quickly. The best part of these big Indian meals is that they have cheap wine that they just keep pouring and pouring and pouring. Things quickly accelerate.
Not only that, but Brian upped the ante by bringing a bottle of Disaronno to the Indian restaurant. My friends and I have a private joke about Disaronno, which basically revolves around how stupid/erotic the commercials are (I won’t get into it, since it’s totally not worth explaining and it involves me pretending to have too much Disaronno and slowly stripping to that song "Dancin’ In The Moonlight"). But none of us had ever actually had Disaronno – we just liked to make fun of it.
Well, let me tell you something: Disaronno is delicious. It’s an amaretto-type drink that tastes like the juice from a jar of maraschino cherries - at least, that’s what I thought after all the korma and nan and wine and such. We all had a little bit, then, taken as I was with it, I had a little more. And then a little more. And then the rest. I’m not ashamed to admit it: I love Disaronno.
We were at the Tile Bar, also known as the James Fucking Iha Bar, also known was WCOU Radio, by 9:30pm. Normally, we get to this bar around 1am, after sitting and drinking in my apartment for several hours. To be there so early…well, we weren’t prepared. Any by "we weren’t" I mean "I wasn’t." At least I was still drinking the Disaronno.
There are times when you’re out with friends, hanging out, having fun, thinking it’s another harmless evening, when unbeknownst to you the Perfect Storm of Drunkeness is gathering around you. There I was: already half in the bag with a belly full of korma, cheap red wine, and Disaronno, after an especially hellish end of the work week, feeling very sexually aggressive, and, simply, things fell apart.
Just after midnight, I was so drunk that I asked my old roommate Brian to walk across the street with me so that I could get a Red Bull and "some air." I can’t explain the depth of the irony of this statement. Brian is usually the one blacked out, acting like a zombie, smoking cigarettes in the bar and drinking other people’s drinks; I’m the one who’s usually together, talking to some poor, trapped woman, asking her if she’s ever heard of the internet and/or if she’s into failed TV writers. Me asking Brian for help sobering up is like saying to the late Jeffrey Dahmer, "Dude, I need some advice because trying to stop murdering and eating gay men – think you could help me out here?"
It was about this time that my cell phone came out, a development that resulted in dire consequences. Let’s just get this out in the open right now: Ladies, please don’t give me your number. Ever. Just make out with me and then give me a fake number. This is really the best option for everyone involved. I’ll save you the trouble and tell you now that I am not "the one," so really, there’s no need to communicate with me after that initial make out session (not that many want to, but worth mentioning). Giving me your number will only result in embarrassment and awkwardness for both of us. Just trust me.
When I woke up the next day and checked it, my text message log read like the plotline of an episode of "Dynasty." So many complicated and tangled romantic situations aggressively brought to the fore, issues and grievances that were best left unsolved unceremoniously and intoxicatingly addressed; I was basically giving away the Upper Hand and my dignity across the board. Astonishing. And remember, this is someone who is so used to texting/sending/leaving "next day apology" texts/voicemails/emails that he had his lawyer draft a proper form response, and even I was appalled at what I did Friday night. Just…wow.
[Sadly, I can't get into specifics. We're gonna need a couple of weeks to let this settle.]
I don’t recall leaving the bar. Corinne was staying at my place that night (she’s living out in NJ temporarily) and she later told me I walked up to her and said, "I need to go home." I left. She came home later and found me asleep on the couch listening to - wait for it - the Phil Collins version of "You Can’t Hurry Love" on repeat on my iPod speakers and eating – wait for it – pie (I have no idea where the pie came from). Honestly, I don’t have a girlfriend. Amazing, I know, but true. I can’t believe it either.
Disaronno…you are a jealous and rageful bitch, you are.
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(She is also on "The L Word," but since I have a penis that is technically intended for women – though there is admittedly scant empirical evidence to back this up – I do not watch that show. But I will start. Tonight.)
I was thinking about this the other day, and of the eight or so girls who could be considered semi-girlfriends* of mine (god, what an illustrious and exclusive list that is), not a single one had brown eyes, and most had light hair. This is odd, because I’ve never thought that I had a particular "type" I was attracted to - aside from, of course, profoundly boobied. And yet my romantic history says otherwise. Not a single brown-eyed dark-haired girl in the lot. Hmm.
But I have been going through a serious brunette phase as of late. Meaning, I’ve been leering especially criminally at brunettes that I pass on the street lately. And Sarah, I have been reintroduced to you at the wrong time. I say "reintroduced" because I remember the Maxim spread that you did way back in 2002. That nearly put me in a home (I can’t remember which kind of home), but I made it. Barely. This time, it might be different.
So Sarah, I mean, I don’t even know what to say to you. I’m not quite at the "Oh yes – we will be together" point just yet, but that should happen sometime this weekend, probably after that first bottle of wine at my friend Corinne’s birthday dinner on Friday. So you should probably get out of town for a little bit. Just trust me on this. And good luck.
(*"Semi-girlfriend" is defined as all official, boyfriend-girlfriend relationships, as well as other relationships that meet certain criteria, including but not limited to "We’ve never been on a date but we’ve been sleeping together every three weeks for a year," "I spent $3500 on you in four months," "I liked you quite a bit and everything was going well but your brother and I got in a fistfight and that was pretty much it but at least we both can agree that he’s a drug addict," etc.)
2) In less than two months: the 9th Annual Flood-Mulgrew Quasi-Celebrity "Drink Until You Shit" Tour.
We will hold the annual bar crawl Saturday, July 14 in North Wildwood, New Jersey. We’re still discussing specifics, but y’all should book your hotel rooms and start saving for the t-shirts now. Two years ago, we got 30 shirts and about 50 people attended. Last year, we got 80 shirts and about 120 people attended. This year, we’re getting 300 shirts. It’s going to be a true drinking spectacular. I don’t really know what this means or entails, but I’m guessing it will end with me in the Wawa at 3rd & New Jersey just after 3am ordering a hot turkey sandwich, then forgetting I ordered and ordering another hot turkey sandwich. Neither will go to waste.
(Also, I don’t seriously expect any of you to attend, but you’re more than welcome to. It’s basically an all-evening/night drinking tour in which a lot of people who pronounce water "wudder" will get blind drunk and complain about their local sports teams. We may however, depending on the turnout, have shirts for sale on here, but that would require me trying to make money from this site, something I am really not good at doing. I’ll keep you posted.)
3) If you want to see me at my happiest, check out the picture on my MySpace page of me eating creamed chipped beef. Sure, it’s a little terrifying, but that’s love does to you.
(God, I miss creamed chipped beef. I seriously think it may cause me to move back to Philly one day. I can’t wait until I finally reach the day when I say to myself, "You know what? Fuck it. Time to go home, gain 70 pounds, and get a dog. I’m done. Thanks very much.")
For those of you – like myself – not in "the industry," the networks announce their fall schedules this week in NYC. This is a big deal in the entertainment and advertising industries; in entertainment, writers, directors and actors learn if they’re going to be making $30,000 a week or will be unemployed for the foreseeable future, and in advertising, ads are bought during this time for the upcoming season. Or something.
I was invited to this party because I am a client of UTA. Also, as some of you may remember, I had a show in development with a Major Network that was, sadly, passed on. This made this year’s party especially bittersweet. If things had worked out, it would have been my show that was announced for the fall lineup today, a development that would have spiraled me into an orgy of cocaine, fireworks, vodka, and, um, orgies. But because I can’t write anything that doesn’t directly refer to my baby penis (which, apparently, is not fit for discussion on network television), instead of shaking hands and getting congratulated I’m sitting in my office with a miserable hangover and a pathetic excuse for an erection.
(And a baby penis.)
I brought my friends Brian and Jeremy with me to this party and the theme was "Well, I had a good run." Since the show is dead and the book is not-so-slowly turning into "Chinese Democracy," I don’t think Uncle Jason is going to get too many more invites to parties that Lindsay Lohan, Zach Braff and Bob Saget have attended in the past. We left for the party with this attitude, determined to celebrate not the passing of my career, but rather the fun (and overtly sexual, if expensive) ride that it involved. Also, there was an open bar. So we pretty much had to take advantage of that.
And boy, did we ever. I’ve been off vodka for some time now. I had to stop because I used to drink so much that I’d find myself having conversations in fluent Russian with various figments of my imagination (my miniature horse Ron, the Mexican busboy from the Dorchester Holiday Inn named Reggie, the late Jeff Buckley, etc). But when asked by the 9.4 bartender/seductress what I wanted to drink, I had to go with the ol’ standby: the vodka tonic.
Maybe it was the environment, or the fact that I was high and pretty freaked out by the "Sopranos" episode that I watched before leaving for the party, but those vodka tonics tasted delicious. Also, schmoozing really makes a guy thirsty. All the hugging, hand-shaking, cheek-kissing, bathroom-masturbating activity really got me riled up. And when I’m riled up, I drink faster. And when I drink fast, I say to myself, "Fuck it – I’m staying out all night and calling in sick tomorrow."
The party was a blast. This was my third UTA upfronts party and definitely the most fun, probably because I knew the most people at this one: agents, friends, producers, executives, drug dealers – even my old co-writer Eric was there. I tried to spend my time equally with Brian and Jeremy and my other "industry" friends, splitting time and making introductions when I could. But when talking to Brian and Jeremy, we occupied ourselves with two main activities:
1) A good portion of the night was spent trying to decide if I was the shittiest person there. "Shittiest" in this context meaning either "has the worst career" or "least belongs at this party" or "hasn’t had a sustainable erection in nine weeks because he’s becoming overly critical of women in order to mask his own deficiencies." Brian and Jeremy are surely shittier than me (in those first two departments), but the competition was limited to those on the guest list only, not their invited guests.
The answer? I think I was indeed the shittiest person there. It’s hard to say, because it’s not like Brian, Jeremy and I recognized everyone and knew of all their accomplishments, but judging on a number of factors based solely on appearance (clothes, attitude, confidence, tanness, likeliness of having had a threesome, etc), I was definitely at the bottom of the barrel (my scores: crappy and ill-fitting, defeated, zero, pale as a sheet of looseleaf, not even close).
2) We also spent a significant of time staring at the beautiful women at the party. I’d have to check the records, but I don’t think the phrase "Holy crap – look at that girl!" has been uttered more times in a four-hour period than it was last night. There is something disarmingly sexy about the aspiring actress type, possessed, as they are, of that delicate mix of abandon, desperation, and insanity that only a lifetime of hearing "You’re beautiful" can imbue; the very opposite of the word "inviolate," they are.
And I totally fucking dig it.
I will promise you this, dear readers: When I make my career comeback and garner my modicum of fame sometime in the next twelve months, I promise that I will marry the most beautiful girl that agrees to go on a date with me. Six weeks later, we will divorce. It will be terrible, and I will be institutionalized for a brief while for trying to remove my genitals with a tree branch at my neighbor’s barbeque. However, the pain from this divorce will inspire my greatest work, "Cuts Like A Spoon: Love You Like A Monkey and Other Tales from the Bottom of Everything," which will be celebrated, critically and commercially, until my death in a bizarre hotel fire in Monte Carlo in 2009. After my death, it will be discovered that I had been a practicing Nazi since 1987 and I will subsequently be erased from the canon of American literature, my contributions to cinema, culture, and the art of love-making pushed aside and buried. All, it will be said, because of a beautiful woman.
That is my promise to you. Promise.
As for the party itself, I won’t get into the specifics of what happened, lest someone have me killed (just trust me on this). I got in at 4am and ate (conservatively) two pounds of salsa, taking care to remove my dress shirt before doing so. (A move that proved very wise, as when I woke up this morning my undershirt was streaked with salsa stains. And yes, again, I am single.)
I told myself several times between the hours of 2am and 4am that I would call in sick, and when my alarm went off at 7:45am, I started typing an email to my boss telling him I would not be in. But when I finished, I couldn’t hit "send." I don’t know what came over me – I’d rather not think about it, honestly – but for the first time in my life, I was unable to willfully slack off at my job. This…this is not a good development.
And now here I sit at my desk, swaying and sweating and staring at the clock, praying for 5:30pm to come at 4:30pm (or perhaps…now).
But in a way, I have a feeling of pride. I partied hard last night, saw old friends, felt alternatively cool and inadequate, stared at some beautiful women, and got a handful of stories I can’t tell for at least six months until the statute of limitations runs out. Tonight, I am going to get Thai food, eat a sundae, take a Xanax, and sleep for thirteen hours. Things are looking up.
Right now, I have to get back to thinking and plotting and creating. "Cuts Like A Spoon" isn’t going to write itself, after all.
Not, I’d like to point out, shit water. There were no flotillas of feces in this new sea that was created while I slept. Of course, I would not exactly call this water "clean," but if I had seen even one little turd floating around my bookshelf or my bar area, I would have calmly walked downstairs, out of the building and into a cab, never to return again, to restart my life in a poo-free apartment.
As I stood there, half-awake at 7:45 this morning, I could hear the toilet continuing to regurgitate, could watch the water flow like a wave against a dock, out of the bathroom, rippling the water in the kitchen, expanding the water in the living room, like high tide rising in the bay.This was going to have to be taken care of right away.
My "super" is an Italian man in his mid-fifties who drinks wine all day and night at the Italian restaurant below me. I do not have his number or know where he lives. When I moved in and asked for this information, he said in his heavily accented and broken English, "You come here. I always here" (meaning the restaurant). It was now 8am and the restaurant was closed.However, on some mornings I run into him as he prowls the streets of my Little Italy neighborhood, yelling in Italian and flirting with the Chinese women walking about, who seem equal parts bemused and terrified by his advances. Of course, as luck would have it, he was not to be found this morning. But because this is Little Italy, several middle-aged Italian men are always sitting outside the restaurants that line my streets, smoking cigars and listening to sports radio. With nowhere else to turn, I asked them if they had seen my super. They said that he was still asleep, but they gave me the break I needed: they told me where he lived.
(It’s a very weird neighborhood. Just roll with it.)And so to his apartment I went. I knocked on his door twice and got no response, though I could hear rustling inside. I started ringing the doorbell. In the middle of the second ring, I heard that familiar Italian accent: "Who is it?"
"Uh, it’s Jason from next door. I have a big problem - my toilet is overflowing."My super answered the door. Naked. Balls-ass naked. Obviously disturbed from sleep. Obviously hungover. Very, very obviously naked. Thankfully, he had the decency to shield the lower half of his body behind his door. Thankfully.
(In a related story, I will never again have a problem with premature ejaculation for the rest of my life. You know, if I ever want to have sex again.)Thus began my first course over the day in linguistics. I consider myself good at languages; in high school, I took Latin and Greek and Spanish and all the AP and SAT II tests that came with them, easily passing out of my college language requirement. At one point in high school and college, I could find a bar and a bathroom in eight languages – really all you need to know when traveling. So though my super barely speaks English and I know a total of ten words and phrases in Italian - "There is toilet water all over my fucking apartment" not among them - I thought we would be able to communicate without great difficulty.
Wrong. I spent a solid eight minutes convincing a naked 55 year-old Italian man hiding behind a door that my toilet did not need plunging, that it was a bigger emergency than that. I don’t think at any point in this conversation he understood what I was trying to say, but he did understand that I was not going to go away unless he came with me. He said he’d be ready in a minute.I realized that our discussion was a waste of breath when we entered my apartment and my super saw the giant pool of water slowly enveloping my apartment and (I presume) cursed in Italian. Finally, he understood.
As mentioned, I live above an Italian restaurant. As in, directly below me is an Italian restaurant. This toilet water presented a clear and present danger to the day’s business at the restaurant; if the toilet kept vomiting, eventually the water would leak down into the restaurant, which I assume would not be good for business.My super, after he finished cursing, shouted, "Gimme da phone!" I handed him my Treo; it was like handing a monkey a copy of War and Peace. Realizing we were going nowhere fast, I took the phone from him and asked him what number he wanted me to dial. In a matter of seconds, he was on the phone, yelling in English at who I guessed were the plumbers, saying they needed to get here right away.
To their credit, the plumbers showed up only five or so minutes later. I assumed they would be Chinese, because, well, everything within five minutes of me is either tourist (I knew none of those were coming), Italian (they don’t work) or Chinese. However, they were Russian.Thus began Linguistics II: English as a Foreign Language for Everyone Except You. My super tried to explain what was happening to my two new Comrades, who looked at him with glazed over expressions that said, "More vodka, please." Russians do not fuck around, and rather than try to engage in a discourse with this Italian man who only a few hours ago was on his fifth bottle of wine and only a few minutes ago was standing naked behind a door talking to me, they spoke to each other in rapid-fire Russian and headed over the toilet.
One of the Russians stayed in the bathroom with his tools while the other Russki came over to where my super and I were standing.Thus far, the highlight of the morning was, obviously, seeing my super naked. But this Russian wanted to get in on the competition and so started asking me about my bowel movements/toilet adventures. I can’t repeat his line of questioning because my head was spinning and the whole thing was a blur, but essentially he wanted to know if I was regularly depositing brown babies into the plumbing system or if I counted among my hobbies "Flushing beach towels down my toilet."
Things got really blurry after that point. There was the super, trying to talk to the Russians, there were the Russians, working and talking to each other, and there was me, packing (I’m leaving after work today for a long weekend in Philly).I gathered my bags, wrote down my cell phone number and gave it to my super, and told him that I was going out of town, that I would be back Sunday, and that this needed to be fixed and cleaned up by then. In a rare moment of clarity between the two of us, I distinctly remember him saying that the apartment would look exactly as it did before. Twice. He said that twice. Unshowered and beaten, I left for work, hoping that everything would be resolved and cleaned up.
I guess I’ll find out Sunday night when I get back home.I think this is a good weekend to get out of New York City for a while.
Do not misunderstand me; I do not make this pronouncement rashly. Indeed, this is the resolution of a debate that has waged in my head for over 20 years. Few things have caused me such befuddlement and agitation, sleepless night after sleepless night, because I knew that eventually this day would come. And, secretly, I believe I always knew my choice would be Sammy Hagar.
I do not want this to be interpreted as a knock against Mr. David Lee Roth. I recognize and appreciate his talent as a singer and a songwriter, and on a personal level, I both love and am in love with him. While in Van Halen, he created some of the most memorable songs of the decade of the 80′s, and enjoyed a lifestyle filled with bimbos and booze that made every red-blooded American male envious. He is bawdy. He is hilarious. He is fun. So no, it is not because of any deficiency on the part of Mr. Lee Roth that I prefer Sammy Hagar. It is something deeper and within me – and beyond us all.
By examining each man’s catalog of hits, we get closer to the reasoning behind my choice. Mr. Lee Roth’s songs include "Runnin’ With The Devil," "Jump," "Dance the Night Away," "Everybody Wants Some," and "Hot for Teacher" – true party anthems that celebrate the decadence of the times and the lifestyle that David Lee Roth embodied at the height of his fame. Alternatively, some of Mr. Hagar’s biggest hits include, "Why Can’t This Be Love," "When It’s Love," "Can’t Stop Loving You," "Don’t Tell Me What Love Can Do," and "Love Is So Amazing (I Love It)*." The picture is coming into focus.
[*Not the title of an actual Sammy Hagar-penned Van Halen song, though it certainly could be.]
The main reason that I prefer Sammy Hagar is that in my heart of hearts I feel we are kindred spirits. While, like Mr. Lee Roth, I enjoy women with fake breasts and bleached hair and the taste of cheap whiskey, Mr. Hagar and I are both in love with love. And this makes all the difference.
Though I have the scarred and sinewy body of a warrior, I have the soul of a Poet. I observe; I internalize. I feel. I consider Neruda and Lorca friends. I lunch with Catullus and Horace on Thursdays. Auden, I know personally; I sail with Eliot.
With all due respect, the lyrics that Mr. Lee Roth wrote during his tenure with Van Halen read like drivel penned by the only Beta Theta Pi fraternity brother at the University of South Florida with a GPA over 2.8. In contrast, Mr. Hagar’s words transform us; they take us away from the monotony of our everyday lives filled with car payments, job stress, and questionable sexual encounters, and deliver us, wrapped in a blanket of dandelions and raspberries, to a world where Love is King and Love is All.
If Pablo Neruda were alive today - and he had frizzy hair, and he loved tequila, and he could not drive 55 - he’d be Sammy Hagar. Their words are nearly indistinguishable, their obsession with the natural simplicity of love identical. I invite you to try to tell the difference between their poetry:
In the moist night my garment of kisses trembles
charged to insanity with electric currents,
heroically dividing into dreams
and intoxicating roses practicing on me.
Upstream, in the midst of the outer waves,
your parallel body yields to my arms
like a fish infinitely fastened to my soul,
quick and slow, in the energy under the sky.
and
There’s a time and place for everything, for everyone
We can push with all our might, but nothin’s gonna come
Oh no, nothin’s gonna change
And if I asked you not to try
Oh could you let it be
I wanna hold you and say
We can’t throw this all away
Tell me you won’t go, you won’t go
Do you have to hear me say
I can’t stop lovin’ you
And no matter what I say or do
You know my heart is true, oh
I can’t stop loving you
Which is passage belongs to Neruda and which to Hagar? I wish I remembered the answer. After reading those words, I have forgotten it, so moved was I by their brilliance, their temerity. They are so brave. I don’t know what to think, really. To be honest, I don’t know where I am right now. I’m a little frightened.
It is this love of love, finally, that compels me to choose Sammy Hagar over David Lee Roth as my preferred Van Halen singer, frontman, soul. While I regret that there has to be a "loser" in this equation, I do not regret the decision itself and am prepared to stand by it until my last breath. I understand that Mr. Lee Roth may be hurt by my decision, but I will continue to support him in all of his endeavors. It is my greatest hope that our relationship is not too negatively affected now that I have come to this Greatest Conclusion.
As for Mr. Hagar, I am sure that he is pleased. But giving him this smallest pleasure is the very least I can do, as he has given me so, so much more through his Art. Because of him, and his words, and his voice, I am more of a man, more a human being. I am more alive. I am more. I am more.
"How does it feel when it’s love? It’s just something you feel together."
Indeed, Mr. Hagar. Indeed.
1) Breakfast
I make, arguably, the world’s greatest breakfasts. This is one of the few traits I inherited from my father. Growing up, before my parents’ bitter and terrible divorce that left me sexually and emotionally impotent but with a decent sense of humor and a love of R&B smooth jams of the mid- to late-eighties, I remember my dad making big breakfasts of scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, potatoes, toast, etc. Of course, he was usually on something while making these breakfasts, but the end justifies the means. And those breakfasts were dynamite.
While I didn’t inherit my dad’s ability to get tattoos or his predisposition to getting stabbed while drunk, he did pass down his breakfast-making genes to me. But it was during the end of my college career and in those first few years after college that the student surpassed the master, I think. I perfected the art of breakfast out of necessity; I had to give which girl that spent the night at my dorm/apartment something positive to take away from the experience. And because our society does not consider six solid minutes of inept fingering "positive," I had to make my ladyfriend of the moment a decent omelet or some nice fluffy pancakes to make up for my horrible bedroom performance. Nay, I had to make her an incredible omelet or some handsomely fluffy pancakes.
Many things have changed about me since those days, but I am still terrific at making breakfasts (I grew so bad an digital-genital manipulation that I had to retire from it in 2005, lest someone or something get hurt). On Saturday I woke up and, feeling inspired by Cinco de Mayo, I decided to try something different with my breakfast: I took a trip south of the border and whipped up some huevos rancheros.
Now, since I try to limit my association with Mexicans as little as possible, I’m not exactly sure what goes in huevos rancheros (which, if I’m not mistaken, means "eggs for poors and seriously it’s like 140° out here"). I made my standard scramble with some fresh mozzarella cheese (very Mexican, I know) and added some salsa to the mix. Once the eggs were finished, I added a dollop (ok, more than a dollop) of sour cream on my plate to go with my English muffin and chocolate milk and I was set.
And oh my god.
I can never, ever make these eggs again. I don’t know exactly why, but I do know that I’m afraid of what might happen if they were to fall into the wrong hands. I don’t even want to talk about them anymore, lest you guys get any ideas. Some day, probably some day soon, I will wake up next to a lovely women from Mexico or one of those Mexico-type countries and she will say, "Mr. Jason, can you make your huevos rancheros para mi, por favor?" And I will say, "No." Then we will make love. And it will move mountains. And then I will give her $15 to cover the cab fare back to the Port Authority. Because it’s the least I can do.
(By the way, I hate the word "fingering" and don’t think I’ve ever used it before, either in writing or speech. I had the word "finger-blasting" in there, but thought it was too cheap. Yes, these are the editorial decisions I make on a daily basis for the sake of my art. How noble.)
2) Guinness and tequila
In order to enjoy the Cinco de Mayo, the Kentucky Derby and later the Mayweather-de la Hoya fight, my buddies Pat and Mike and I decided to meet up to start boozing at 3:30pm on Saturday (we were later joined by my buddy Brendan and Site Guy Brendan and his new fiancée Liz stopped by for a bit). So we went to Professor Thom’s in the East Village where we sat in a bar all day long, drinking Guinness and tequila and for all intents and purposes ignoring the fact that it was 75° and sunny outside.
There is nothing quite like a day load. Really, getting drunk during the day is one of the finest pleasures in life. Don’t get me wrong - nighttime drinking is excellent, too. There’s nothing wrong with me and my buddies sitting in my apartment until 1am, watching VH1 Classic and drinking every last drop of alcohol in my fridge, and then heading out to ignore women, but the daytime load…it’s special.
…
You know, I don’t really have a joke here, except to say that I drank a lot of Guinness and tequila on Saturday. And the way they affected me was interesting. Usually, I drink Guinness to enjoy a beer, to ease me in to a nice, long drinking session. Alternatively, I drink tequila if I’m preparing to fight a bear or run head-first into a parked car.
So the combined effect was a near bipolar condition; one minute, I’d be wistfully recalling old high school memories, the next I’d be in the bathroom trying to rip the urinal off the wall, convinced it robbed me of $20. Really, one of the weirdest drunks I’ve felt in a long time.
3) Gambling and horses
As I’ve mentioned here before, I had a tremendous NFL gambling season. The Gambling Gods smiled upon me and rewarded me with a very lucrative season, another reason I’m convinced that the Philadelphia Eagles will go 6-10 next year, complete with a Donovan McNabb nervous breakdown and tear-filled press conference. But tomorrow is tomorrow, and I happily accepted the cash that I won over this past season, which I spent on various trinkets, fine linens, and vodka tonics.
But since the football season ended, I have been downright bad at betting. My college basketball bets, save for a few, were embarrassing. Despite being naturally gifted at fantasy baseball, when it comes to betting on baseball, I would be better served using $20 bills as beat rags. Terrible, just terrible.
But of course, one has to make wagers on the Kentucky Derby. I decided that I’d only bet $50 between four bets: one horse to win for $20, two horses to win at $10 a piece, and then one $10 trifecta. I know nothing about horses or gambling on them, so I arbitrarily picked the horses and the trifecta and called in the bet to my buddy Pat.
After a little while, I started to get a strange feeling about the trifecta. I didn’t share this with anyone, but I got a little tingling and thought I might be onto something. As the horses lined up, I had a buzz. This trifecta was going to come out.
And I was right! The horses that I had in the trifecta finished 1-2-3! One problem: they finished 1-2-3 at the bottom of the field. That is, instead of coming in 1st-2nd-3rd, they came in 18th-19th-20th.
And the beat goes on…
4) Men "fighting" each other
After staying in Professor Thom’s for about four hours, we went to nearby O’Hanlon’s, another dark, basement bar, for another four hours for more Guinness and tequila (and pizza!) before heading to my buddy Pat’s apartment to watch the fight.
If you haven’t seen it, I’m sure you read about it, but it was a horrible fight. Bill Simmons absolutely nailed it in just about every way in his post about the fight, which mostly discussed how boxing squandered an opportunity to win back a mainstream audience because two guys fought like they were trying not to mess up their make up (as one of the guys watching the fights with us said, "Christ - my parents have had better fights than this!"). The only word that I can think of is despicable.
Of course, after ending a long day of drinking with such a disappointment, my only recourse was a lot of pizza and some drunk sleep.
(I know – something different.)
5) Cock rock
Sadly, I did not get a banjo this weekend. I had every intention to do so, but couldn’t pull the trigger. I went to three different music stores and the cheapest banjo I found was $320, not including tax, which would push it to around $350. I was hoping I could find one for around $250. Again, no one spends money more foolishly than I do, but $350 for something that will most likely be under my bed in three weeks (with my art supplies, my juggling set, and that boy I adopted from Zambia or Arabia or wherever) is a little much.
But spending $300 for a new amp, well, that’s not a problem. I haven’t had an amp for my electric guitar in years, due to an unfortunate series of events. Tired of playing my electric without amplification, I picked up a decent lil’ Fender amp. I am blissfully ignorant of all things technical when it comes to guitar gear, but I can tell you that this amp has some built-in effects and is 65 watts. 65 watts is a little much for someone who will be living in apartments in NYC for at least the next six or so years, but bigger is better. As is louder. To give you an idea, when playing on my new amp my volume level is just over 2 and it’s almost too loud for my apartment. If I were to put it up to 10, I would be evicted in a matter of minutes. The Chinese, they hate loud noises.
But let me tell you something else, friends – I still got it. Like I said, I haven’t played my electric in years (aside from a brief flirtation with the music of Huey Lewis a few months back that I shan’t get into), but I was messing around with the Allman’s "One Way Out" and when I was done, I noticed I had peed myself. Only it wasn’t pee. And it was stickier than pee. And it smelled kinda like bleach. Yeah. That good.
Which means one thing: I will soon be starting a rock band. I imagine this band will consists of me (lead singer, lead guitar, lead bass, lead ukulele), and my friends Brian (guitar, vocals, cigarettes, blacking out), Jeremy (guitar, vocals, HPV), Corinne (bass, vocals, back up blacking out) and Lauren (piano, vocals, back up cigarettes). We always said that our lil’ group of friends is like Fleetwood Mac because of our incest and drug abuse – now it’s time to make the dream come true.
(Also, we’re going to have to think of a band name. Thinking my music career was over, I foolishly gave away my favorite, "Muslim Ron and the Juggernauts.") I’m thinking I’ll go with Larry Awesome and the Pillheads instead, since that sums us up quite nicely. But we’ll work on that.)
6) The Rocket
Roger Clemens can suck my ass.
I have tried, to the extent possible, to remain neutral in all things Yankees, particularly all things Yankees-Red Sox. I am Philly through-and-through when it comes to sports, though I went to college in Boston and have lived in NYC for the past six years. Back in the day, I leaned toward the Red Sox, if only because my friends who were Yankee fans were unconscionably annoying; it got very old very quickly hearing "Count the rings!" every time we went out to bars in Boston (97-01).
Then just when I thought I knew annoying, the Sox won the World Series. I was happy when they did, since as I come from a city of perennial losers, I am glad when any championship-starved fanbase wins a title. But the unbelievable tide of Masshole pride was too much for me to bear, and I found myself siding slightly toward the Yankees.
But this Clemens signing pretty much seals the deal. The Yanks are 6 games out of first, so what do they do – drop $26 million on a 45 year-old pitcher to come to the rescue. This is just another mad money move by the Yankees, looking for a quick fix by throwing cash around (I won’t point out that such moves haven’t worked for them in the past; which is to say, where are the titles?). Adding to my disgust was the "drama" on the announcement, with Clemens sitting in Steinbrenner’s box, pretending to be Jesus Christ, saying, "I’ll be talking to y’all real soon." What a dickhead. And I thought Curt Schilling had the biggest ego of starting pitchers over 40.
I suppose I should be a little happy. If this works out, the city is undeniably more interesting and alive when the Yanks are doing well, especially come playoff time. If it doesn’t work out, the NY press will be up in arms and once again we will see that money can’t buy you love. I mean, championships. Can’t buy you championships.
But I’m not happy. You know why? Because my teams suck (here comes the self-serving rant). The Flyers and Sixers are not even on the road back to respectability (and I use "respectability" loosely). The Phillies will finish the season within three games of .500 and out of the playoffs and will make a very tepid splash in the offseason. And the Eagles…good lord. I don’t think I have enough pepto in my office to seriously start thinking about the upcoming Eagles season. Really, for all involved, let’s just go there.
What do Yankee fans get? An owner willing to grossly overspend for a middle-aged pitcher because he wants to win. And he can afford it. I mean, fuck.
So there it is: anger, jealousy, disgust, self-loathing. I love sports.
[Also, I read this post over and have no idea what's so "manly" about these six topics. Sorry about that.]
Some very big news for everyone here in the jm.com family: Site Guy Brendan and his girlfriend Liz have gotten engaged.
I don’t know much about the specifics, since I got a text message from Brendan last night that said only, "Engaged." I assume that that means "engaged to be married" and I assume it would be to Liz, but, again, I can’t confirm that for sure. But I can’t fault Brendan for his brevity; I imagine when I get engaged I won’t even tell me friends via text message (though of course they don’t have text messages in Ecuador).
If Brendan and Liz are indeed engaged, I congratulate them both and I am very happy for them. I know Brendan has been planning this for some time, and I’m sure he did a perfect job with the proposal (just as I am sure that Brendan and Liz will be very happy together for a very long time).
And if Brendan and Liz did not get engaged, well, let’s just hope someone tells me before either one of them reads this.
(So if anyone can confirm or discomfirm, please email me asap. Thanks.)
***********
Every day (weather permitting), I walk to and from work. And almost every day, no matter what time I leave, I pass the same girl.
She’s about my age and always walking in the opposite direction. She’s tall and thin; she looks kinda like Katie Holmes but with lighter eyes (either green or blue) and slightly chubbier cheeks. She dresses well.
When I first saw her, I thought she was cute. I still thought she was cute after we kept passing each other, but she’s not my type. I don’t know if you guys have picked up on this, but I kinda like boobies. And this young lady would be flattered if I compared her boobies to two rolls of scotch tape pressed against her chest. Read: I do not leer at this woman in the same way that I leer at most beautiful women I pass on the street. Come with the boobies or don’t come at all. That’s what I always say.
Still, it’s kinda weird seeing the same person almost every day on the way to and on the way home from work. Sometime during the second week of consistently seeing her, I decided I’d give her a smile. We occasionally made quick eye contact when we passed each other, so I thought a smile would be a nice way to say hello. Again, though while I certainly would have sex with this woman (I mean, she’s there and she moves by herself, thereby meeting my two qualifications), I would never approach her or ask her on a date or anything. Smiling was my way of being a friendly neighbor (or at least, fellow New Yorker).
So earlier this week, during our brief moment of eye contact, I flashed her my best "I’m not a creep (really) and I’m just trying to say ‘Good morning’" smile. She seemed unphased, except that she broke her gaze off maybe a nanosecond earlier than she normally did. Fine. I can deal with that.
I didn’t see her on my walk home from work that day, but the following day I saw her on my way to work. As we approached each other, I got that non-threatening smile ready and fired it off at the appropriate time. However, she didn’t look at me. Oh well.
Saw her on the way home. Didn’t look at me. Saw her the next morning. Didn’t look at me. Saw her on the way home that next day. Didn’t look at me. Since she saw me smile at her, she hasn’t looked at me.
Thanks.
Listen, sweetheart, I’m sorry. I won’t smile at you any longer. Instead, I will scowl when we pass each other, or perhaps I will gnash my teeth like a wolverine or, better, a vampire. I apologize for making you uncomfortable by simply smiling at you, sending you into a deep and profound terror based on the fear that I might approach you. Perhaps, next time we pass each other, I will approach you, if only to explain that I was smiling because sometimes it’s nice to smile, not because I’m using you for my masturbatory fantasies and/or picking out the names of our children.
Otherwise, have a good day at work.
***********
Something I should have addressed before posting the pictures from the wedding earlier this week: Nass.
Most of my college friends call me Nass. It’s sort of a long, boring story, but basically "Nass" is a contracted version of "No Ass." Because:
1) I physically have no ass. Seriously. I have a back, then legs. No ass to be seen. It’s really quite amazing. My body is a marvel of science.
2) At the time this nickname was bestowed upon me, I was getting no ass.
For whatever reason, Nass stuck and this is what almost all of my college buddies call me to this day. So there. Nass.
(Yes, I know – not nearly as good as the HD nickname explanation, but it’s really out of my hands. At least now you know.)
(And no, you cannot call me Nass. Sorry.)
***********
Am I alone in thinking that Jim McGreevey’s ex-wife, Dina Matos McGreevey, is hot?
I’ll be the first to admit that I’ve been a little lonely lately and for whatever reason am developing a thing for older women, but I am very attracted to her. It could also be because she’s been wounded; I’ve always been very good at being the rebound guy who is nice and always ready with his shoulder to cry on but who will also love you like a mighty Cossack ravaging the sweet peasant girl on the steppes of the Caucasuses.
But something is definitely aflutter in my groin when I look at her. If anyone can put me in touch with her, please email me asap. I’d like to take her out to dinner. Wearing my Cossack uniform. You know, just to see what happens.
***********
Two sports-related notes:
1) The MLB Extra Innings baseball package is changing my life. It’s on my TV every night when I go home, where I’ll spend an evening watching usually about three games. The Phils, of course, are a staple, but I’ve found that I’ve become a fan of the Cleveland Indians. This isn’t (necessarily) because they are winning, but because I have CC Sabathia in all three of my fantasy baseball leagues, Grady Sizemore in two of them, and Hafner and Borowski (and possibly others) in at least one. Then I’ll flip back and forth to a third game that I find most compelling (i.e. if a pitcher of mine is pitching, if it’s a close game, if I’ve made love to a woman in the city the game is being played in and I hope to see her in the stands, etc).
But I could not recommend the package highly enough. Like I said, every single night I’m watching three baseball games. It’s fucking glorious.
2) A lot of you have written in asking what I thought about the Eagles draft and my answer is: I really don’t know. I don’t get into the draft too much, as I’m not a big college football guy. Therefore, any opinions I express and purely visceral and without much intelligent basis.
That being said, why the fuck did they draft a third round QB in the second round, with their first pick of the draft? I thought our shuttling of Garcia out of town (which I agree with, though it could have been handled a bit more delicately), was all about assuring McNabb that this is his team, has been all along, and for the foreseeable future, will be. And then this? I’m not a sports psychologist, but knowing how delicate the collective sports psyche of the city of Philadelphia is, as well as how tempestuous the relationship has been between McNabb and the fans and the front office has been, well, it just doesn’t seem like a good pick to me.
However, I do have a bit of faith in the Eagles front office when it comes to drafts, and perhaps this Kolb s.o.b. will be a solid player.
(That was me lying and trying to convince myself. Thank you.)
***********
Six Songs
"It’s Your World" Gil Scott-Heron
I’m thinking of starting a playlist called "Strut Like The Mother Fucker You Are." This song would be the first on that playlist. When it comes on my iPod while I’m walking around the city, I transform from hungover overweight guy who spent the morning crying in the shower to the Incredible Hulk of Funk and Cool.
"We Used To Vacation" Cold War Kids
Unique.
"Ruby Don’t Take Your Love To Town" Kenny Rogers
Seriously, Ruby, don’t. No one wins when that happens. Probably my favorite song about a crippled Vietnam vet who shoots his trollop wife.
"The Crow" Tony Trischka
Guess what I’m getting this weekend!
[youtube]1jn3KCZEqxc[/youtube]
Yes, I’ve conquered the guitar (I can play at a 4th grade level), I’ve conquered the bass (I own a bass), and I’ve conquered the ukulele (I can play "Something" by The Beatles and "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" like that big Hawaiian guy named Israel), and now it’s time for my next challenge: the banjo. I saw this on Letterman last week and it blew my fucking mind. I got the album off iTunes about two nights ago and have been rocking out to it ever since. If after watching the clip I have to tell you it’s great shit, well, something’s wrong with you, friend.
"How Much Fun" Robert Palmer
Speaking of albums that are currently rocking my balls off, I splurged and bought Robert Palmer’s "Sneakin’ Sally through the Alley." I’ve been a huge fan of the "Sailin’ Shoes-Hey Julia-Sneakin’ Sally” medley since I first heard it years ago, and consider it one of my favorite songs. But this song, from the "Sally" album, reminds me of what it feels like to be drunk and in love. If I ever go on a date again, I imagine I will listen to this song while showering and getting ready in order to pump myself up. Then, of course, the cocaine. That gets me pumped, too.
"You Are Too Beautiful" John Coltrane and Johnny Hartman
A friend of mine’s dad recommended this song to me, and I can’t remember what superlative he used when describing it; it could have been something like "the most beautiful song ever recorded" or it could have been more specific, like, "the greatest marriage of vocals and music etc." Both could apply, I think. This is on my all-inclusive "Smooth Jazz USA" playlist (nine hours, 80+ songs), and every time it comes on, I sit back, take a listen, and sigh. Wonderful song.
[Have a good weekend and a happy cinco de mayo, Kentucky Derby, and Mayweather-de la Hoya fight.]
(And luxury.)
That’s what it was all about this past weekend in Boston, where I traveled to celebrate the wedding of my friends Joe and Danielle. And friends, it was magical.
The Date
Before I get into a description of the wedding, I must give a huge thank you to my date, my dear friend Johanna. I am not an easy person to travel or spend a weekend with, what with my casual racism and spending upwards of three hours a day in the shower and my barely (barely) legal sexual aggression, but Johanna was a real trooper and held up very well. Sure, we had some rough stretches – it got pretty ugly on Friday morning when I learned that the Cracker Barrel in Sturbridge, Massachusetts did not have creamed chipped beef and some pepper spray was not quite employed but definitely bandied about and threatened – but we pulled through. Somehow.
And what thanks did I give her for being such a wonderful date? How ’bout morbidly embarrassing her in front of 150 people?
(Explanation to follow)
The Grooming
The first "official" wedding activity was at 1pm on Friday afternoon, when the groom (my buddy Joe), his dad (my buddy Joe’s dad), the best man/better man (me), and the two other groomsmen (my buddies Bill and John) planned to get haircuts and shaves. But because Bill got stuck at work and John sucked across the board in the groomsman category, neither of them could make it. Instead, our friend Griff, in town for the wedding from Seattle, joined the three of us.
Around Christmas, I was complaining of the nastiness of my beard and how if I tried to grow it long I looked like a Canadian meth addict who also really, really loved pudding. Then my favorite and loyalist reader of this site Lisa wrote in and suggested I treat myself to a nice beard trim at a old school gentleman’s barber shop. I thought it was a tremendous idea, but didn’t pull the trigger because I was intimidated. Even though I have always loved luxury, I couldn’t quite bring myself to walk into a fancy barber shop and get the male equivalent of a spa treatment. That indicates a level of concern in one’s appearance that I simply am not comfortable with. So I remained looking like a Canadian meth/pudding addict.
But Joe’s wedding provided the perfect excuse for a nice beard trim/hot lather shave/haircut. Though the barber shop, State Street Barbers, was certainly gentlemanly, it was not stuffy. I walked in wearing a t-shirt and jeans and was promptly offered a beer (!). I was introduced to my barber, a guy nicknamed Denver who was only a few years older than me, and we got started.
I say the following as a man who, if possible, would eat hot dogs every night for dinner, but the whole experience was awesome. Again, it was not at all what I thought it would be; instead of being stuffy and making me feel poor, Denver was a cool dude who shot the shit while he gave me the best haircut I’ve gotten in years. He also had a bunch of tattoos, which made me comfortable. (Though I don’t have any tattoos, my dad does. Also, once I had sex with a girl with a lot of tattoos, and it was pretty sweet.)
Then my beard was trimmed, I was shaved up and looking spiffy and ready to go. I now plan to go to this place every time I’m in Boston to get my haircut there. Supercuts has officially lost a customer.
It was a great thing to do the day before the wedding, the day of the rehearsal dinner. Just a couple of gentlemen who enjoy luxury and luxurious things, paying other men to make them handsome. The way life should be.
The Hotel
Joe’s wedding is probably the last time I’ll ever be a best man; my brother is bisexual and increasingly leaning toward that big fat 6 on the edge of the Kinsey Scale and Brian may never get married, as the damage the booze has done to his sexual organs is irreparable (never mind that we’ll probably have a falling out before then, since he recently declared that I am carrying out a "steady and consistent character assassination" upon him on this site). Since this is my last go-round as best man, I wanted to splurge a little bit on the hotel room.
I decided that we would stay at the Park Plaza. I wanted to stay at the Four Seasons, where the wedding was held, but didn’t book my room until the special rate had expired and $600/night was a little out of my reach. It was possible through Expedia to get a standard room at the Park Plaza for $200/night, but I wanted a little more than standard.
So I dropped, um, considerably more for a "Concierge Level Tower Room" at the Park Plaza. I had no idea what this meant and didn’t bother to read the description of the room, probably because I was very tired or hungover. But this fancy room was a major bargaining chip in the negotiations Johanna and I had about her attending the wedding with me; while I could not promise that the experience or my company would be very pleasant, at least we’d be staying in a nice hotel room.
Unfortunately, "nice" is a highly subjective term. On the one hand, the room was perfectly nice – it had a marble bathroom, dual showerhead, good view, etc. On the other hand, it was exactly the same as the other rooms that Griff and his wife Katie and my buddy Kyle stayed in. The difference was that my room cost significantly more money than theirs. Why? Apparently, the extra (substantial) amount of money got me (and Johanna) 24 hour access to the concierge (because we needed that), priority reservations at the hotel’s restaurants (every meal was planned), a room on the top floor of the hotel (so we’d be the first to die in a fire), and bathrobes (because Johanna really needed me to walk around in a robe all weekend saying, "What? It’s natural and beautiful. Man is meant to walk around in a robe. With nothing on underneath. And the robe should be loosely tied. Just embrace it. Would you like some wine?").
I mean, no one loves spending money unnecessary as much as I do, but my love of frivolous spending is surpassed only by my love of hotels and luxury. To have spent all that money and not have a properly matching luxurious hotel room, well, it got me a little upset. But of course, I was not going to let it get me down on such a celebratory weekend.
(Fucking Park Plaza cocksuckers.)
The Rehearsal Dinner
The rehearsal dinner on Friday night was held at the BC Club in downtown Boston. I had never heard of this place before, but I learned that it’s a place where BC alum, mostly rich Massholes, get together in dinner jackets to drink scotch, eat fine foods, and discuss serious and intelligent matters in horribly thick Masshole accents. I can see a table full of rich guys who grew up in Natick and Framingham saying, "That fahking Chavez dude – what the fahk is his fahking problem?"
The place itself is very classy, though. The dining room was on the 36th floor of the building, looking west over Boston from downtown, so it was possible to see Fenway Park and the Citgo sign and all the way out to Newton. Well, since it was rainy and foggy on this night, we could see the downtown buildings and sometimes the Citgo sign, but it was still nice.
The food was delicious (quail – very underrated) and the drinks were flowing. Joe’s dad gave a little speech that featured a multimedia component that was embarrassing to Joe, Danielle, and even me (I don’t want to get into it, but let’s just say that 1997 wasn’t my best year).
Afterwards, we went out for drinks, but all the while kept it low key, especially me. I had a big day of sweating on Saturday.
The Ceremony
I have never been to a more perfect wedding ceremony, methinks. The ceremony was held in Unitarian Universalist Church (motto: "Eh, love God. Whatever.") and was not a full mass. Just a few readings, some vows, a kiss, and everyone cries and applauds – exactly how I’d like my wedding to be. Only my dad will certainly be smoking in church.
I had to stand on the altar with Joe and Dani and Dani’s sister Abbey, serving as maid (matron?) of honor. I’m happy to report that I neither fainted nor cried, the latter being a real concern, and was able to hand the rings to the minister when prompted without being nudged or threatened.
I don’t have to say that Danielle looked beautiful and Joe looked…clean. Which, really, is all you can ask from a groom.
The Cocktail Hour
The party portion of the wedding was held at the Four Seasons in Boston and, frankly, was the balls. There was a margarita bar during the cocktail hour as well as mini-cheesesteak appetizers, which rocked my fucking world. I knew about these mini-cheesesteaks heading into the wedding and they had a lot to live up to. But boy did they deliver, to the tune of me eating roughly nine of them. Fucking dynamite. My friend Conor actually had to shake me back to reality when he saw me in the corner rubbing one all over my face and whispering.
I spent most of the cocktail hour huddled in a corner re-writing my best man speech. Because I’ve known Joe and Danielle for so long, I have tons and tons of material about them. I had a speech prepared, but the more I thought about it, the more I thought it sounded too rambling and tangential. Also, I said the n-word way too many times. So at the last minute, I decided to scrap almost the whole thing and write it over. I think it worked out well for everyone.
(Well, everyone except Johanna.)
The Speech
After the cocktail hour, we filed into the reception hall to get the party started fo’ serious. While Danielle’s parents were speaking, I was getting nervous about my speech. After all, my humor is more appropriate for the back booth at Blue & Gold than it is for the grand reception room at the Four Seasons. Instead of making jokes in front of my low-life friends, I had to speak in front of 150 people, many of whom were very successful and could easily pay for someone to kill or otherwise hurt me. One of the few things I’m proud of about myself is my nerves of steel in such situations, but I was nearly crapping my pants.
Not only that, but Danielle’s sister Abbey brought it with her toast. It was classy, funny, touching, and most damningly for me, did not rely on overuse of the word "feces." Fuck.
Soon I was called up to speak and it was too late to turn back. After thanking the parents of the bride and groom and introducing myself, I started. This was my opening joke:
Famous French philosopher Blaise Pascal once wrote, "There is only love in life. Love that knows neither time, nor place, nor limit. Only love. All the time. Love." And of course – I just made that quote up. But I feel that that quote – fictional as it may be – best describes the relationship and the love that I have watched develop and grow over the past ten years…between Joe…and Dana.
I’m sorry – it’s Danielle, isn’t it? Jesus. Well, you can bet my researcher can start looking for a new job. Sorry about that.
I was concerned that some people might think I was serious messing up the bride’s name, but everyone seemed to get the joke. I then went into how Joe and I met back in high school, how Danielle showed up one month into college and stole him from us, how I’ve been a third wheel since the beginning, and then did a little sentimental bit.
To close the speech, I used a joke that I had used previously at my buddy Steve’s wedding with much success (I also let Ace Cowboy of Slack Lalane use the joke at Don Fiedler’s wedding, where it also went over quite well). It’s a little bawdy, especially for the Four Seasons crowd, but I went with it anyway. I was in the zone.
In closing, I wanted to offer the newlyweds some marital advice. But the problem is, I’m not married. However, I don’t have sex very often, so that’s kinda like being married.
As the crowd laughed at this, I turned to Johanna, and said:
How you doing, Johanna? You doing good, babe? We’ll talk later.
Now, Johanna and I, to my knowledge, have never slept together (can’t say for sure though – we’re both very boozed every time we hang out). Moreover, she did not know that I was going to use her as a prop in the speech. After dropping that line, everyone in the room turned to look at Johanna, who sat at the table, red-faced and mouth agape, completely shocked and horrified. In front of 150 strangers, I said that she wasn’t doing me enough. Wow.
After the speech, I sat down next to Johanna, who couldn’t say a word for a solid ten minutes. When she finally was able to talk, she said, "What…was…that?" I responded by saying the same words I’d been using all weekend: "Would you like some wine?"
The Reception
Fortunately, Johanna "got over it" (read: she didn’t get over it, but realized if she were to murder me then and there, there’d be too many witnesses). I’ve written before that I am just about the best wedding date ever, and I think I proved this at the reception by dancing the night away. Remember, for a man my size, I’m a surprisingly agile dancer. I was once ranked #4 in the world in my weight class, but because of last year’s weight loss I’m in a new weight class and ranked somewhere around #260. Such is life.
However, no one – and I mean no one – can dance like my buddy Bill. He’s built like a bowling ball with arms and legs, but my god can he dance. He was out there from the moment the band struck their first chord until they said, "Thank you – good night!" Watching Bill do a split in the middle of the dance floor is something that will alternatively haunt and pleasure my dreams for as long as I live. God bless him.
The dinner was unbelievable. Lobster three ways (claw meat, in a spring roll, and in a bisque that was so good that if used properly could easily win us the war in Iraq), followed by a filet mignon that was one of the top five steaks I’ve ever had – despite the fact that it was produced for 150 people. Unreal. Just plain unreal.
Then the sundae bar…goodness gracious. I don’t even know if I’m ready to get into what that was like, but I can’t think of a more perfect evening than one in which I drink a dozen Manhattans, eat one of the best meals of my life, inhale a giant sundae, and dance the night away.
(I just want you to know that as I’m writing this, I have an erection. I’m that worked up right now.)
The Post-Reception
We knew the reception was ending at midnight, so earlier in the day we were trying to figure out a bar to go to afterward. We checked with the bartender in the Four Seasons, who told us point blank that if our reception was ending at 12, then they were closing at 12, so afraid were they of us coming down drunk and rowdy. Fair enough, and probably the smartest decision.
What we didn’t realize is that after the reception was over, there was another room set up for us where we could continue drinking until 2am (!). Not only that, the room was stocked with the best drunk foods: sliders, mac and cheese, fried chicken, and these little lobster sandwiches that tasted exactly like love (!!). Also, there were snow cones made with tequila (!!!).
I mean, were Dani’s and Joe’s parents trying to kill us? I am genuinely surprised that no one died at this wedding, either from too much booze or by choking on a slider or in some sort of hari-kari incident, since I’m pretty sure my life will not get any better than it was at the moment, holding a slider in one hand and a tequila snow cone in the other, with a belly full of the finest food and drink. Again, for the record, I’m erect right now. Worth nothing.
Joe, the groom, got so drunk that he was actually cut off at the bar – not a small feat at one’s own wedding. I had to help Danielle take Joe back to the room, as at this point he was screaming gibberish and running around the halls of the Four Seasons at 1:45am. I put him in the couch in their room and his head lolled back as he let out a constant stream of non-sense, something something like Russian spoken by a black person. I’m not a betting man (lie), but I would guess that Joe and Dani did not exactly set the night to music on their wedding night.
As for me, I got home, put on my robe, and fell asleep in bathroom for a few hours. Man, I love love.
************
The wedding was, obviously, a huge success. Not only did everything go off without a hitch, but everyone had a blast. Since returning, I’ve had a miserable week, in large part because I just want to be up in Boston, eating those mini-cheesesteaks, drinking Manhattans. I was almost offended when my boss asked me to do work on Monday.
I learned many things at this wedding. One, I love love. Two, I love luxury. Three, if you’re going to intimate that you’re having sex with a girl – when you’re not - in front of 150 people that she doesn’t know, you might want to at least give her a heads up about that.
More: on the drive back to NYC, I got a call from another of my best friends. Just a few hours after watching one of my best friends get married, I learned that my other best friend and his wife are now expecting. Wow.
So, so much love around me. Then there’s me in the center, a true black hole, a loveless void that smells of cheap whiskey, worn boxers and Thousand Island dressing. While my best friends are getting married and having children, the closest I feel to love is when I masturbate in front of my bathroom mirror: I feel happy, then I feel flushed, then there’s semen on the cold tile of the bathroom floor. That’s kinda like love, right?
…
I should probably get a dog or something.
Love,
Jason
a) I’ve been busy at work (like you care);
b) I’ve been staving off illness (you should care – very much);
c) I’ve been busy preparing, as I’m leaving for Boston tonight for the wedding of my friends Joe and Danielle.
You’re probably thinking, "What kind of ‘preparing’ does one need to do prior to a wedding?" Or perhaps you’re thinking, "That bump was not on my bird last night." Well, the answer to the former is: not much. (The answer to the latter: Been down that road and better you than me, my friend.)
However, I am the best man at this wedding, so there’s a greater degree of responsibility. Normally when I attend a wedding, my only responsibility is to make sure that when the wedding is over, everyone I know who attended the wedding is still speaking to me. This, believe it or not, is much more difficult than it sounds. I distinctly recall a wedding a few years back, also attended by my old roommate Brian, in which I woke up in a strange hotel room that I shortly learned was my at-the-time ex’s room. (Apparently after our mutual friends’ wedding, I wanted to talk, she did not, I came into her room, she left. We haven’t spoken since. It’s like a real post-modern love story.)
But when you’re the best man, there are more duties. In addition to taking care of the groom and making sure you have the rings and yada yada yada, you have to give a speech.
Fortunately, I have an edge in this area. Not only do I love writing speeches and do so in my free time – I wrote one earlier this week titled, "What Am I and Why Do I Turn You On: The Pros and Cons and Nooks and Trannies of Trans-Gender and Trans-Sexual Pornography" – I was also my buddy Steve’s best man last year in Jamaica. Of course, I’m not giving the same speech, but at least I have an idea of what to expect and what the crowd wants to hear. For example, the crowd does not want to hear a six-minute story about you and the groom discussing whether or not he should ask his bride to sign a pre-nup. Really, not a strong anecdote for a best man speech. Not at all.
But I’m having some fun with this speech by totally messing with the bride-to-be, Danielle. Danielle is like my sister and has been since she started dating my roommate Joe in the fall of freshman year, so she knows what to expect from me in terms of public speaking. And she’s a little afraid. (Rightly so.)
Below is a series of emails that Danielle and I exchanged today which I have titled, "How to Send the Bride-To-Be into Paroxysms of Fear Three Days Before Her Wedding."
—–Original Message—–
From: Jason
Sent: Thursday, April 26, 2007 11:46 AM
To: Danielle
Subject: question re: best man speech
Danielle,
I’m putting the finishing touches on the best man speech, but I have a question: are there going to be any black people at your wedding?
Best,
Jason
—–Original Message—–
From: Danielle
Sent: Thursday, April 26, 2007 11:53 AM
To: Jason
Subject: RE: question re: best man speech
Jason! Off the top of my head, I don’t think so, but I’d have to think about it. Why do you need to know this?
—–Original Message—–
From: Jason
Sent: Thursday, April 26, 2007 11:59 AM
To: Danielle
Subject: RE: question re: best man speech
OK. How about any gay people? Will there be any gay people there?
—–Original Message—–
From: Danielle
Sent: Thursday, April 26, 2007 12:07 PM
To: Jason
Subject: RE: question re: best man speech
JASON!!! Why are you asking these questions??? I don’t know if there will be any gay people there – I could never answer that. What are you going to say?
—–Original Message—–
From: Jason
Sent: Thursday, April 26, 2007 12:19 PM
To: Danielle
Subject: RE: question re: best man speech
You know, you’re really not helping me out very much here. A few other questions:
1) Are you and Joe going to be miked up at all?
2) Are there going to be any Vietnam Vets at the wedding?
3) You’re not related to any Puerto Rican people, right? It’s ok if there are Puerto Ricans at the wedding, but if they’re related to you, they might be offended. No aunts or uncles have adopted little PR kids, or no cousins have married PRs, right?
Please let me know.
Best,
Jason
************************
This is where the email correspondence ended, because two minutes after I sent that last one, I got a call from Joe kindly asking me to stop messing with Danielle. Also, she may not speak to me until after the wedding. We’ll work that out when I get up to Boston.
I’ll be back on Monday (hopefully with some pictures), but until then, wish me luck. Joe has informed me that this wedding has both a margarita bar AND a sundae bar (in addition to mini-cheesesteak appetizers), so there is a great chance that I may never come home. If I don’t, well, we had fun, did we?
[Have a good weekend]
[Author's Note: All names in the following post have been changed to protect the innocent. Well, not all - I didn't change my name and some others. So I guess most of the names have been changed. But you know what I mean.]
October 2002 to October 2003 was arguably the greatest twelve months of my life, even if it did get off to a shaky start.
After returning from eleven soul-crushing, liver-pounding, gastrointestinal-inflaming days at Oktoberfest in Munich, I was promptly dumped by my long-term girlfriend – the day after I got home. We dated long-distance for 2.5 years, but lasted six weeks in the same city. Yikes.
At the time, the dumping was a great shock to me. My understanding of love at that point in my life was naive and simplistic – you met someone in college (in our case, while studying abroad), dated for a while, graduated college, dated for a little while longer, got engaged, then got married. Done and done. I guess I never really thought much more about it than that, but apparently she did. A lot. In retrospect, in the weeks before the break-up, I should have seen the signs: how she cried to me three times a week about how she hated law school and NYC, how she constantly talked about her college friends and how much she missed them, how I’d ask "What’s going on?" and she’d say, "Stop smothering me!" But, as my romantic history has proven, I am completely oblivious to such signs of impending doom.
[To wit, I once dated a girl for six months who never looked at me while we had sex. Not once. Now, I'm not saying I need some sort of hate-fuck death-stare action going on, but a little incidental or momentary eye contact would have been nice, rather than her looking at the walls, at the ceiling, out the window, at the cars passing by on the interstate, etc. I swear that one time I could hear the words to "Raspberry Beret" playing in her head while we were doing it. I told my buddies about this early on in our relationship and they thought it was quite a bad sign, but I ignored them. Then, after our relationship ended, I learned that it was 98% likely that she was fucking her ex-boyfriend the whole time we were dating. Whoops. But deep down in my heart, I know that she liked me. And by "liked me," I mean "liked me paying her cell phone bill" ("I'm a fool to do your dirty work - oh yeah").]
But after my most unceremonious dumping, something strange happened: I released a maelstrom of lust upon the women of New York City the likes of which had been seen neither before nor since. I did not change a single thing about my look (really, how can you improve on "chubby guy with beard?"), my wardrobe (best described as "What’s on sale at Banana Republic?"), or my approach to women (find the drunkest girl, stand near her, hope she settles), yet I was on fire. Perhaps God was paying me back for the heartbreak, but I was unstoppable, and hooked up constantly. I simply could not lose. For a year, I knew what it felt like to be Antonio Banderas. And, dear friends, it was awesome.
Facilitating my transformation into Sexual Deity was what I did for a living. No, I did not work as an escort or exotic animal trainer, but rather as a legal assistant at the same large corporate law firm at which I currently work (though I left legal assisting over three years ago). I realize that this job does not sound particularly sexy, but what it was was very social. I worked with about 60 other people my age, all from similar education backgrounds, all with similar life goals, and, most encouragingly, all with similar boozing habits.
Our frequent happy hours led to an obscene amount of co-worker incest. Everyone hooked up with everyone, seemingly regardless of whether they had a boy/girlfriend outside of the firm. True, some legit romances were born during this time (I have a wedding in December that proves this), but for the most part it was good old-fashioned, fresh-outta-college, mostly-consequence-free hooking up.
(God, I miss those days.)
Personally, I had a few affairs with co-workers during this time, but for our story, we will focus on one. Emily and I were friends long before we started making out. I don’t recall how we first got together, but I’m guessing it went something like this:
INT. – CROWDED BAR AFTER HAPPY HOUR – FRIDAY NIGHT, 11PM
Jason: [swaying] "So, um, do you want to go outside to make out or do you just want to do it here?"
Emily: [slowly opening eyes] "What?"
JASON and EMILY begin SUCKING FACE.
However, Emily and I needed to keep our affair secret, as she was dating an attorney who worked at the firm. So a few select friends of ours knew about our romantic dalliance, but for the most part we kept things on the hush-hush. This worked well for me, since I had romantic intentions with another girl that we worked with.
Over time, because Emily was getting more serious with the attorney she was dating, and because I started hooking up with the other co-worker, it became imperative for Emily and I to be totally secret about our affair. Though I was in full Antonio Banderas mode, if you know anything about Antonio Banderas, it’s that he hates drama. And no, I have no idea what that means either.
So imagine my dismay then when, Ben, at the time a co-worker who later became my roommate and who knew of mine and Emily’s affair, pulled me aside one night (when we were not out with co-workers).
Ben: "Dude, I have some good news and some bad news about you and Emily. What do you want to hear first?"
Me: "Gimme the bad news."
Ben: "The bad news is that me, Sarah, Steve, Katie and Emily were all out getting margaritas last night and Emily was very drunk and told everyone about you guys."
Me: [panicking] "What?!?"
Ben: [chuckling] "But there is good news."
Me: "What’s that?"
Ben: "Emily said that you were ‘hands down’ the best sex she’s ever had."
Well.
If there is one thing that everyone knows about Ben, it’s that he’s total prankster/prick when it comes to women. I could write a whole post listing the ways in which Ben has been a dick when it comes to this stuff (and I will someday), but suffice it to say that I did not believe him in the least. Not only because it was Ben telling me this, but because it was simply impossible. Every time Emily and I hooked up, we were bombed. It was nothing short of a miracle that I was able to even get an erection during these love-making sessions, which I would only be reminded of the next day when I’d wake up (alone) with an earring sticking out of my face (also, a lack of pizza boxes was a giveaway, since the only way I’d go home without pizza was if I was surely going to do it). Emily was also an experienced girl who went through a self-described "fun bisexual phase" in college, meaning I was probably in the bottom ninth of her list of best lovers (and I’m being generous). There was not a doubt in my mind that Ben was lying, perhaps trying to soften the blow about mine and Emily’s love affair being exposed. Or he was just being a dick. Whichever.
Back at work, I did not speak to Emily all week, which was not usual. That next Friday night, all of the co-workers were out celebrating a birthday. Everyone – including Emily but excepting me – was bombed. I didn’t feel the need to get (too) bombed that night because it became apparent that at some point in the course of the evening, Emily and I would need to have a semi-serious talk about the status of our "relationship." If she was going around telling everyone about it, it was going to be a big problem for both of us.
I did not have to think long about how I would breach this topic with Emily, because she soon came up to me.
Emily: [very drunk] "Hi."
Me: "Hi."
Emily: "I have a secret."
Me: "What is it?"
Emily: "I told Ben and Sarah and some other people about us."
Me: "Yeah, I know. That’s almost the opposite of a secret, you know."
Emily: "I have another secret. I told them that you were the best sex I ever had."
Me: [stunned, confused, more than a little scared] "You did?"
Emily: "Yep. And you are. Hands down."
Well.
Emily then asked me to have sex with her in the woman’s bathroom of the bar, a request I respectfully declined. I wasn’t so sure I could deal with having sex with one co-worker while another one peed. To this day, turning down this request is the greatest regret of my life.
(God, I really, really miss those days.)
But at this moment, HD was born. I, of course, relayed this story to my friends, who started calling me "HD" for "Hands Down." I was surprised my friends took to this, but truly, it was the feel-good story of the century: chubby guy, recently dumped, down on his luck with no real prospects in terms of love or career, but here he was – a stunning lover. Of course, I didn’t believe this (and neither did my friends). I am certain that Emily was either a) lying and fucking with me; b) building up my ego, which she could tell was/is fragile; or c) just really, really into bad sex.
All things considered, however, not a bad rumor to be spread about you. You can be certain that over the next few days, I was strutting around like the cock of the walk as the story made its rounds among my friends. I was a little hurt when I told my female friends this story and they would then burst into laughter – long, hearty, and thorough laughter – but I dealt with it. I was fucking HD.
Over the years, my friends and I have gotten a lot of mileage out of the HD nickname/story. Of course, no woman since has ever said anything close to me being "hands down" the best sex she’s ever had. This is probably because 95% of my sexual encounters are the anatomical equivalent of stuffing a wet dish rag into a shot glass and my art of seduction goes: 1) start kissing; 2) count to 20; 3) stick it in. But to this day, after hooking up with a girl and talking to my buddies about it, they still invariably ask if she got the "HD treatment," which, in addition to stellar love-making, involves a laser light show, a half-dozen black children skipping jump rope, several Dolly Parton tracks, and a cameo appearance by Mike from "American Movie". Also, it comes with a slice of cantaloupe at the end.
This is why, however ridiculous and entirely erroneous it may be, one of my nicknames among my friends is HD.
************
Fast forward to this past Saturday night.
My buddy Jeremy and I were out and about in Alphabet City, which, even if it is turning into the Lower East Side circa 2004, is still a lovely place to be when the weather is nice. He and I were having drinks at some random bar with friends celebrating a birthday party when one of those rare but awesome moments occurred: I was "recognized."
I know that "The Loser’s Guide to Marginal ‘Fame’" says that one should play it down and act like it’s no big deal, but I can’t help it – when a random person comes up to me at a bar and says, "Are you Jason Mulgrew?" (usually followed by "Your blog sucks"), it totally rocks my balls off. I’m not ashamed to admit this. Usually when it happens, I try to play it cool, but I wind up becoming so embarrassed by the situation that I blush (stupid Irish complexion), mumble, and shuffle off. But fortunately, I was drunk and in a good mood on Saturday, so any awkwardness was quickly minimized with another sip of beer.
The girls who read this site were named Lisa and Jenn, and they were visiting town from California. Since it was a small bar and they were not entirely terrified of me, we hung out and enjoyed some drinks. Before long, we were getting along like old friends, when Lisa said, "We know a secret about you."
Secrets, of course, are generally a bad thing, especially if secrets are known by people you don’t know and who don’t know you.
(Or something.)
I asked what this secret was, and Jenn chimed in and said, "We’ll give you a hint – it comes from your friend Jessica."
Ah, Jessica. Jessica is indeed my friend. In addition to being my friend, she and I have done it. That is, we have had sex. Twice. The good news is that it didn’t affect our friendship very much (at all, really) and it was sort of a one-time (or rather, two-time) thing. We still see each other every once in a while, the last time being a few weeks ago when I randomly ran into her at a bar.
[Author's Note: I realize that I sound like a whore in this post, but bear in mind that I do not use "hooking up" and "having sex" interchangeably and I've only admitted to sleeping with three girls in this post, one of whom didn't even look at me, so that shouldn't even count. Also, as of three weeks ago, I have no STD's. Just pointing that out in case my future wife is reading this post. Thank you for listening.]
Jessica, however, does not know many secrets about me, or rather none that aren’t known to at least 150,000 of you. Therefore, I really didn’t know what this secret could be (blame my lack of ratiocination on the booze) and asked Lisa and Jenn how they knew Jessica. They didn’t, they said.
Now I was getting very intrigued, and maybe a little concerned. Sensing this, Jenn began to explain.
Jenn and Lisa have a friend who lives in New York named Phil. A few weeks ago, Phil was at a bar. I was at this same bar. So was Jessica. This is, in fact, the bar at which and the night in which I randomly saw Jessica a few weeks ago. All three of us, randomly, at this bar.
Apparently, this is what happened.
After Jessica and I spoke at this bar, she walked back over to her circle friends, who stood right next to Phil’s. She then said to them, "Over there is Jason Mulgrew." When her friends looked over at me, Jessica then added, "Yeah, he is a terrible, terrible lay."
Ouch.
I nearly choked at this point in the story, as my friend Jeremy burst out laughing. Lisa then added, "Actually, Phil said she used the phrase ‘worst sex of her life.’"
Again, ouch.
Jeremy nearly fell on the floor. My mouth fell open. Jenn said, "So, um, yeah – sorry about that." Jeremy then did actually fall on the floor.
(Seriously, ouch.)
Look, I know I’m a terrible lay. I’ve always known I’m a terrible lay. Hell, I tell you guys once a week that I’m a terrible lay. But…it’s cute when I say it. It’s kinda like black people and the n-word – only they can use it, and it’s downright adorable when they do so. But to hear that a girl that I hooked up with is regaling a bar full of her friends and a group of strangers with tales of my inability to properly work a woman’s sexy regions, well, not so cute/adorable/awesome.
I immediately fired off a text message to Jessica, asking her why she was slandering my good name in public. I thought back to the times that Jessica and I did it, and, while they were not spectacular (I invite you to drink sixteen beers and take a Vicodin and see how well you perform – and I’m talking about her), I would not use the phrase "worst sex of my life." I considered for a moment that she might have been a virgin, or had only otherwise slept with Charlie Sheen, but realized neither of these were very likely.
Jessica, bless her heart, responded incoherently (it was almost 3:30am at this point), but the gist of her response was that she didn’t remember saying that, that she thinks that someone actually said that to her (???), and that she wasn’t that great either.
Anyway you look at it, the damage was done. There I sat, sitting in a bar in Alphabet City at almost 4 in the morning, listening to two strangers from California tell me they heard I was a terrible lay. WTF, my friends. WTF, indeed.
So to pre-empt this in the future, to prevent any readers of this site coming up to me in bars telling me they heard I’m a bad lover, I would like to go on record right now and say the following:
I, Jason Mulgrew, am a terrible lover. I have no idea how to please a woman sexually (or emotionally, psychologically, or mentally, for that matter). If you go to bed with me, it will be an unpleasant experience that will feature 40-80 seconds of rocking motion, then a noise that sounds like a grizzly bear falling down a flight of stairs, then a request for a high five. This is all I can give you, aside for upwards of $90 for your troubles. In my bedroom, you are more likely to find a Sasquatch eating a sandwich while Santa Claus masturbates than you are to have an orgasm.
As for HD, if he ever existed in the first place and was more than a fluke, I think it is safe to say that his time has passed. There is nothing to be ashamed of, and he had a great run – much greater than any of us expected – but it is now officially over. HD has gone the way of the dinosaur, the dodo bird, and Rasputin; he has been poisoned by women whose only intention was to build him up so that they could knock him down.
Farewell, HD. You were a magnificent son of a bitch and you will be missed.
(Meanwhile, what do you guys think is better: A Practical Guide To Lovemaking Secrets Of The East And West or An Intimate Guide to Soulful Sex? I’m thinking both, just to be safe.)
Am I hungover? Sure. Did I stay out until 4am last night for the first time on a school night in months? Yes. Am I so full of hungover emotion (and sausage egg and cheese bagel) that I shouldn’t be dispensing any advice about anything to anyone? Yep. But am I going back to Southpaw after work with my best shovel to pick up my brains from the floor after last night’s show? You know it.
So yeah, the show was fucking fantastic. But I guess I should start with the new album before getting into the show.
What I like about Joseph Arthur’s music is how versatile and dynamic it is. In simplest terms, I like his fast songs, I like his slow songs, I like his medium songs.
In my opinion, on no other album does Joseph displays the full extent of his versatility than on Let’s Just Be. "Diamond Ring," the first song on the album and the one I mentioned yesterday, is a vintage rock n roll single, with a catchy chorus that’s been in my head all week (and which has infected a number of my friends, just by hearing me sing, "I said you/You could be my diamond ring" in my best scratchy falsetto). I have adopted "Spaceman," which I first heard last time I saw him and made me pee and little bit, as my new anthem. When I hear this song, I want to get high, I want to swim in a pool, I want to get out of the pool in slow motion, and then I want to jump off a mountain. (Author’s Note: Please do not try this at home.) "Cocaine Feet" and "Good Life" make me want to have angry sex with a woman who works in the sex industry, while "I Will Carry You" makes me want to make sad love to an ex-girlfriend (really, any will do – I’m pretty lonely right now). And there’s a lot more here, but I’m still working my way through the album.
But what’s most appealing about it, if one listens to it top to bottom, is that it’s very…genuine (settling on that word over "real," "stripped," "informal," or "ephemeral"). This album sounds like it was recorded over a long weekend in the remote woods in a big house filled with best friends and a ton of booze and drugs, doing one take per song. This may sound like a knock, but it’s actually a compliment because it implies that some sort of magic (admittedly possibly devil magic) was captured in this recording (as a matter of fact, you can hear Joseph’s voice say, "That was pure magic, man" at the end of "I Will Carry You"). And I totally fucking dig it.
Last night’s show was tremendous. What’s interesting is that I think that on the whole, Let’s Just Be is more rocking than his previous album Nuclear Daydream, but the show I saw in support of Daydream was more rocking. The show last night had its balls out moments (the aforementioned "Cocaine Feet" and "Good Life" were so rocking I had to keep one hand on my testicles, lest the fall off due to overrocking), but what was most memorable to me was in the middle of the show, when Joseph came out with only his guitar and did some songs.
My all-time favorite of his songs is "Echo Park," which I will have Joseph play at my wedding (provided he works on draft beer and blowjobs from my wife’s bridesmaids, since I am sure she will be a woman of loose morals and, well, birds of a feather), but he didn’t play that one. I was not disappointed however; he started with "A Smile That Explodes," which was so touching that by the end, my buddy Jeremy and I were hugging each other.
But the magic moment of the night came when Joseph sang "Honey and the Moon," just him and his guitar. Everything stopped when he performed this song. I’m being most literal here; not only was no one making a sound while he sang, but everyone was completely still, completely transfixed. Even the bartenders, who must see five shows a week, stopped cleaning and talking and stood motionless, watching Joseph. Out of the 200 people there, I don’t believe a single muscle was flinched for five minutes – it felt as though our breathing fell in sync while he played. Total quiet, total concentration. It was beautiful. It felt unreal. This sounds silly (especially if you’re not high), but listening to him play that song reminded me why I love music. I listen to my iPod seven hours a day, have 12,000 songs on my computer, and consider myself a music fan of the highest order, but when Joseph played that song, I thought, "Oh…that’s right. This is how it’s supposed to be." I spent $15 expected to be rocked senseless; I walked away wanting to think and wanting to hug someone. Which I did. Jeremy again. Maybe I should try to meet some girls. Whatever.
When the song was over, even Joseph seemed surprised, saying, "Wow – thanks so much for the quiet. That was awesome." But then the band came back, and shortly the place was rocking again ("The needle says she’ll tell you when she’s through," from "Too Much To Hide," has got to be one of my favorite opening lines in a song). The show ended with "I Will Carry You" (mentioned above) and then the trippy "Star Song" (which was ok with me, because I need to ease out of the show after such an emotional roller coaster).
After the show, I couldn’t go home. I plied my buddy Jeremy with free beers to stay out with me and he and I got so shitcanned that I honestly think he may be dead right now. He’s not answering his phone, text messages, or email. (God, I hope he’s not really dead. I would feel pretty bad about that.)
But brothers, sisters, I cannot recommend this show strongly enough. I know a lot of you took my advice after I saw him last time, but I wanted to share this different but equally awesome experience. You can listen to many of his songs on the radio that pops up when you visit his website, and check the tour dates here.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to putting my head on my desk and thinking about hugging. And if you hear from Jeremy, let me know. I’m getting a little concerned.
However, the "in-bar" readings were often inaccurate. This is because after taking a sip of beer you had to wait two or three minutes before blowing, lest your reading be inflated. And since I and my friends had (and have) trouble waiting between sips, often our readings would be through the roof – usually over .30, after only a beer or two (the legal limit in most states is .08). Therefore, it was impossible to accurately predict who had the highest reading while out boozing.
So instead, the best use of the breathalyzer was in the morning. We’d blow into it after a heavy night of drinking and after not having had a drink for six or eight hours. This, we thought, would give us the most accurate reading. The record was a tie between my friends Bill and Jen, who each blew a .22 in the morning after boozing. Both records were recorded in the same weekend and blew the previous morning high – .16 – out of the water. We were in awe of Bill and Jen.
However, Bill and Jen have nothing on this woman.
A former Seattle police officer returned the highest blood-alcohol reading ever recorded by a Washington state driver, and she was charged with driving under the influence Wednesday.
Deana F. Jarrett, of Woodinville, registered a 0.47 percent blood-alcohol reading after striking two cars April 11, said Trooper Jeff Merrill, public-information officer for the State Patrol. The legal limit in Washington is 0.08 percent.
A blood-alcohol level above 0.40 percent is potentially lethal.
.47??? I’m speechless. I am without speech. The article continues, "Five empty four-ounce plastic bottles of vodka and two empty 12-ounce cans of beer were found on the front passenger seat, according to a trooper’s report." Just…wow.
I really don’t know how I feel right now. I think it’s somewhere between impressed and turned on, but also a little nauseous. So basically the exact same way I felt the first time I saw a vagina.
There is nothing funny about drinking and drinking, which we here at jasonmulgrew.com do not condone under any circumstances. However, we would like to officially state that we will be dedicating this weekend’s drinking performance to Ms. Deana F. Jarrett, in recognition of her record-breaking performance. Congratulations, Deana, and may God have mercy on you.
Also, will you marry me?
************
Does anyone want my couch? I’m getting new furniture this weekend and need to get rid of it. I must confess - there was an incident, and, well, without getting into too much detail, I peed on the couch. However, that was way back in December of 2003 and I immediately sprayed Febreeze on the urine stain. And though it’s still there, this couch (which has a sofa bed) has been sat and slept on by dozens of people since my urination. So please don’t let the pee keep you from taking it. It’s otherwise a lovely couch.
But if none of you want it, that’s fine. The plan is for my buddy Jeremy to come over to my place after midnight on Friday night and he and I will take the couch and leave it on the street somewhere in Chinatown. Knowing my neighbors, my guess is that the couch will be claimed no longer than 15 minutes after we put it down, and there may even be a line gathering around us as we look for a spot to drop it.
So no worries. I was just looking out for your guys. I can think of few better pieces of memorabilia after my spectacular death in a hotel fire in October 2009 than the original Jason Mulgrew Piss Couch.
(I am really gonna miss that couch. I also think I’ve had sex on the couch, which would make it even rarer and more valuable, since the number of things I’ve peed on is far greater than the number of things I’ve had sex on, which go: my bed, the parking lot of Veterans Stadium, and, um…that’s about it. Oh, once I fell off my bed while making love, so maybe my bedroom floor. But I don’t know if that really counts since the girl was asleep at the time and stayed on the bed, so whatever. I’m not a doctor. Let’s just move on.)
************
I may be in Milwaukee in the first weekend of August. I’ve always felt a connection to Milwaukee, which, as I understand it, is full of fat people who drink a lot of beer and eat a lot of cheese and sausage. Which begs the question: where do I sign up? My buddy Bob lives out there and a bunch of us – all Phillies fans – are planning to go out that weekend to catch a Phils-Brewers game. Just a lovely mid-summer guys’ weekend.
However, the trip is not definite. Squeeze, one of my favorite bands, is reuniting for a tour. And wouldn’t you know it – they will be playing in NYC the Friday I am planning on being in Milwaukee. Complicating matters is that my buddy Griff wants to fly in from Seattle for the weekend to see Squeeze with me. Hmmm…
Though I love the 80′s Brit-Pop of Squeeze, methinks the beer/sausage/cheese combo that Milwaukee is offering me is going to win out. As a compromise, I will tell Griff that I am willing to fly out to LA to see Squeeze on August 13 (a Monday). We can spend the weekend together there, which sounds really gay now that I just wrote it out, and then catch Squeeze at the Greek Theatre, which is perfect because Griff is Greek. Everyone wins.
Griff, if you’re reading this, let me know if this works for you. If not, we can discuss at Joe’s wedding next weekend when you’re bombed and agreeable. And if any of you reading live in Milwaukee, you’d better start the preparations now. If you wow me enough, I may be moving out there. Most will move for love or career or family; I will move for sausage. And I am proud of that.
************
What the Phillies are doing right now to themselves, their fan base, and the city of Philadelphia is disgraceful. They have the worst record in the NL, they moved their Opening Day starter to the bullpen, their best player and last year’s MVP may be hurt, and their manager wants to fistfight a radio show host. What a fucking shitshow.
(For some background that’s both bizarre and hilarious, go here.)
However, I really can’t complain (too much), since I’ve watched only one Phillies game this season. But expect more insight soon as I just ordered the MLB Extra Innings package on cable. Yes, that’s right – for only $160, I can watch a season’s worth of Philadelphia sports futility, resulting in stress, bitterness, weight gain, and heightened blood pressure. Seriously, that’s a steal for $160.
Anyone who says that Philly isn’t the unluckiest sports city in America is just plain wrong. Fuck.
************
It seems wrong to discuss this between fart jokes, but I also didn’t want to make a grand statement that would seem either disingenuous or plainly inappropriate. My reaction to the Virginia Tech shootings thus far has been purely visceral; it is a great tragedy and alternatively makes me feel sadness for those who were lost and anger toward some fucking nerd who thought he was a bad because he had a gun.
But I have yet to formulate an intellectual response. Two difficult questions are being addressed right now:
1) What could the university have done differently, knowing that Cho Seung-Hui’s was mentally unstable and a potential threat to others?
2) What of gun control laws – should they be tightened to prevent tragedies like this?
The first question, I can not begin to answer. I know nothing about the legal responsibilities of the university or the local authorities, nor do I understand the psychological conditions that are required to be met in order to take the weird/quiet kid from the dorm room down the hall and lock him up in a mental institution. But boy does it seem like the school administrators dropped the ball there.
As for the second, I’m torn. On the one hand, I agree with Jeff Soyer, a self-described "gay gun nut in Vermont" who runs Alphecca, when he wrote that, "[Y]ou can’t legislate against insanity, certainly not against future insanity [his italics] by someone who hasn’t had a record of it already." 100% true. But the fact is that this great loss of life would not have happened if Cho Seung-Hui was not able to purchase guns. A tremendous oversimplification, sure, but a fact nonetheless.
I don’t – and will never, apparently - understand the need to own guns. I need to eat and I need to have a home. I have a lot of hobbies and things that I love: sports, music, boobies, hoagies, etc. But if I had to give up one of these hobbies in order to prevent 30+ people getting shot to death at a school or 110+ people from being murdered so far this year in Philly, well, then I think I can live without obsessing over Jason Bay’s on-base percentage.
Anyway, thoughts, prayers, and good vibes to those affected by the shootings.
************
Six Songs
"Diamond Ring" Joseph Arthur
I got his new album and it fucking rocks. However, I haven’t been able to get past this song, the first one, which has been stuck in my head since I picked up the album. You can hear the full song on my MySpace page or, more appropriately, Joseph Arthur’s MySpace page. His last album, Nuclear Daydream, blew my fucking doors off. I still need more time, but it’s possible that I may like this new one, Let’s Just Be, even more than Daydream. But give me a little bit – right now, it’s a little bit of a sensory overload, like that giddy and impatient feeling you get when you’re in a pool or jacuzzi and put your balls on one of the streams of water.
(Actually, it’s exactly like that feeling.)
"This Must Be The Place" Talking Heads
I’ve pimped this before. Here’s the deal: I wouldn’t call myself a Talking Heads fan. I’m not even sure that I like the band. Yet, this is probably one of my top ten favorite songs. Interesting, no?
"Heaven on Earth" Belinda Carlisle
I saw this video over the weekend while watching a pre-recorded video block from VH1 Classic and it struck me: Belinda Carlisle was once the most beautiful woman on earth.
[youtube]VQahvFdQVu8[/youtube]
I mean, look at her! She’s breathtaking! The eyes, the smile, the hair, the bosom, the confidence – stunning! Also, she was a monster party girl who’s admitted to doing coke and heroine and fucking female groupies! Holy crap!
I realize that this works better for me on paper than in real life, since I don’t like any girl I’m involved with to have had sex before - let alone coke-fueled orgies with members of the opposite sex - but I was blown away when I saw this video this weekend. And sure, I was high and drunk and had spent the previous few minutes unsuccessfully masturbating to the Milli Vanilli video that preceded it, but this video immediately took a special place in my heart.
(And when she’s dancing in the confessional! Totally, totally hot.)
(And she kinda looks a little like an ex-girlfriend’s older sister. I have no idea if that adds to the attraction or takes away from it.)
(And I think I could get behind the coke-fueled orgies if they were all women, but no D in there, please.)
"Homo Rainbow" Ween
Is there another band out there like Ween? One capable of writing a song about homosexuals that is both pretty and rocks? I don’t think so. This is on my main getting ready to go out playlist and is routinely blasting from my apartment on weekend evenings. It’s a good thing that my neighbors don’t speak English, or else they’d be very confused about the guy in apt 2 who constantly listens to that song about the homo rainbow.
"Shuffle Your Feet" Black Rebel Motorcycle Club
I once looked up the guitar tab for Elvis Costello’s "Alison" and at the end, the guy who transcribed the song made the comment, "This song is entirely too short." I thought it was a great thing to say about a song, and in the case of "Alison," very fitting. It’s a very good thing when a song ends and you find yourself wishing for another verse or another run through the chorus.
This song is also entirely too short. Just listen to it, and you’ll get what I mean. I feel like it ends just when I’m ready to pull out the acoustic guitar to start strumming along.
"Luckenback Texas" Waylon Jennings
There only two things in life that make it worth livin’
That’s guitars that tune good and firm feelin’ women
I don’t need my name in the marquee lights
I got my song and I got you with me tonight
God bless America.
So then I said to him, "Hey buddy – you’re the one who stepped in it, not me!" And that’s when I learned it’s important to know Spanish in jail.
Sigh. What a great story.
Anyway, my old roommate Ben and five other Seattleites were in town this weekend (fortunately, only Ben stayed at my place). He arrived Wednesday morning – Matt, Kim, Staci, Jaime, and Samantha came on Thursday morning – and only escaped NYC on Tuesday, due to the storm. Instead of giving a day-by-day account of what went down, I think it’s more effective to focus on four themes/highlights of the weekend, which, coincidentally, coincide with the four most important things in my life.
(And yes, I realize that I just used "coincidentally" and "coincide" together. Leave me alone. It’s been a rough couple of days.)
food
The amount of eating that took place this weekend was legendary. And I mean that literally – years from now, when human beings have returned to the woods and their primitive ways after the Great Race War, tales will be told of that weekend, many years earlier, when three men ate most of New York City. Young children will sit in awe listening to how one of them – the one with the beard and the diary – enjoyed a sausage egg and cheese bagel AND Baskin Robbins vanilla milkshake for breakfast on that sunny Saturday afternoon (and then returned home and slept from 2pm to 7pm). Or how the one visiting from Seattle ate a double cheeseburger for breakfast and a chicken parm sandwich for lunch – 30 minutes apart. Or how about how even the little one held his own, taking out (also for breakfast) an enchilada and a steak, even though the steak was not fit to be fed to most mutts (and actually may have been made from a mutt or two).
Sure, Ben came to NYC to see old friends, but really this was an eating (and drinking – see below) tour of NYC. In a few days, we ate at all the places that we enjoyed when Ben, Brian and I lived together in NYC, from the diners of the Upper East Side to the late night eateries of the Lower East Side. My personal favorite was the aforementioned sausage egg and cheese bagel from Bagel Express at 92nd and 3rd. What makes this particular one special is that not only are they generous with eggs and not only is the bagel itself delicious, but two sausage patties are standard. This may not seem like that big of a deal, but do you know how much the stakes are raised when you go from one sausage patty to a second? Good lord. That sandwich is not for the faint of heart (or, more appropriately, weak of heart).
Thus was the pattern of the weekend: a lot of bad (but delicious) food, all the time. Needless to say, I am a mess right now. My body is bloated, tumescent; I look and feel like I’ve been involved in a complicated and dangerous mashed potato-eating contest for the past four days. I was going to weigh myself on Monday morning just to see how much I’ve gained, but I had my first orgasm in nine weeks this weekend and so don’t need any more setbacks in the "sexual confidence" department. Instead, I’ll just starve myself this week and survive only on fingernails and Budweiser and I should be back to my fighting weight in no time.
(And my colon – don’t get me started. All of the following words could be used to describe it right now: impacted, angry, spastic, confused, cold, frightened, delirious and in serious danger.)
alcohol
Likewise, the excess extended into alcohol consumption. After a downright embarrassing Thursday night after which I called them out on here, the Seattle guys pulled it together and redeemed themselves over the course of the weekend. As mentioned, my old roommate Ben was the only Seattleite who stayed with me, and my old roommate Brian – the three of us once roommates in NYC for two years – basically moved into my apartment over the weekend, using it as home base/launching point for the whole weekend. And at this home base, with the help of our friends Molly and Nevin visiting from Boston and the ever-present Jeremy, we drank, conservatively, 200 beers. All thanks to a sneak attack.
(Let me explain.)
I used to buy all my beer at the Chinese grocery store three blocks from my apartment in ChiLiTa (my name for the Chinatown/Little Italy neighborhood in which I live). Make no mistake, this place is horrifying. My whole neighborhood smells like a delicate mix of feces and old fish parts, but one would think that the supermarket – you know, where food is sold – would smell a little fresher. Not so. It fucking reeks of evil and stale. I no longer fear hell, because after visiting this supermarket, I know what it smells like (feces, fish, old, and heat – and throw in some urine for good measure).
However, the beer at this supermarket is cheap. Unbelievably cheap. A comparison: at a bodega also three blocks away from my apartment (but in the opposite direction toward Soho), I once bought two six-packs of Rolling Rock for $24. Conversely, the Chinese grocery store sells 12 packs of cans of Pabst (in my opinion, a far superior beer), for just over $7. So I can go to the nicer store and pay $2 a beer, or I can deal with the vomit-smelling Chinese supermarket and pay 60 cents a beer. I was never a math guy, but that seems like a no-brainer to me. Also, it’s not often that I’m both the tallest person and also have the largest penis out of everyone in a supermarket, and it’s kind of a nice feeling (nevermind that I hold these titles by default because I’m the only white person that enters the store).
And so like clockwork, every Friday when I got home from work, I’d pick up at least three 12 packs of Pabst, and if I was feeling strong, a 30 of Bud (at $20, under 70 cents a beer). But lately something happened: I stopped finding the beer.
I walked in one Friday evening, same time as always, over to where the beer was usually kept – and it was gone. After communicating with a store employee, mostly through gestures and racist epithets, I learned that the beer was moved to another part of the store. I bought some and left. The following Friday evening, I went to this new location and the beer was gone. Now it was back where it was originally kept. The Friday evening after that, all the beer was gone, save for a case of Tsingtao, which I of course bought, since I need to drink. On my weekly Friday night trips since, I’ve been buying only one case of Tsingtao, as that’s all that’s there.
This inspired a joke among my friends that the Chinese people who work in the store were hiding their beer for me. Every time I go in the store, I’m the only white person and I buy as much beer as I can possibly carry. It is my theory that the Chinese employees came to fear and despise me, White Man Who Takes All Beer, and so hid the beer. However, they offered a lone case of Tsingtao – a Chinese beer – to me almost as a sacrifice or tribute. Just as the islanders did to not want to draw King Kong’s wrath and gave him scantily-clad women, the Chinese fear what might happen if I do not get any beer. So they leave me one case (of Chinese beer), just to get me satisfied and keep me under control.
Back to this past weekend. I had off on Friday so that I could spend time with Ben. After getting Mexican for breakfast, he and I were walking back to my apartment around 3 in the afternoon. Since it was en route, we decided to stop in the Chinese grocery store to buy beer then and there, rather than waiting until later in the night.
And the Chinese were completely unprepared.
Since I was four hours early, what did I find but stacks and stacks of PBR and Bud, right there, right in plain view, in the same place we’re I’ve been finding my single case of Tsingtao for the past few weeks. You could almost feel the tension as I walked in the store – with Ben in tow, no less. I don’t speak Chinese, but I am pretty sure that these Chinese employees were saying things like:
Chinese guy at front door: "He here! He early! Oh no!"
Chinese lady at register: "He look mad! And he look thirsty!"
Other Chinese lady at register: "And he bring friend! No time to hide beer!"
Sensing the panic that was quickly enveloping the store, I felt happy. The White Man had found the beer.
Thus Ben and I exacted our vengeance. We bought eight 12-packs of PBR on the spot, then quickly went back and bought four 30′s of Bud. It was a true reckoning ("You tell ‘em I’m coming – and hell’s coming with me!").
And so my refrigerator looked like the one at the Beta house at UMass-Amherst, packed with hundreds of beers. It’s a wonder we even made it out of the apartment all weekend, but all this beer meant that we were drinking constantly. God bless America and God bless the Chinese.
And of course when you have a lot of beer at your disposal, certain things happen.
betrayal
On Saturday night, I was talking to a girl (we’ll call her Leslie). Leslie was nice. She was cute. She was cool. Most importantly, when I spoke to her, she responded to me with articulate and intentional answers, as opposed to "Ewww" or "Are you serious?" or "GET OFF MY PROPERTY!" Naturally, I thought we were going to make out. Sweet.
(And yes, I was very drunk.)
I was out with Brian, Ben, Molly and Nevin, and Leslie was out with a friend (we’ll call her Barbara). I could have used a wingman, but Nevin is engaged to Molly, Ben had no interest in going down in flames with me, and Brian, well, I’ve documented Brian’s wingman ability before. But a wingman was not necessary; I was feeling pretty confident and when necessary could lead Leslie and Barbara in and out of conversations with my other friends. Smooth sailing, I thought.
Leslie and I had been talking and things were going well. I excused myself to go to the restroom and when I came out, I saw she was talking to Brian, who at this point was so drunk from whiskey that his face was the color of red construction paper. No matter, I thought, and went to talk to the rest of the group. I could play it cool for a bit.
A few minutes later, I turned around to see Brian and Leslie in a full embrace. Not kissing, but hugging and laughing. As Molly was talking to Leslie’s friend Barbara, Nevin and Ben started to lay into me about Brian stealing my girl. I contended that it wasn’t a big deal, that Brian was bombed and harmless and would never intentionally cockblock me like that.
Leslie went to the restroom and I pulled Brian aside:
Me: "Dude, I’ve been working on that girl for like two hours. Can you lay off?"
Brian: "Dude, I’m sorry, I totally didn’t know. I’ll stop right now."
I went up to the bar to grab a drink. After getting one I turned around and there was Brian, again hugging Leslie, this time a little tighter, both of them laughing away again. Now however he was stroking her hair and face, telling her what beautiful hair she had, while she touched his face, telling him what beautiful eyelashes he had.
Mother fucker.
I did not take this well, but was placed into an awkward situation. Brian was, as he usually is at 2am on Saturday night, destroyed. Leslie was also very drunk. There was essentially nothing I could do without looking like a sore loser/jerk, so instead I stood with Ben and Nevin, got ripped on, and stewed. All I wanted was some pizza, and maybe a handjob for less than $30.
I got neither.
justice
I’ve written before that a major reason that Boston blows is that every time you’re out, every Masshole wants to fight you, any time, any place, any way. There are such bad vibes in bars and dudes giving hard looks that it can make having a good time difficult. This is Reason #14 why Boston sucks.
In New York, we don’t have this problem. This is because we are pussies. Sure, there are some elements who like to fight – the Long Island/NJ bridge and tunnel trash that invade the once-decent bars over the weekends, the former frat boy bankers who live in Murray Hill and Hoboken, and, of course, the minorities and poors. But for the most part, people my age in NYC don’t like to fight. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen more fights in one St. Patty’s Day weekend in Boston that I have in six years of going out in NYC.
On this Saturday night, after watching Brian and Leslie cuddle, our group – including Leslie and Barbara – headed to Rosario’s to get some late night pizza. At this point, I was resigned…I knew that Brian and Leslie weren’t going to go home together (no way he could even get an erection, let alone sustain it), but it didn’t matter. It took us awhile to get a cab because it was pouring rain, but soon our taxi, which I shared with Ben, Nevin and Molly, pulled up to Rosario’s. I would finally get my delicious pizza.
Yet in keeping with the awesomeness of the night, when I opened the door to Rosario’s, two dudes tumbled out and fell at my feet, punching the shit out of each other. I watched them for a nano-second, thinking, "I probably have to break up this fight, but the pizza is right over there. Is there any way I can just step around them?" But if there’s anything I got very good at while growing up on Second Street in South Philly, it’s breaking up fights. Instinct kicked in and soon I, with Ben and Nevin, were pulling the dudes apart from each other.
We successfully separated them. I led one to the take out window while Ben and Nevin walked the other guy across the street. I tried to assess what was happening. There was very little doubt in my mind that the guy I was "guarding" had taken in the LIRR (Long Island Railroad) into NYC that night, in the hopes of "doing it up Oyster Bay-style" and possibly "crushing some pussy" in the big city. The guy that Ben and Nevin were guarding was a rare Angry Hipster – probably a big fan of The Islands and The Knife, but also not afraid to throw down. Truly a rare breed.
Wanting to learn more, I tried to talk to my dude.
Me: "Bro, what happened?"
Dude: [thickest Long Island accent imaginable] "We were in line and I called into question his sexuality and he got pissed off."
Me: [surprisingly crestfallen] "Um, oh."
Dude: "Well, he’s a fag."
That was about when I decided it might be better to head back into the pizza place, which would be closing shortly and was definitely running out of food. Also, it was fucking pouring and I was soaked. Further irritating me was that while I was standing outside with this douchebag, I could see Brian and the three girls chowing down inside at a table. Mother fuckers. Things were calmed down anyway; the Angry Hipster had been led away and some of the LI Douche’s friends had come outside to take him from me. So Ben, Nevin and I went back inside to get our eat on.
Because so little was left, I had to go with a mushroom slice and frankie and cheese (this is an actual picture of the frankie and cheeses in Rosario’s). But it was ok, because I was about to eat. And then all the yelling began.
As I was grabbing napkins by the door and moving to the table, I looked outside to see the LI Douche and the Angry Hipster rolling around on the street at the intersection of Orchard and Stanton. Ben and Nevin and I looked at each other. Prior to this night, I had never considered myself nor Nevin and Ben to be crusaders of justice, but for whatever reason, we threw our food on the table with the girls (and Brian) and were shortly again prying these morons off each other (did I mention it was raining like a mother fucker?).
This time, the calming took much longer until we decided to drop the "The cops are on their way – you’re going to spend a night in jail card," which sufficiently scared both the LI Douche and the Angry Hipster to go their separate ways. I may have used only one sentence to describe what happened, but this whole process took a solid six or seven minutes.
When Ben, Nevin and I finally sat the table, I didn’t even have an appetite. I was pathetic; bombed, cockblocked, soaked, and now tired. Leslie and Barbara had the last bite of Brian’s frankie and cheese and were bummed out that there wasn’t any more, so I just gave them mine. Then, our friend Lauren randomly appeared at the pizza place at 5am when they had nothing left, so I gave her my mushroom slice. So I didn’t even have any food at the end of the night.
So much potential, so little actualization. Crap.
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However, despite Brian’s betrayal and my lack of pizza on Saturday night, the weekend in total was great fun. Sadly, Ben has gone on record to say that because of the abuse he put his body through, he will never come to NYC again. So I guess the next time I’ll see him will be in Seattle next December at the Second Annual West Coast Wine Drinking Competition.
(Let’s just hope I can at least get a decent slice at the end.)
The site was down for a portion of yesterday because we are experiencing some technical difficulties (however, if you’re reading this, at least something’s working – I put the odds of this being posted at 3:1 that it didn’t make it up). This actually is quite a clusterfuck; Site Guy Brendan has sent me numerous emails about the problems over the past 24 hours but all I could understand is that he had (and still has) to restore some stuff from back-up. Also, he wrote, "I almost murdered some poor girl from India over instant messenger if that’s even possible." So there’s that.
Sit tight and we’ll back up and running again shortly. Also, if you are a witch, please put a curse on iPowerWeb. Brendan’s blood pressure is really going through the roof right now.
(In the meantime, a delightful clip from Will Ferrell and Adam McKay to entertain you.)
I’m not yet ready to discuss the events of last night, our first night out with my visiting Seattle friends. I’ll only say that I was bitten on the face so savagely – by a dude, of course – that I am developing a small lump in my beard. Also, at one point in the night my buddy Ben “escaped” (Brian’s word) and I came home at 3am to find him sleeping on the doorstep of my building, as he was too drunk to properly manipulate that enigma we call “keys.” Jesus. My New York friends and I are going to send these Seattle people home in boxes.
And now, in just about an hour, I have to go get my taxes done. I’ll get more into this later, but Uncle Jason is going to owe the government quite a bit of money. Start looking under your couch cushions for change now, because we’ll start the Jason Mulgrew Estate Sale on Monday at 10am (“I have here a lovely Sam Adams t-shirt that Jason was wearing the very day that he learned he was sterile – let’s start the bidding at $2”).
Since I’m off today and busy entertaining/babysitting my Seattle friends, here’s a video that I haven’t seen in years that caused me to pee my pants a little when I saw it again today.
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[Have a good weekend. And please, keep these Seattle guys in your prayers. I don’t know who’s going to have a more difficult time – the guys, who drink like children, or the girls, who are ashamed that the guys drink like children. It’s going to be a long weekend.]
Best headline ever.
The lesson: do not fuck with avowed lesbians from New Jersey. But if you didn’t already know that, then you deserve what’s coming to you.
It was my turn to pick (and her turn to pay) and I originally wanted to go to Craft, Craftbar’s tonier older sister restaurant. However, because I prolong and procrastinate with everything in life (except, of course, ejaculation, which I am ready to take care of….now), I waited until the day before to try to make a reservation at Craft and was given my choice of either 6pm or 10:15pm. As you might expect, I pulled the old "Do you know who the fuck I am?" card, even throwing in, "Have you heard of the internet? Well, I’m on it. And I’m awesome." However, the hostess, Gorgeous Luddite, was not impressed with my web prowess and instead Nicole and I had to settle for Craftbar.
In a way, going in with this mindset worked to our advantage. My personal philosophy on life is to make people expect very little of you. That way, if you give them even a little bit, they’ll be pleasantly surprised. (This is why I’ve often compared my penis to a lightswitch or a pen cap on this site, when in reality it’s much closer to a thimble than either of those.) Going into our meal at Craftbar, Nicole and I, label/name/scene whores that we are, expected very little. But we got so much more.
(Nice segue, right?)
We started as we often do with a cheese plate, allowing the waiter, who I would describe as a confirmed bisexual, to pick two cheeses for us – one stronger, one smoother/creamier. As an overweight man with a beard who has paid for sex in the past, I love me some cheese. However, thus far in mine and Nicole’s culinary experiment, I have resisted all efforts to turn me into a cheese snob. To take nothing away from her Meatloaf with River of Cheese, growing up my mom’s signature dish was Irish Chicken Parm – chicken cutlets with ragu spaghetti sauce and two well-placed slices of American cheese – and I loved it. Since childhood, I have been involved with a number of Italian women (ok, so I’ve met three Italian chicks and burgled the home of another) who have scoffed at such a bastardization. Subsequently, their arrogance and condescension toward my dear mother and her best dish has only a) confirmed my hatred of Eyetals; b) emboldened my love of American cheese. In sum, I like my cheese like I like my women: simple, white and fake. Keep your bries and your goats and your havartis and give me the Kraft "cheese product." This is all I will say about the cheese plate that Nicole and I had, except that, despite my stubbornness, I still found it rather delicious.
Cheese was a featured ingredient in the appetizers that Nicole and I shared: the pecorino stuffed risotto balls and a bruschetta with speck, gorgonzola, and hazelnuts. These appetizers were easy to choose; I make it a point to eat any food with "balls" in its name whenever possible, and once Nicole explained that speck is kinda like prosciutto, well, say no more. As you might guess, both were delicious. Although I expected something like the rice balls that I order at pizza places at 4:30am (i.e. Rosario’s), which are dry and a little bland, these risotto (Italian for "fancy rice") balls were absolutely oozing with a creamy, delicate cheese. ("Oozing cheese" is one of my all-time favorite adjective-noun combinations, right up there with "free booze," "easy lay," and "reunited Van Halen.") The bruschetta was essentially a high-class cream cheese and bacon open-faced sandwich. So, yeah, I can get behind that.
For our entrees, Nicole ordered the orecchiette with broccoli rabe, fennel sausage and parmesan. I was a little surprised she went with this, frankly. Not because Nicole typically doesn’t order pasta or anything, but because she knows that I hate (HATE) broccoli rabe and that our dinners usually end with her saying, "I’m stuffed - you have to take this home." Perhaps this was Nicole’s way of subtly protesting and ensuring that I do not end up going home with her leftovers (you know, like what usually happens when I’m out with my buddy Jeremy – zing!). But the joke was on her because the broccoli rabe flavor was very light and I quite enjoyed the pasta. Yet it was she who had the last laugh by finishing her dish and leaving me to go home empty-handed.
(Wait – did I just zing myself there?)
I went home empty-handed because there was no way my entree, the veal ricotta meatballs, was escaping me. Typically, I do not eat veal. Believe it or not, this is because I feel bad for the little calves that veal comes from. I know, I know – this may sound strange coming from a man who would sell his sister into North Korean slavery for a high-def TV or a really cool knife, but it’s true. Though I’ve dated more vegetarians than I care to admit (another of God’s cruel jokes on me), I once went on a date with one, a brilliant farm girl from North Carolina, who when I expressed my love of steak said, "Have you ever seen a cow? I can’t eat anything that kinda looks like me." This line struck me on a number of levels. First, this girl did not look like a cow. Second – holy shit - I kind of look like a cow. Though I could never quit steak, I gave up veal on the spot (I look more like a calf than a cow anyway, especially considering the weight loss).
However, my love of meatballs far outweighs my love of calves (after all, I don’t think a calf has ever comforted me at 3am after a bad date and/or guilty verdict). Throw in that apparently these were supposedly famous meatballs, and I didn’t stand a chance. The meatballs and I, we danced.
(For the record, I love slow dancing. Good thing I replied "+1" to my buddy Joe’s wedding in less than three weeks – at which I’ll be the best man – and I still don’t have a date. I’m sure all of my female friends are waiting in breathless anticipation for my last minute phone call asking, "What are you doing this weekend? Do you want to pretend to be my girlfriend so that an entire wedding assembly doesn’t think I’m gay? $328 says you do. And I promise to keep everything PG-13, or at least above the belt." God, I’m fucking smooth. I really should be given my own dating show.)
The meatballs were…solid. No, they were more than solid; they were very, very good. But if you know me, you know I’m more about style than substance (did you see what I wore last weekend or on my last boating trip?), and these meatballs were unceremoniously served in a bowl. That’s it. Just three meatballs, a little pool of sauce, a white bowl. Done. I mean, can I get a little pasta in there or something? Maybe a bread stick? I’m not asking for Christmas lights around the bowl or asking that it be served by a gang of gypsy musicians, but c’mon – I want to be swept off my feet here, not left saying "Hmph" when the dish is placed in front of me. Do you know nothing of seduction? Do you approach women in bars, expose your penis to them, and ask, "So…yes or no?" Fucking amateurs.
(I am particularly bothered by this because I chose the meatballs over the hanger steak with potato purée and caramelized onions. I chose the meatballs for the reasons above and because I’ve been eating a lot of steak lately - I know, quite a problem to have. Also, if I were to get married next week, caramelized onions would be in my wedding party. Such is the relationship that they and I have developed over the past two months. We both love and respect each other very much.)
Finally, my favorite – dessert. Nicole and I splurged a little bit and got two desserts instead of our usual splitting one. Since we couldn’t make up our minds, we ordered the brown sugar cake with roasted pear and cinnamon ice cream and the apple tart tatin with caramel ice cream.
Holy. Fucking. Shit. Balls.
Despite my complaints about the meatballs, I had generally enjoyed the meal up to this point. I also liked the layout of the place, our waiter was efficient and friendly, and the food was tasty, high quality, and reasonably priced. But simply put, these desserts blew my mother fucking doors off. I have to give a slight edge to the brown sugar cake, which had a gooey center that if no one was looking I would have stuck my penis into, but the apple tart was not without its charms. (Really, how can you go wrong anytime you combine apples, caramel, and ice cream? Well, maybe if you add HPV in there, but that’s about it.) But these…these desserts were something special and – and I say this without exaggeration – easily my favorite desserts since Nicole and I started our eating tour of NYC last July. Bravo, Craftbar, bravo.
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My summation: I would highly recommend Craftbar as a place to take a date you want to impress. It’s fancy and has a name (Craft is a legit four-star restaurant), but is chill enough for a casual date. I would also add that it is reasonably cheap, although our bill was quite high because Nicole put on a fucking clinic, putting back a $14 martini and four glasses of $13 wine – to my four $8 beers – while I sat there in awe. Of course, the quality of food doesn’t compare to some of the fancier (read: more expensive) places we’ve been to, but it was nonetheless delightful.
(I think I’ll end here because I’ve never ended a post with the phrase "it was nonetheless delightful." It sounds like the ending to a story told in 1871 by a British Duchess. And no, this doesn’t count as the ending, dick.)
- Alyssa Shelasky, one of the lovely ladies who blogs for Glamour, was nice enough to mention me in a post of hers last Thursday. For this, I am grateful. (And for the record, I have never blurted out "I love you" to a woman, if only because, as mentioned before, the only two emotions I’m capable of at this point are lust and hunger.) But for the 20 or so Glamour/Alyssa readers who came to this site, read my recent post(s), and then emailed me to tell that I’m an alcoholic and "should be ashamed of [myself]" or "really seek help"…not so grateful.
In part, I can’t blame strangers for reading what’s on here and thinking I’m an alcoholic. Last week was an especially alcoholicy week, what with me blacking out and fracturing my ribs in a drunken blur (and I didn’t even mention all the stray dogs I killed after spending the night dancing with Mr. Beam). So yes, I understand that that sounds like the behavior of an alcoholic. I don’t think you need a Ph.D. in the psychology of dependence to make that leap, Doctor.
But why, tell me, would anyone feel the need to write such harshly-worded, holier-than-thou emails to someone they do not know? I’ve never understood this with "hate mail" that I sometimes get. I’ll be the first to admit that I am full of hate, and many things bother and annoy me. Poors, for example, or that fucking guy who works at my local soup place (what a cocksucker). So I’m with you guys there. But, as hateful as I am, I don’t think I’d take ten or twenty minutes out of my day to email someone I don’t know and berate or (try to) belittle them. Not only does that seem like a lot of work, but it’s just…weird.
I know I may sound like a whiny bitch, but I don’t mean to. Nor do I mean to sound defensive. I actually like getting these types of emails. Though I never respond to them, I sometimes forward them on to friends and we have a laugh. The latest, from the Glamour/Alyssa readers, were especially enjoyable, since most of the people who visit this site are more likely to read Oui than Glamour. As such, the emailers were particularly appalled and vituperative, which made for great reading.
But people, let’s make love, not war. A wise man once said, "When you’re judging, you’re not loving." I consider this website a judgment-free zone, where we all can come together, enjoy ourselves, and talk about our deepest, darkest secrets, free from any and all judgment. And sure, none of what I’ve just written may be true, but it certainly sounds nice, no?
(So if you’re keeping count, the latest emails I’ve gotten have all revolved around either me being fragile and grossly out of shape or calling me an alcoholic. The good news is that I fucked up my email account and accidentally deleted all my emails from Thursday to Sunday. So if you sent me an email during this time that didn’t relate to my obesity or alcoholism and would like me to read it, please re-send it. Thanks for your understanding.)
- Speaking of being an out-of-shape alcoholic, I had the day off on Friday (thank you, Jesus – or rather, thank you Jews, for killing my Savior) and after running some errands, I started drinking with my old roommate Brian at my place at 5pm. We had big plans to go out to a birthday dinner, but instead ordered pizza and didn’t leave the apartment until after 1am. Whoops. However, in the eight hours that we sat there drinking, many other friends joined us and soon I had a little party going on in my apartment. There was also an uncomfortable amount of guitar playing and singing, (poorly) covering such classics as The Band’s "The Weight," Van Halen’s "Dance the Night Away," and our piece de resistance, "Handle With Care" by the Traveling Wilburys, with each of us responsible for our own Wilbury (because of the physical similarity, I was Roy Orbison).
[youtube]dNVPMOY-w1Y[/youtube]
(I still contend that the Traveling Wilburys would be an awesome Halloween costume. Mark my words: this will happen.)
We eventually did go out, the nine of us caravanning over to The Tile Bar/The James Fucking Iha Bar, where I must have been breakdancing or something. I say this because when I woke up the next morning/afternoon, I was in such pain because of my fractured ribs that I actually threw up. Surprisingly, throwing up is not the best cure for fractured ribs, as doing so made them hurt much, much worse. Saturday afternoon was not a very good time for me.
- Nor was Saturday night. I tried my hardest to rally, but was convinced my insides were bleeding, despite the fact that I was drinking cranberry and vodka (it’s good for the kidneys). I wound up watching four hours of "The History of Metal" on VH1 Classic, smoked about $160 worth of pot, ate a giant bag of pretzels dipped in the best mustard on the planet, and passed out on my couch. And yes, I am single. I know – I can’t believe it either.
- Sunday was Easter. Easter was a big deal in my house as a kid, what with Jesus rising from the dead and all those Cadbury Creme Eggs. But instead of dressing up in a suit, going to church, and eating a ton of candy, I woke up, put on some sweat pants, laid on the couch, and, um, ate a ton of candy.
(Seriously - I want to eat my computer screen when I see that Cadbury Creme Egg picture. I love those fucking things. One of these days, I’m going to make a sundae with them. Then I will stab myself in the heart. Because I doubt my life could get any better than a Cadbury Creme Egg sundae.)
The errands that I ran on Sunday, as well as the lonely/homoerotic dinner I had with my buddy Jeremy, I will not get into – mostly because I’m kinda riled up after mentioning the CCE sundae. Suffice it to say that my Easter was tame.
- When I have a weekend like this one, in which nothing overly exciting happens and I stay in a night, it bums me out. However, I can deal with this past slow weekend, because on Wednesday morning, at just about 8am, my old roommate Ben arrives from Seattle. The next day, five others are coming from Seattle. Remember, the last time we hung out with Ben, all hell broke loose (pictures here). So if we want to think of this in the bigger picture, I should be unemployed by Friday morning and in the hospital by Saturday evening.
So wish me luck.
(Also, if anyone can pick up a gross of those Cadbury Creme Eggs on the cheap, please do so and I’ll get you back. It’s going to be a long, lonely summer/fall/winter without them.)
Wednesday, after learning that I had cracked ribs, I went straight from work to dinner and then was home and in bed by 10pm, feeling content, believing that I had finally accomplished something. Then I woke up on Thursday morning and had 40 or so emails telling me I was a fat fuck with bones made of jelly.
Jake from Denver sums it up best:
whats up jason,
long time, first time, yadda yadda,
my friend’s older brother is an out of shape security guard who fractured his rib simply by lumbering his own fat ass into a jog in a likely hilarious attempt to run down a shoplifter. apparently as he rounded a corner, the unusual movement of his own organs applied enough pressure on his nutrient deprived bones to actually crack a rib. Thats right… no impact, just pressure.
Now, I’m not saying this is your case. I know your bones are quite strong from all the calcium in ice cream and tapioca pudding. But, if you hadn’t been in such great shape, I’m thinking that a movement such as over-aggressively swinging a whiffleball bat could cause a similar injury…
Needless to say, emails like Jake’s took me down a peg.
Look, I admit, I’m not in great shape. It’s hard for me to tie my shoes and certain bowel movements leave me spent. And I think I’m getting to the point that I’m legitimately not healthy enough for sexual activity, which, to be honest, would be a load off my mind.
But remember, last summer I went on a monster diet, lost almost 40 pounds, and was running three miles a day. Yes, last summer was a long time ago, but it wasn’t that long ago. And though I no longer run (I found it exhausting), I haven’t gained (much of) the weight back.
(Yet.)
The point is that I refuse to believe that I am so out of shape that swinging a plastic bat, getting lightly tackled in football, raising a beer to my lips, or offering a woman $28 and three Marlboro Reds to see a little more of her cleavage (these being the four main activities of the weekend), would be enough to fracture my ribs. Right now, I have three main theories:
- Someone beat me with a hammer while I slept
– I was bodyslammed, possibly by a ghost, and do not remember it
– My body, fed up by the abuse and lack of sexual gratification, is playing a practical joke on me
The first two, I can deal with. If it’s the third, well then, it’s a pretty good practical joke and I have to tip my hat. At least I haven’t lost my ability to get an erection.
(Yet.)
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Now this is a cause I can get behind. You have no idea how enriched my life would be if I could find and enjoy creamed chipped beef in NYC. I fucking love creamed chipped beef, and only learned that Shopsin’s had it after it had closed, which is the equivalent finding out the girl you secretly loved for years had a crush on you too – but learning this only after she was already engaged/married/dead. Not a good day for me when I figured that out.
So implore you, NYC readers, comment, research, cajole your chef friends – whatever. I need some CCB in NYC, and I’m sure I’m not alone. You know how over the past five years there have been an explosion of successful cheesesteak places in NYC? Well, this wouldn’t be the case with CCB, but still, it would make me happy. Just help. Just fucking help.
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There is no joke here, only sadness: For the past three or so weeks, I’ve been eating Girl Scout Cookies for breakfast almost every day. I bought four boxes of samoas and two each of the peanut butter ones whose names escape me (the sandwich cookies and the chocolate-covered wafers).
But this morning, before brunch, I finished off the last of the samoas, marking the end of that annual rite that is more dear to me than Christmas, Memorial Day Weekend and the start of summer, or even that week in July when I go out drinking with 100+ friends and crawl into bed with my buddy Kyle. I will now have to wait another eleven months before a samoa enters my mouth (I’ll let you make the “blowing a Pacific Islander” joke) and I feel very down about that.
Good thing I have all this codeine.
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Please, men and women alike, I encourage you to start buying Hanes bras (or more Hanes bras). Then please write to the Hanes Corporation and explain to them that this was the reason you bought those bras:
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I know Jennifer Love Hewitt is a nerd and if we ever started dated I would kill her because I am drinking more as I type this than she does in a year, but there’s no arguing that a) she is hot and b) she has beautiful – nay, breathtaking – boobies. Which I would like to see more of.
(I am also certain that she is a terrible lay. Just trust me on this – I have this almost supernatural ability as soon as I see a woman to determine a) how good of a lay she is and b) how well trimmed her lawn is. I am willing to provide email addresses of friends as references if you don’t believe me. I’m incredible. Just let me brag here, ok?)
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On the heels of finishing The Executioner’s Song, I’ve made a decision: to the extent possible, I’m going to spend the rest of 2007 reading only:
- Works written by Norman Mailer
– Works written by William Shakespeare
– The Bible
That’s it. Well, apparently that’s not it, since after brunch today I bought The Castle in the Forest (good), Harmony of the World: Stories (Charles Baxter rocks my world, and although Saul and Patsy and First Light weren’t my favorites, The Feast of Love was probably the best book I read last year), and The Last Mughal: The Fall of the Mughal Dynasty (I did my independent study while aboard on the decline of the Mughal empire and got very into it).
But as for The Executioner’s Song…wow. The book, which follows the life and crimes of Death Row inmate Gary Gilmore and his fight for the right to die, won Mailer the Pulitzer Prize. It’s not for the faint of heart, however; it clocks in at just under 1100 pages. However, I typically do not read long books and devoured this one – when I finished, I wished it were longer.
(And yes, I know I read a lot of books about murder. But just as reading a lot of books (with pictures) about homosexuality doesn’t make you a homosexual, reading a lot of book (with pictures) about murder doesn’t make you a murderer, dig?)
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Six Songs
"I Don’t Feel Like Dancing" Scissor Sisters
This is the gayest – and so the most wonderful song – I’ve heard in the last year or so. I don’t know why I didn’t discover it until this week, but wow. When I listen to this song, I’m happier, I feel prettier, and I am extremely attracted to Patrick Dempsey. I am actually dancing in my chair as I type this – and it’s not the type of dancing that a straight white guy with a beard and beer gut should be doing. If I don’t find a woman in the next 48 hours and kiss her on the mouth, the damage may be irreversible. Wish me luck.
(Methinks I’ll need it.)
"Postcards from Italy" Beirut
This song creeps me the fuck out. In a related story, I’ve masturbated to this song.
(God, I wish that was a joke.)
"Still" Elvis Costello
To class it up a bit. What I love about Elvis Costello is that he’s a musician in his early 50’s who’s been successful since his early 20’s, but instead of trying to recreate the magic of his early years and failing like others around his age (I don’t think I have to name names here), he continues to write wonderful, emotive music that spans different genres. Sure, he still writes some rockers, but listen to “Welcome to the Working Week” and then listen to this song. That, my friends, is progress.
"Lily and Parrots" Sun Kil Moon
Terrific band. Well, so far – I only know about eight or so of their songs, and most of them (though wonderful) would make me fall asleep at the wheel. This one, however, is a nice little rocker to that I’ve added to my shower playlist, which is called, “I’m Washing My Balls and Rocking Out – What?”
(Also, love the simple line starting the second verse: “You don’t know just how much I miss you.” It’s pretty hard to say that – and say it in a whiny voice, no less – without sounding like a pussy, but the singer pulls it off. Highly, highly recommended band. Check out “Carry Me Ohio” and “Neverending Math Equation” for their fall-asleep-while-driving-cross-country songs.)
"Just Kissed My Baby" The Meters
Exhibit A why I want a black girlfriend. In addition to causing several of my uncles to fistfight me at Christmas, having a black girlfriend would give me license to strut around listening to this song without feeling awkward and inadequate unless I’m either really high or really drunk.
Hear me: if you’re having friends over and want some good background music on while you drink, download a bunch of Meters songs. Trust me.
"Red Rabbits" The Shins
I added this one to my makeout mix, which on my old PC was called “Mood” but on the new Mac is called “Let’s Makeout or Something.” I like it because it’s a perfect makeout mix song; it’s both sweet and, more importantly, disorienting. Each time I listen to it, I kinda forget where I am and I feel like I need to be touched. So, um, yeah – it’s on the makeout mix. A no-brainer, really.
[Have a good weekend]
Well, some news. I went to the doctor’s this morning for something unrelated (c’mon STD test – Uncle Jason’s made some questionable decisions lately and he really needs a big fat "negative" here), and it turns out that I have fractured ribs. Winner.
Fractured fucking ribs, which I got while drunk, which I have no recollection of getting.
My family must be so, so proud.
Prior to this, my biggest unknown drunken injury was that I broke or sprained my second metatarsal bone in my toe and had to wear a booty to work for two weeks (no idea how I did that either). But fractured ribs? I mean, fractured fucking ribs? That’s a winner right there, folks.
I have to admit, I feel kinda justified here. Since I got back from the bachelor party, I’ve been complaining to everyone within earshot that my ribs seriously hurt and that I haven’t been able to sleep. Every time I yawn, stretch, sneeze, cough, sigh, or make a sudden movement, I’ve felt as though someone is squeezing the right side of my body from the inside.
Not only that, but every time I poop or pee at work, I use the bathroom four floors up and take the stairs (this and this alone is how I managed to keep my weight loss off after seven months). Four floors is perfect; it leaves me winded, but not so much that I’m either sweating through my work clothes or panting at the urinal while someone is peeing next to me and terrified. But since I’ve gotten back from the bachelor party, I’ve noticed that I’ve gotten winded around the second flight of stairs, which is earlier than usual. It’s also been difficult and painful to catch my breath. And now I know why: according to my doctor, who went to Duke Medical School and is 100% Jewish, I fractured my ribs. Because I’m a drunk.
(In the interest of full disclosure, I admit that my doctor is a bit…interesting. Last time he gave me an STD test, which was the White Lightening, he started by asking, "So, you have anything weird on your dick or your balls?" He used the same line this time, but no White Lightening, thank god. Also, he didn’t take an X-ray on my ribs but rather felt me up and said that I "likely" had a fractured rib(s). But that’s all semantics. Because you know what fractured ribs mean? Codeine!)(Yes, I now will have a medicine cabinet that contains (legal, proscribed) Xanax and (legal, proscribed) codeine. We are all in big, big trouble.)
(Yes, I now will have a medicine cabinet that contains (legal, proscribed) Xanax and (legal, proscribed) codeine. We are all in big, big trouble.)I know it says a lot about me as a person – all negative – that I am very, very proud of myself right now, but I can’t help it. I mean, I don’t have a lot going for me in terms of achievements – I barely graduated college (for disciplinary reasons), I don’t have a lot of friends and routinely betray the friends I do have, the strongest relationship I’ve had with a woman in the past six years has been with Elisha Cuthbert (and her 2004 Maxim cover), and I am more than like going to get a D- on my latest STD test – but I almost broke my ribs while drunk and I have no idea how it happened.
And this is not an exaggeration here; I really don’t know how it happened. We played some football over the weekend, and there was some general roughhousing going on (you know how it happens at bachelor parties - some beers lead to some fighting, which leads to some wrestling, which leads to someone’s dick falling out, and before you know it the guy who does your website for you is crying because he’s not sure what he’s going to tell his girlfriend ,and you’re all like, "Dude, a mouth is a mouth – just get over it," etc). But there wasn’t any major fight that went down, I don’t think. My only explanation would be if someone slept walk and attacked me in my sleep. I joked about that earlier, but I don’t see any other way, unless I forget getting hit by a car.
What’s more shocking is how this happened physiologically (not the right word, but bear with me). Not that my ribs are padded by a layer of muscle by any means, but that my diet consists of so much dairy – and subsequently so much calcium – that my bones should be able to break down most small dams. I can’t recall the last vegetable I had that didn’t have "cream" before it or the last meal I ate that didn’t have a significant amount of dairy (milk, ice cream, extra cheese, milkshake, etc).
Of course, none of that matters now. All I have to do is limit my physical exertion (not a problem) and take some codeine for pain (also not a problem) and they’ll heal eventually. I just wanted to share the good news with you, but must recommend that you not try this at home. God did not bless me with much, but he did give me a tremendous capacity to break myself when I’m drunk. Sure, now that I’m really thinking about it, maybe that’s not such a good thing, but it’s something I have to live with – and something I choose to celebrate.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go take some codeine, lie on my couch, and think of the best way to tell my friends that we shouldn’t share drinks anymore, due to my herpes/chlamydia/"we don’t even know what it is, but we know it’s not good."
Keith Richards says he snorted his father’s ashes mixed with cocaine
LONDON (AP) — Rolling Stones guitarist Keith Richards has acknowledged consuming a raft of illegal substances in his time.
In comments published Tuesday, he said he snorted his father’s ashes mixed with cocaine.
"The strangest thing I’ve tried to snort? My father. I snorted my father," Richards was quoted as saying by British music magazine NME.
"He was cremated and I couldn’t resist grinding him up with a little bit of blow. My dad wouldn’t have cared … It went down pretty well, and I’m still alive."
Richards’ father, Bert, died in 2002 at the age of 84.
Richards, 63, one of rock’s legendary wild men, told the magazine that his survival was the result of luck, and advised young musicians against trying to emulate him.
"I did it because that was the way I did it. Now people think it’s a way of life," he was quoted as saying.
"I’ve no pretensions about immortality," he added. "I’m the same as everyone … just kind of lucky.
"I was number one on the Who’s Likely To Die list for 10 years. I mean, I was really disappointed when I fell off the list."
(Copyright 2007 by The Associated Press. All Rights Reserved.)
I thought I knew disappointment the first time I saw a naked woman in real life, but I bet that was nothing compared to what Keith must have felt.
As my friend Brian pointed out, I would love to see the videotape of this interview: Keith, looking haggard in a cloud of smoke, delivering his line with a deadpan expression in a thick, garbled British accent, "My father. I snorted my father." It’s like a morbid (but hilarious) twist on the old "Ron Wood Show" skit on SNL by Mike Myers ("Now, your father…").
I mean, wow. I know there are probably some jokes to be made here, but I think I need to lie down.
(And I hereby give my blessing to my two children, Justice and Cody, wherever they are, to snort me after I die. You guys might want to make sure all the chunks of ham are cleared out of the way first, but I doubt I need to tell you that.)
I am in a lot of pain right now – emotional, physical, and mental. Just about everything either hurts or is sad in/on my body.
Last night, I got back to my apartment after spending the last four nights and four days at my buddy Joe’s bachelor party in Newport, Rhode Island, drinking everything I could get my hands on (including an embarrassing incident with a bottle of body wash that I don’t want to get into right now, but let’s just say that under the right circumstances it’s possible to confuse Adidas body wash for Everclear).
Before I get into the bulk of what happened over the weekend, two quick notes:1) I’ve touched on this before, but it’s worth mentioning again: getting drunk on a train is fucking spectacular, and perhaps my new favorite pastime. In fact, I may not take a proper vacation this year and instead ride Amtrak across America, getting bombed and watching movies on my laptop. On the ride up to Boston on Wednesday night, I had a ton of beers and watched "Tombstone," a movie that simply does not get old. As predicted, I did cry after Virgil was shot and said, "That’s ok, Allie girl – I still got one good arm to hold you with," but did not cry when Morgan died, mostly because I looked to my left and the woman sitting there was watching me cry during the Virgil scene, so I had to rein it in when Morgan was offed. If she wasn’t so good-looking, I would have opened the floodgates, but I tried to maintain a little dignity.
(For some reason, I never cry when Doc dies, since I’m convinced he’s off to a better place. And Doc Holliday has to be one of the greatest five movie characters of all time. I will not argue this. After my nervous breakdown in the fall, I may take to dressing like him full time. Just so you know.)
2) You know what’s awesome? When you drop $100 on a pair of headphones and they break in eight weeks. Thanks, people at Bose. You guys are fucking assholes. Now I’m rocking a $6 pair of giant headphones that I bought at CVS right before my train left. I look fucking ridiculous and, worse, poor. 
The Groom, modeling my sweet new headphones, and the Best Man/Better Man
Now that that’s out of my system, onto the bachelor party.
The Cast
For your reference, the following people were in attendance at the bachelor party. In order to give you a better picture, I’ve listed their names, ages, location, and a little about them.-
Joe, 27, Boston, Groom-to-be, sterile
- Me, 27, New York, Best Man/Better Man, likely also sterile
- Bill, 27, Boston, Groomsman, former "star" of NBC’s "Average Joe 2: Hawaii"
- John, 27, Boston, Groomsman, general dickhead about sports, life, but redeemed his lame performance of weekend by cleaning up Nameless Friend’s vomit
- Brendan, 28, Boston, more commonly known as "Site Guy Brendan" or "He Who Talks A Lot and Also Spits While Talking and Maybe Cried At One Point During the Bachelor Party"
- Griff, 27, Seattle, Greek friend who considering he’s married and doesn’t drink that much held up surprisingly well over the weekend among the drunks
- Kyle, 28, Philly, wearer of high top sneakers but still tremendous friend
- Tom, 28, Knoxville, "reformed" drunk and Masshole with near-allergy to alcohol
- Conor, 27, Boston, "reformed" cool guy, likes cheese and looks like Blaise Pascal
- Terrence, 24, New York, Joe’s "younger brother," in that they are not related but almost exactly the same
- Mike, 28, Providence, husband and father of one with another on the way, who showed up for one night, drank a ton and punched everyone, and then got so violently ill he may be deceased at the time of this writing
- Frank, 31, Boston, future brother-in-law of groom, was horrified by Best Man’s near-constant nudity
The House
The house we rented was not actually in Newport but rather in the next town, Middletown. However, the Newport town line was a tennis ball’s throw away, and a cab into downtown Newport was $7, so we’ll just call it Newport.
Kyle outside the house
The house itself was a big ol’ one, with six bedrooms and two full bathrooms. As you might expect, after arriving on Thursday, one toilet and shower was clogged by Friday evening, threatening the plumbing system of the whole house. That meant none of us peed indoors from Friday night to Sunday afternoon, which was fine with me.
The house had a huge yard which was used for various drinking-related athletic events (see below) and soon came to look like a prison yard. The house was also perfectly situated. There was a bar next door, a liquor store two doors away, and places to eat on either side of the house. For sundry items, there was a Cumberland Farms just across the street. Everything that we needed was within distance of a belly crawl – perfect for a group of men whose laziness is only rivaled by their abuse of alcohol and their abundant use of vulgarity.
The Language
Speaking of vulgarity, there’s no real joke here, but I don’t think we used any sentences over the long weekend that weren’t quotes from "Goodfellas" or contained the words fuck, beer, dick, punch or dick punch. Worth noting how quickly a group of otherwise respectable young men can turn into cretins when an unlimited supply of Bud Light is involved.
The Games of Drinking
This is what we did all weekend – got bombed, played drinking games, and got violent.
Brendan acting as peacemaker in a disagreement between Conor and Bill
The four main drinking games were:
Lanner
Lanner is a Beirut/Beer Pong-style drinking that was invented by myself and my roommates in May of our senior year of college. 48 hours after it was invented, we were thrown out of housing and off campus, fined $4000 in damages, lost all senior week privileges, and had to accept blank diplomas at graduation until our fines were paid off (I got my diploma in August, thank you very much). Translation: this game is not for the meek.
There are two important rule changes from standard Beirut that make this game so destructive:
1) Instead of arcing the ball into a cup, the ball must be bounced in on one bounce
2) If at any time the ball hits the floor, a cup must be removed and drank (so basically it’s the same as hitting a cup)
This not only makes the games faster, which means less waiting for your drunk buddies to hit a cup and more drinking during the game, but it gets your heart pumping because you literally dive all over the floor to catch balls that are bouncing off cups. Since it is a Gentleman’s Game, however, there is a Gentleman’s Rule that one can not quickly wing the ball at the cups so that it flies off and is uncatchable. According to the Official Lanner Rulebook, an "earnest attempt" must be made to get the ball into the cup, and this happens via a normally paced and unrushed bounce onto the opposing team’s cups.
But the speed, more than anything, is what makes Lanner so dangerous. It’s fast-paced and aggressive and thus, much more awesome than Beirut (it is also, as the picture below illustrates, played on a much smaller board, which means that the ball has a greater chance of hitting the ground).
The Lanner Board and Set Up
And it was Lanner that took up the bulk of our weekend. Kyle and I proved ourselves to be a formidable team, and had some astonishing runs on both Thursday and Friday nights.
This is what winners look like. Well, not really.
But there were other fun, albeit less awesome drinking games played.
Cornhole
Cornhole is like horseshoes but with hand-sized bean bags, and inclined pieces of wood with a hole in them. Throw the beanbag and if it hits and stays on the wood, you get one point. If it goes through the cornhole, you get three points. First team to 21 wins.
I didn’t like this game. I think it’s because it’s very similar to horseshoes and one of my first memories involves my dad being drunk and playing horseshoes with his buddies and neglecting me and subsequently me falling down a flight of stairs (true story). But what was great about this game was that it turned the back lawn into a prison yard.
Doing hard time on the yard
Also, cornhole is apparently a legit game. Of course, I use the word "legit" loosely, but I haven’t seen any Lanner websites or associations. And yes, this is probably because only about 50 people in the world know and play Lanner, but shut up – it’s still a valid defense.
Anchorman
Anchorman, also called Sailors, works like this. Two teams, four players on each, stand on opposite sides of a table. One team gets a quarter and huddles up to decide with team member will hold the quarter in his hand. Then that team with the quarter comes to the table, counts off, and slams their open palms onto the table. Each member of the opposing team has to guess, based on sound or expression or body language, which guy on the opposing team has the quarter in his hand. If they guess correctly, the team with the quarter has to chug a pitcher of beer. If they are incorrect, they are the ones that must chug the pitcher of beer. The game is called "Anchorman" because before chugging, the winning team gets to pick one opposing team member to be Anchorman, who will then go last in the chugging order and must finish the pitcher.
Kyle, as Anchorman, taking care of business
I stink at this game. Not only because I can’t (and have never been able to) chug, but because my hands are not made for this game. They are big hands with long fingers and slimy palms, and each time I held the quarter a slight but easily discernable smack-ting could be heard (the smack from my sweaty hands, the ting from the quarter). Not good. I only played a few games of Anchorman, and stuck to my strengths, like…
Wiffle Ball
Not really a drinking game, but we played a lot of wiffle ball over the weekend (you get a hit, pitcher drinks; you make an out or error, you drink). And I am, arguably, one of the top 20 wiffle ball players in the nation. I know that you don’t believe me when I say this, since my track record of failure in athletics has been well-documented, so below I include an excerpt from the 2007 edition of Wiffle Ball Prospectus, which includes scouting reports of over 1000 wiffle ball players.
6’1", 200 lbs.
Born: July 17, 1979
Offense: Best bad ball hitter in Northeast region…power to all fields…makes adjustments in mid-swing that remind many of quick cat-like animal…can struggle sometimes against good curves, but will knock any knuckle or off-speed pitch out of the park…embarrassing when running…considering he hasn’t had any major injuries to his feet, ankles, knees, legs, back or spine, it’s astonishing he moves so slowly…looks something like an overweight, tranquilizer bear on the base paths…also, the bear has one leg, or is lame in some other way
Pitching/Defense: Good command of all pitches…has range with off-speed stuff and is comfortable throwing at 9 mph, but when dialed in can get up to 15…throws a very live ball that takes advantage of poorer hitters…curve is passable, but needs improvement…defense is deplorable…for as quickly as he reacts at the plate, I’ve seen him get hit in the face by a ball hit at him and not realize for a full ten seconds what happened…might as well have breasts at the ends of his arms instead of hands, so bad is his touchIntangibles: Can be a leader when his back is pushed to the wall, but content sitting in the clubhouse staring off into space…is more concerned with getting a fresh beer than getting on base…will often have to take breaks from games to poop…has hepatitis
Sure, I have some holes, but what I do well, I do really well.
Sure, I have some holes, but what I do well, I do really well.The Shirts
The weekend’s gimmick, if you can call it that, was that every person in the attendance was surprised with a personalized t-shirt to commemorate the weekend. All the shirts had the same logo on the back, but on the front was a personalized design created by myself, Bill or Joe that often made fun of the person. Below is Site Guy Brendan with his shirt, which features a picture of Brendan sitting at a computer and also thinking of a computer (because, you know, he’s a computer nerd).
Brendan, modeling his shirt
I won’t go into the others, since most are private or personal jokes that would require too much explanation. As I mentioned, Bill, Joe and I created these t-shirts, but we kept each other’s t-shirts secret (for example, only Bill and I made Joe’s, so he would be surprised). I was told very early on in the process by Bill and Joe that my t-shirt would "rock my world" and that it was the worst – meaning most ball-busting – of the bunch. For this reason, during the t-shirt ceremony on Friday night, mine was presented last.
Well.
I won’t tell you what mine was, but suffice it to say, I can never wear it out. As a matter of fact, I may have to destroy it immediately. Not so much because it is damaging to me, but because it is unconscionably mean – even by my friends’ standards. Let’s never speak of it again.
The Newport Scene
We only made it out one night, Saturday night, and this was only because it was fairly obvious that if we were to remained cooped up in that house any longer, someone would surely die. So we headed to downtown Newport to take in a little of the bar scene.
Despite the fact that the bars close at 1am (???), the bar scene in Newport was pretty good. Not only that, but there were a ton of beautiful women out and about. It’s not like I was expecting anything bad, but there were a number of "wow" women prowling the streets. And, of course, my friends and I didn’t talk to any of them.
Dudes not talking to chicks
But it’s a pretty great lil’ town. I would definitely go back, though probably not during summer. I try, to the extent possible, to stay away from beach towns in the summer when the weather is warm and everyone is tan and fit. It’s just not good for my self-esteem.
The Absence of Boobies
To be honest, I think that what we did is the perfect way to have a bachelor party. Rent a house somewhere cool, get a bunch of your buddies together, and enjoy a long weekend of getting bombed. But one thing was missing from this bachelor party: boobies.
In part, I understand and empathize with Joe. I don’t particularly like strippers, and I certainly don’t like them putting their HPV boobies and coochies all over my body, which is what happens to the groom at bachelor parties. But on the other hand, I like to see boobies. A lot. So do many of the guys who attended the bachelor party, save for a few (Conor, I’m looking in your direction).
And, dang it, it just doesn’t feel like a bachelor party without boobies. Call me old-fashioned, but the two go so well together in my book. Not that it matters now. Maybe I’m writing this to make Joe feel bad for vetoing the strippers idea. Or maybe I’m writing it to make Joe look good in his fiancée Danielle’s eyes, because maybe we did get strippers, and maybe they did things that none of us knew that females - human or otherwise – could possibly do, and maybe Joe asked me to skim over this part for his sake, pulling the "You’re the best man and I haven’t asked you to do anything else but this" card.
The point, as always, is that I like to see boobies. Moving on.
The Aftermath
When I got home just after 9pm last night, I was beat. I opened the door to my apartment, which was clean but completely empty, and I felt a little lonely. Simply: I was pretty beat up and needed some lovin’. Not only was depression sinking in as the alcohol drained from my body, but I am literally beat up – in addition to various cuts and scrapes, I have three bruises on each of my arms and five bruises on the right side of my body, from my chest to my side. I don’t know how any of these happened, but I’m thinking that since I often sleep on my left side, someone came into my bedroom as I slept and beat me with a hammer (these are the bruises on the right side). I then awoke somewhat and raised my arms to defend myself (the bruises on my arms). Then whoever was beating me with the hammer got tired and left. This was the best explanation I could come up with last night as I lay uncomfortably in bed, thinking I may seriously have cracked a rib.
But since I had no woman to come over and nurse me back to health, I had to settle for a long shower and a Xanax. All things considered, not a bad alternative, and much less likely to ask "So are you ever going to shave your back again or are you growing it out for some sort of competition?" Tonight, I see a similar fate, as I slowly try to detox (with Xanax?) and nurse myself back to health.
************
Overall, a great time. What Joe did for his bachelor party is pretty much exactly what I would like to do for mine. Fortunately, we have at least four months before my bachelor party, so we don’t need to worry about that now.
(I’m sorry – I just needed to kvetch there. Thank you for listening.)
*************
I asked my dad to come up from Philly and took him to dinner on Saturday. If I had to break down the conversations my dad and I have (and have had – ever), they would go:
71% The Philadelphia Eagles
17% food
9% family
2% "You ain’t gay, right?"
1% "Look, if you are gay, just tell me now. I think it’ll be ok. Christ, what have I done?"
But now that it’s no longer football season, my dad and I have been increasingly talking about food, particularly about the monthly dinners that I and my friend Nicole have. Realizing that this past weekend was my only free one for some time, I invited him up for a meal. I wanted to take him to The Strip House, but he didn’t let me know he was definitely coming up until Friday night, so by then the only available reservations for Saturday were at 5pm and 10:30pm. No dice. Instead, we went to my favorite stand-by, Sparks.
…And it was probably the single best steak I’ve ever had. Make no mistake; Sparks has its flaws. The bufala mozzarella on the sliced tomatoes was too liquidy, the creamed spinach was grainy (it tasted like over-cooked rice was in there), and the chocolate mousse cake was just eh. But if you’re looking for strictly meat and potatoes, specifically the hash brown potatoes and the filet mignon, you can’t go wrong.
(I would go more into detail here but I was up very late last night packing for the bachelor party and drinking a lot of Chinese beer, which is very sweet and gives terrible hangovers. For the first time since I was 23, I am in a fair amount of danger of throwing up at work. So forgive me the lack of details about the steak. It was great. Trust me.)
And though I was worried about the conversation, I have to say, it was a great time – just two men, eating steak, one of them getting fucked up (my dad doesn’t drink and I had been at an all you can drink brunch all day prior to his arrival). And I’m happy to say that we have a new thing to talk about: guns.
For as long as I can remember, my dad has always loved guns (I’ll thank you not to point out that guns are very high on the list of things I’m afraid of, just above bugs and clowns but below thunder, dark colors, and all dogs). I think, however, that is love affair went away for a while, but it appears to be back with a vengeance. He spoke at length about how he loves going to the firing range, how he wants to get my sister, a nursing student during her clinicals in Camden, a gun, and suggested that I "pick up a nice piece" for myself. I thanked him for the suggestion, but politely said that that might not be the best idea. Later, while thinking it over, I decided that I can handle almost anything that life throws at me, but the introduction of two things into my life right now would certainly destroy it: a gun or a baby. If I get either one of those things, we are all in big, big trouble.
Sunday, my dad stuck around and we dined at Festival Mexicano, which is just about his favorite place in the world. He loves the picadillo nachos (what’s not to love, really?) and must have said, "I can’t get over how good these are" somewhere in the neighborhood of 14 times. When we left, I thought he was going to kiss the waitress, so grateful was he for such delicious food.
All in all, a great bonding weekend with my dad. And now I have discovered the one thing I must do to erase years of disappointing my dad in all sorts of manly things: buy a gun, shoot a gun, not cry. If I can pull these three things off, I’m 90% certain that my dad would be willing to forgive me for 27 years of reading books, not getting into fights, and being tattoo-less.
I’ll think about it.
*************
Big fantasy baseball week (just skip this part if you’re not interested). Here’s how my main league turned out, with the round I took the player in parentheses.
[Note: This is our first year of a keeper league, I had the 7th overall pick of 11, and we use runs-rbi-sb-total bases-obp on offense, along with standard pitching categories.]
C: Jorge Posada (16)
1B: Lance Berkman (2)
2B: Chase Utley (1)
3B: Troy Glaus (6)
SS: Carlos Guillen (7)
OF: Jason Bay (3)
OF: Chone Figgins (5)
OF: Alex Rios (10)
Util: Willy Taveras (12)
Util: Brad Hawpe (14)
B: Moises Alou (17)
B: Mark Teahen (19)
B: Eric Byrnes (20)
SP: Brandon Webb (4)
SP: C.C. Sabathia (8)
RP: Takashi Saito (11)
RP: Joe Borowski (13)
P: Erik Bedard (9)
P: AJ Burnett (15)
P: Daniel Cabrera (18)
P: Ted Lilly (21)
B: Ian Snell (22)
B: Matt Garza (23)
I’m pretty happy with it. I like the versatility – Berkman qualifies at 1B and OF, Glaus at 3B and SS, Figgins at 2B, 3B and OF, and Teahen, he of .970 second half OPS, will shortly qualify at 3B and OF. I like the pop – Berkman, Utley, Glaus, Bay, Rios, Hawpe, Alou, and Teahan are all capable of 25+ homers, which means lots of total bases – and I like the speed - I could get 90 stolen bases out of Figgins and Taveras, as well as 10+ each from Utley, Guillen, Bay, Rios and Byrnes. Balance, my friends.
(I confess that when I drafted him, I did not know that Figgins would be out for five weeks. I thought he was out for only one. However, I still stand by the pick.)
As for pitching, I stuck to my usual and my starters are all high-K guys. I love Webb, Sabathia, Bedard and Burnett as my top four - I sincerely believe that those first three could finish in the top five in their respective leagues in this year’s Cy Young voting. I could use another closer, but I’ll figure that out as the season moves along. Also, Site Guy Brendan pulled his typical asshole move and drafted five starting closers (most other guys have two, one or two guys have three). Dick.
There you have it. Wish me luck (or at least, wish me just enough luck to beat Site Guy Brendan, who’s been getting pretty cocky about fantasy sports lately.)
*************
I was out and about yesterday after work, shopping for a digital camera and taking in the glorious 78 degree weather, and I feel comfortable making the following official announcement:
Boobies are back.
(Big time.)
Yes, it’s that annual rite of spring, when full-breasted women shed their layers of clothes and cleavage blooms all over the streets of New York City, also know as my favorite time of the year.
All I can say is: God help me. April is a very happy but dangerous time for me, as I become very sexually aggressive because of my inability to deal with the sudden and abundant appearance of boobies. As I walked the streets yesterday, staring at beautiful women in all their boobilicious glory, I wasn’t sure if I was having a panic attack, a heart attack, or turning into a werewolf: my eyes were darting all over the place, I started breathing heavily, and I was sweating profusely. Also, my hands got hairier. To be safe, I took some bayer and ate some ice cream, which calmed me down.
But I should really be locked in a cage from April to May every year. For the safety of society, there needs to be more of a smoother transition from overcoats and scarves to low-cut shirts and, well, just low-cut shirts.
What a wonderful time of year.
*************
Look, about the fish - still no word on what it is. The two leading contenders, judging not from any research that I’ve done but from emails I’ve received from you all, are salmon and eel. I personally am still firmly in the Sea Monster camp, but I’ve always been drawn to the mythical.
The important lessons to learn are as follows:
1) Russians are crazy – and fun
2) You might want to stay away from canned fish for a while
3) If you have a blog, you shouldn’t post scary/disgusting pictures on it unless you want 300+ emails complaining to you
Now let’s just move on, ok?
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Six Songs
"So Hard to Find My Way" Jackie Greene
Thank you, friend Claire, for making me a mix cd and introducing this song to me. Never fails to put a smile on my face and get my feet tapping.
"Islands In The Stream" Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton
Since I transferred my music from my old PC to my new Mac, the song with the most plays in my iTunes is…this one. I don’t know how it happened either, but I’m not ashamed of it and I’m embracing it. Also, I’m preparing a karaoke performance of this song – DOING BOTH PARTS.
(Yeah, I’m pretty impressed, too.)
"Footprints" Squeeze
Glenn Tilbrook has the voice of an angel. You really should listen to more Squeeze.
"Los Tres Delinquentes" Deliquent Habits
In high school, my buddies and I called ourselves the HCP, which stood for Hard Core Posse. We loved and celebrated "hard core" rap, and could break it down with the best of them. This was one of our anthems, which we could rap by heart – even though it’s (mostly) in Spanish. And no, none of us had girlfriends at this time. I’m happy to report that of the three founding members of the HCP, my buddy Greg is living a comfortable married life in the Midwest and is a chemist, my buddy Kyle just bought a home and was accepted into a PhD program in psychology, and two nights ago I smoked a bunch of hash and was up until 2am writing poems, mostly about dragons. Two out of three ain’t bad.
And just for fun, here’s the video, which I believe features Wee Man’s dad or uncle (I mean, there can’t be that many skateboarding midgets in the world).
[youtube]QwrSRZ-6jxs[/youtube]
(Also, I really want a Latin girlfriend. Just saying.)
"Protection" Massive Protection
I don’t know what this song is about, I don’t listen to the lyrics, and I don’t know much about this band. But I’m going to let you in on a little secret: no song on my "Mood" playlist, which is really my make out mix, which has recently been retitled "Let’s Make Out or Something," has gotten as much positive feedback as this song. Sure, whatever guy I’m with is usually so drunk that he can only ask for his frat brothers and isn’t really paying attention to the music, but I can tell they usually really like this song. Sometimes you just know.
"Time Will Cut You Down" Priestess
I recently had a startling personal discovery: I no longer have even the least bit of antipathy toward any of my exes. Shocking, I know. Hatred of or anger toward exes – hell, toward everyone, really – is what has kept me going for many, many years. But now, it’s gone. Kaput. Later. I told a female friend about this and she said that perhaps I’m getting "mature." I told her that I didn’t think it was maturity, but rather a deep and profound apathy. I really just don’t care. I mean, I care about some things (boobies, making sure I smell nice, go carts, etc), but as I get older, I’m realizing that it’s kind of a lot of work to hold grudges. I guess this is one of the sad facts of aging.
What bums me out more is that I’m only discovering this song now, after the bitterness and anger have gone, as it is the perfect song to listen to while sitting alone in a dark room, stewing and thinking about your ex-wife, who is no doubt sucking off some firefighter right now, while you have to pick up an extra shift at the Subway because you’ve been spending all of your money on Pabst and lottery tickets.
Seriously. Try it.
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As mentioned above, I’m taking the train up to Boston tonight, crashing there, and then heading down with buddies to Newport, RI for the start of a long weekend of sitting in a living room with nine other dudes, drinking beer, and, well, that’s about it. I will document the weekend’s festivities with my new digital camera and return to you after the weekend. Until then, have a good time – all the time.