the great condom dilemma
Jason posted on January 31, 2007

My question is a simple one: if we can put a man on the moon, why can’t we produce condoms that smell nice?

Make no mistake: I am not anti-condom.  I have a long and storied (some would even say, fairytale-like) history with condoms, replete with fond memories, the oldest being the day I tried on my first condom. 

You see, ladies, I’m going to let you in on a little secret - one of the most important days of a young man’s life is when he tries on his first condom.  And to be clear, I don’t mean this in a sexual-intercourse-is-pending way.  No man - or at least, no man worth his salt - has ever put on a condom for the first time while his naked or pantsless girlfriend is waiting to deflower him.  Even at a young age, a guy knows that it’s important to do a test run so that when the opportunity for sex arrives, there won’t be enough time for the girl to get nervous and change her mind/for the booze to wear off and the girl to wake up while he is fumbling helplessly with the condom.

I was especially concerned about condoms because even at a young age I was aware that I had a tiny penis.  I spent almost all of junior high sleeping only three hours a night, as I lay awake wondering if my unfortunate, diminutive bird would ever fit into a condom, which from porn I saw could stretch very far and wide and wow.  Of course in porn, this stretching was necessary as the studs in those films had penises larger than my forearms - if anything, the condoms the porn actors wore looked like they were straining and uncomfortable, as if you could hear them saying "Can’t…hold on…much longer…"  In my case, I worried that my baby bird would never be able to keep the condom on; I imagined a condom would fit my penis like a pen cap on a toothpick.   

But all fears were allayed one day in eighth grade when my buddy Ronnie Christensen went to K-Mart and stole a box of Trojans.  Ronnie, good friend that he was, then distributed the condoms between his friends, many of whom would not have sex for many years (myself included) or ever (myself kinda included - depends on what you mean by "sex" and also "have").  After Ronnie handed me two condoms around the schoolyard where we all hung out, I raced back to my house with a speed that can only be summoned by a sexually-charged 12 year old, locked myself in the bathroom, ripped open the condom, rolled it on (the sheer magnitude and excitement of the moment had given me an erection) and…IT FIT.

I slept for the next three days straight.

(After masturbating furiously, of course.)

So in order to show my gratitude to condoms for just fitting me, I wear condoms quite often during sexual intercourse.  (I’d say probably 58% of the time, which in my circle of friends, is very impressive and the highest by far.) 

And I don’t mind wearing a condom.  I’m trying to figure out how the old axiom "Beggars can’t be choosers" can be applied here, but suffice it to say that I’m just happy to be getting laid and would put a cheese grater on my dick to achieve orgasm in the presence of a (breathing, aware, semi-consensual) woman. 

But that still doesn’t answer my question: do they have to smell so bad and be so gross?

According to guys, there are three main knocks on condoms:

1) They take away feeling.  Hogwash.  As addressed above, just be happy you’re getting laid.  Otherwise, got back to jerking off in your laundry basket.

(Not that that’s not awesome in its own way.)

2) They take lovers out of the moment.  This is undeniably true.  It’s so much better (and more fun) to make love on the couch without interruption than to start kissing on the couch, take off some clothes, get up from the couch to search around for a condom, put the condom on the rapidly flacciding penis, get a couple of thrusts in, apologize for being limp, then have a milkshake. 

But the alternatives are not much better.  Do you know what else disrupts "the moment"?  Babies.  And: herpes.  So you’re better off strategically placing condoms in secret places all over your apartment so that you can take advantage of spur of the moment kitchen sex than having to call your ex-girlfriend to ask her if she’s ever heard of "chlamydia."

3) They’re just nasty.  True, true.  True.

So what can we do here?  I admit, maybe I’m a little naive.  My experience with different brands and kinds of condoms has been very limited.  Forever, I have used your standard blue Trojans with spermicidal lubricant.  In high school, I had a sex ed teacher who stressed that it mattered not what brand of condoms we used, but that it had to have the spermicide Nonoxynol 9.  I distinctly remember, in a scene much like the one in "Rushmore" in which Herman Blume is giving an address and Max Fischer is copiously taking notes, underlining the words "Nonoxynol 9" over and over again after my teacher offered this advice, making a point to remember to use that sperm-killer when I started having sex. 

These condoms were fine for a long while, but I eventually wanted to switch it up a little.  So I consulted a friend and veritable condom guru, who we will call "Colin."  Colin was dating a girl for FIVE YEARS and she never went on the pill (if that doesn’t mean that she doesn’t love you, well, I don’t know what does).  So poor, poor Colin had plenty of time to experiment over the years with different condoms, and claimed the best was Durex Extra Sensitive.  I used these for a while, but grew awkward when once at a pharmacy I had to instruct the Asian teenage girl behind the counter, "No - the extra sensitive" three times before she finally grabbed the right box.  After that, I had trouble using (and asking for) "extra sensitive" condoms - like I was some kind of pimp or something - so I went back to the old blue Trojans.

[To clarify: I don't mind wearing a condom with a girl I picked up at the karaoke bar after I brought down the house with my fiery rendition of "It's Not Unusual", but if you're dating someone for over a few months and having regular sex, well, Uncle Jason says she's got to go on the pill.  Them's just the way it is.]

[Actually, I don't know why all women aren't on the pill anyway, since it's the greatest invention since fire and possibly Country Crock, but I'll fight this battle another day.]

Rounding out my experience, maybe I experimented with a former lady with some ribbed and "her pleasure" condoms, but neither did anything but embarrass me when a roommate or guy in my dorm needed to borrow one and would ask "Her pleasure? What the fuck?"  But that’s about it.  I have been fairly non-promiscuous when it comes to different condoms.   

But all of the condoms I’ve ever used - and have ever heard of anyone using - have been gross.  Condoms feel gross.  They are covered in goo.  They are slimey.  And they smell.  Why must this be the case?

Aside from the texture and goo of the condoms, we should at least be able to do something about the smell.  You’re telling me that there is no way that science can’t mask the smell of latex and lubricant so instead of grossness it smells like an apple orchard?  Isn’t there a lab in New Jersey that’s responsible for creating every smell and taste in the world?  Can’t the people at Trojan, Durex, et al hook up with these people and make something happen?  I’ve noticed that I’ve been consuming an obscene amount of cinnamon in my diet recently; might I recommend cinnamon-scented condoms?  Tell me, are cinnamon-scented condoms really an impossible dream?

[Author's Note: I know about flavored condoms, like banana and mint and strawberry, but I have two issues with these.  The first is that who cares what condoms tastes like? (Oh, right - hookers.)  Secondly, these condoms are often distributed by no-name companies, like "Uncle Charlie's Flavored Condoms" and "Chop Chop and the Homos' Mint Julip Condoms."  Much like airlines and liquor, when it comes to condoms, names matter (you wouldn't fly Bangladeshi Air while drinking Popov vodka, would you?)]

I wish that I could end this post by giving a solution to this problem or at least coming to some sort of conclusion.  But frankly, my friends, I’m feeling a little exasperated and defeated (and, not gonna lie, a little aroused).  And I don’t know why I care so much about this, because it’s not like I’m having sex anyway; the idea for the post came to me last night when I was feeling nostalgic and decided to put on some condoms and secretly dispose of them, like I used to do in the good old days after having sex with my girlfriend on break from college in my brother’s bedroom and in her basement (my favorite is the ol’ "put the used condom in the middle of the hardcover book under the bed and dispose of it when mom has gone shopping and brother and sister are out" tactic). 

But I thought this was an important issue that deserved some attention.  Hopefully one day, hopefully soon, when I start having sex again, I will be able to suit up with a delicious pumpkin pie smelling condom, so that I can give my lady friend the most adequate fifty-eight seconds of her life.  A boy can dream, at least.

(Until then, it’s jerking off in the laundry basket for me.)

impulses, tech rage
Jason posted on January 29, 2007

The weekend was relatively low key, but I would be remiss if I didn’t offer this lil’ nugget to you before getting to the meat of the post.

Saturday night, my old roommate Brian was so messed up that he couldn’t get back to his apartment in Brooklyn, so he slept on my couch.  On Sunday early afternoon, we went to brunch at Sullivan Diner on Sullivan between Houston and Bleecker in the Village.

The diner is very small and when seated each person is only two or so feet away from the next table of diners.  Most people, most decent people, might censor what they say in such close quarters, as eavesdropping can not be helped.  Um, not us.

After Brian and I ordered, he delivered the greatest conversation opener I’ve ever heard, much to the horror of everyone in our vicinity: "So I told you about what happened after my work Christmas party, right?  How I went home with the bodybuilder and peed on her floor?"

Yes, Brian.  Yes, you had already told me.  But you hadn’t already told the people who were eating around us - two well-dressed girls taking a break from shopping on the left and the two guys and one girl in sweats looking hungover on the right - who nearly dropped their forks from shock when hearing these words (I’m pretty sure I heard a gasp too).  They then spent the rest of their meals in silence listening to Brian and I talk. 

I love brunch. 

But now I turn to you, dear readers, because I need help.  I’m about to make some very impulsive purchases and need advice.

Impulse Purchase #1: I am thinking of buying a Mac.
I have to say right up front: I’m not really sure why I want to get a Mac laptop.  I think it’s a combination of strange and retarded reasons: my own laptop sucks and dies a little bit every day; said laptop weighs approximately 20 pounds and has a battery life of forty-eight seconds, so it’s not exactly portable; I’ve had the laptop since August of 2004, so maybe it’s time for a new one anyway; Macs are really sexy; I’m really into spending money I don’t have; since I can’t love anything alive, I have to love something inanimate. 

After brunch yesterday, Brian and I and our friend Jeremy passed by the Apple store in Soho and went in.  Never before had I considered buying a Mac.  And I mean, never - Jeremy and Brian are both into Macs and my old roommate Ben loves Macs so much he should work for the company, but I’ve always resisted and thought they were shitty and awkward computers.  However, on this day, full of eggs benedict and still a little high from the previous night, I practically had to be dragged out of the store by Brian and Jeremy to keep me from buying one.  Jeremy, who is fairly computer literate, convinced me not to buy right then and there for two reasons:

- Data.  I want to be able to use my current (PC) laptop as a desktop and use my Mac as a laptop.  So I’d have both a PC and Mac and I’d want to be able to exchange data between the two.  For this purpose, I bought a 250 gig (or whatever) external hard drive.  The funny little man at the Mac store said that this hard drive would do exactly that and allow me to use both.  All I had to do was format the external hard drive for Windows, load what I wanted on there, and my new as-yet-purchased Mac would be able to pull it off.

One thing that you may not realize about me is that I suck at computers.  We’re talking a whole lot of suck here.  If it wasn’t for the patience and wisdom of Site Guy Brendan, not only would this site have never gotten off the ground, but I, along with upwards of two dozen people, would be dead by now.  Simply because when I try to do things on the computer, people get hurt.

Not surprisingly, I got home last night and tried to "format" my external hard drive and within seven minutes I was cutting myself.  For whatever reason, I am not able to format this external hard drive - things the manual is says should be happening are not happening.  After two hours and some pretty deep cuts, I decided to go to bed.  Today, when I feel calm enough to go near my computer again, I’m going to take it to a random person on craigslist to get my external hard drive formatted.  Perhaps I should be concerned about this random person stealing my identity or my computer, but after last night, I just want the fucking thing fixed.

(I don’t want to go off here and start cutting myself again, but another reason for the purchase of the external hard drive is to back up my music.  See, my iPod has not updated since October.  I have no idea why.  Though I’ve been able to download and listen to new music while at my computer, I can’t upload anything new to my iPod.  According to the Apple website, I have to delete iTunes from my system and re-install it.  This makes me very afraid.  If I were to lose the 7500 songs I have in iTunes, it would be…I can’t even get into it.  So I was pumped when I bought the external hard drive because I could back up my music and finally feel comfortable deleting iTunes and getting my iPod back up and functioning, and of course that didn’t turn out.  Fuck it all to hell, these computers.)

So I’m not ready to buy a Mac just yet.  But I didn’t know this would shake down the way it did when I was in the store, salivating over the computers.  Jeremy mentioned another reason I should wait a bit before buying.

- You.  Yes, you.  Do you work for Mac or in a computer store?  Is there anyway you can use your steep employee discount on my new laptop in exchange for a high five and a six pack of beer?  I know that it might be considered a bit shameless for me to come right out and ask you this, but I’d respond that a) the beer is not limited to domestics and b) I am awesome at giving high fives.  If you can help here, lemme know.

Impulse Purchase #2: I am thinking of buying a digital camcorder.
Every day that passes is a day that I become more and more aware of my own mortality.  I feel like I’ve only got - tops - three good years left, before something breaks one of two ways: I’ll either die, gloriously, in the jaws of a shark while fucking a sexy lil’ Dutch girl and lighting $100 bills on fire, or I’ll say, "Fuck it," get married, buy a house in New Jersey, and systematically go about destroying the lives of my wife and (slow, fussy) child. 

Neither of these fates are particularly appealing, but they are inevitable.  Therefore, it’s becoming increasingly important to enjoy these times and trips and weekends.  And since I’ve already noticed that my memory is slipping, it would probably be best to get these memories on film.  You know, so that five years from now I can watch a three hour clip of me sitting in my living room watching VH1 Classic and weeping occasionally.

This impulse purchase meshes well with my dream of Mac ownership, as everyone knows how great Macs are with this kinda thing (remember: I’m cursed with computers and need all the help I can get).  But this, I might actually get use of.  I’m not promising anything, but since a couple thousand people a day check into to see what I’m writing, maybe I could put some videos up here.  You know, maybe some three hour videos of me sitting in my living room watching VH1 Classic and weeping occasionally.

Of course, if any of you have suggestions on nice digital camcorders, I’m open (likewise if you can get me one at a discount).  If I’m buying a Mac and a camcorder (and I dropped $200 on an external hard drive that took four years off my life last night - not including how much I’m going to have to pay someone to format it and steal my identity), I’d like to keep it ideally under $400, but I have no idea if that’s possible - I don’t want a piece of crap. 

…

You know what?  I just read this post over and if you’re still reading, please accept my apologies.  George Carlin has a bit about how nothing’s more boring than listening to another person describe a dream they had, but I’d say that reading 1500 words about computer problems has got to be high on the list of "You really think I give a shit about this?" 

I’m sorry, but at least I’m aware of how bad it is.  I promise to limit my computer-related complaints in the future and focus on providing you with better entertainment.  I probably should have focused more on Brian’s story (which is not printable) or how I saw Richard Gere and his family last night as I was leaving the cheesesteak place and going to get ice cream.  Live and learn, I guess.

 

twin hoax, true love, book, music
Jason posted on January 26, 2007

[Short version today, with four clips instead of six.  It kills me to do this, but I'm just too busy otherwise.  Please forgive me.]

It appears that my twin is a hoax .  While I don’t have any evidence to back this up, a number of you wrote in since Wednesday’s post saying so, and, since I’m totally gullible, I’m believe you without asking a follow-up question.  If someone sends me a link proving it’s a hoax (because God knows I’m not going to spend all day googling), then I’ll post it on here.

If it is a hoax, I have to reiterate, I was totally fooled.  Not only that, I’ve gotten a lot of emails from gay readers who are VERY fired up about this thing.  I’m not sure if this means that "Donnie Davies" is a genius and comedian of the highest caliber, or if his approach to the hoax was just a little too much and may violate the "there’s no such thing as bad p.r." maxim.

Either way, we look exactly alike.  It’s so eerie I can’t even masturbate in the mirror anymore.  So thanks for that, Donnie.  Thanks a lot. 

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

Now this is love.  What is most amazing about this story is not that a 65 year old woman saved her 70 year old husband from being eaten by a mountain lion (!), but that the couple will celebrate their 50th wedding anniversary next month.  By my numbers, that means they got married when he was 20 and she was 15.  It could be argued that, presuming they dated before they were married, they’ve spent their entire emotionally and psychologically developed lives together.  Holy fucking crap. 

My question: And she still wanted to save him from a mountain lion?  I could see if they were on their honeymoon and still full of love, but after 50 years, I wouldn’t blame if she just watched the mountain lion going to town and said, "Eh, we had a good run."  Hell, I can only date a girl for about two months before I stop opening doors for her or buying her surprise presents or kissing her before commencing intercourse.  And she’s beating away a mountain lion with a four inch log (which, as any of my ex’s can tell you, is not very long)? 

I guess true love does exist. 

(And four inches is fine.  Just fine.  Have another drink and you won’t feel anything anyway, you judger, you.) 

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

Book pick

"An American Dream" by Norman Mailer
Norman Mailer’s latest book, "The Castle in the Forest", was the featured review in this week’s New York Times Book Review, which I read, very adult-like, in my clean apartment, drinking wine on Saturday night, listening to Van Morrison.

(Hours later, I would be pleading with a woman to make out with me in front of my friends, even though I was so saturated with whiskey that kissing me would make her drunker.  But hey - drinks are expensive in New York City.) 

For those of you unfamiliar with him, Mailer is fascinating; one of the few true living mad geniuses.  The article reprints a quote of Mailer’s from his "Advertisements of Myself" that reaffirms this: "I wish to attempt an entrance into the mysteries of murder, suicide, incest, orgy, orgasm and Time."

Translation: This guy is the balls.

While he has written more famous and (I suppose) better works, I was drawn back into Mailer recently a picked up "An American Dream."  I don’t know why I was so surprised at how delighted I was when I was reading it, but, for lack of a better phrase, it rocked my world. 

There are some writers who get A’s in storytelling, but B’s in their use of language.  Conversely, there are writers who languages flows beautifully from page to page, but their storytelling is a bit lacking, or at least not as sharp in comparison.  Not that I am a writer, but when my book comes out, I imagine I will get a C in storytelling and a F in language, if only because I wrote a 68,000 word manuscript and still managed to squeeze the word "queef" into every sentence.

(Get it?  "Squeeze?"  God, I really am a writer.)

Anyway, Mailer is without peer in both in his ability to tell a story and his ability to write a story.  Reading this book feels at once like being strangled (because you are completely at the mercy of the story and can not stop reading) and kissing a great kisser (over a dozen times through the course of the book I stopped reading, put the book down, and say "Wow" after a particularly impressive passage).

I don’t even need to talk about the story.  Just buy (or borrow) the book.  I expect your "Thank you" emails in three to ten days. 

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

Six Songs

"Wagon Wheel"  Old Crow Medicine Show
Recommended my Johanna in NYC, I played this song about fourteen times in a row when I first heard it.  I want this song to play will if sit in a field and smoke hash and maybe dance a little bit and perhaps make love, but I doubt it, because I’ll be pretty tired from the dancing and also high. 

"You Don’t Make It Easy Babe"  Josh Ritter 
This guy is pretty fucking spectacular, if you like sad, wordy songs.  Which I do. 

"Silver City"  Ghostland Observatory
I wrote earlier that I’ve spent a significant amount of time over the past few days doing the robot to this song.  This is not a lie.

"Hide and Seek"  Imogen Heap
Staying with our robot theme, this song is like making love to a robot.  No, no - it’s more like just making out with one.  You know, because that’s a huge distinction. 

"The Liquidator"  Harry J. All Stars
This song makes me want to go back to Jamaica very, very badly.  Good song to get high to.

"T.B. Sheets"  Van Morrison
Great song to get high to.  About two weeks ago, I went out to Brooklyn to meet a friend for brunch.  I came back into the city on the F, which dropped me off at East Broadway, meaning I had to walk all the way through Chinatown back to my apartment.  It was raining and I had no umbrella but did have a very bad hangover.  This song came on my iPod.  And it made me feel like the coolest of the cools as I walked those streets, the raining falling on me, hungover as all hell, as I passed through the sea of black umbrellas bobbing below my chin and around my shoulders, a good half-foot taller than all the Chinese around me; one of those everyday moments that are amplified, made poetic by music and the lingering amounts of alcohol in my bloodstream. 

(Also, I feel like if my dad knew about this song when he was younger, he definitely would have gotten high to this song, too.  Don’t ask me how I know this, but I know it’s true.  Trust me.)

(Have a good weekend.)

january dinner: stk, pudding problems
Jason posted on January 25, 2007

Last night, my friend Nicole and I had our monthly dinner and went to the steakhouse STK in the meat packing district.

[Because I was caught up in the hubbub of the holidays, I did not provide a review for last month's dinner at

Perry Street

, which may have been the best we've had.  I don't remember what I got, but I remember it was very good (how's that for a review?).  Also, we sat next to Ben Gibbard, lead singer of Death Cab for Cutie, who is much taller than I ever thought.  Since I, too, am a celebrity, I said hello to him and told him that my friend named her dog after him (which is true) and the mutha was floored, like it was the greatest compliment he ever received.  I can see why - I suppose it's one thing to say, "Hey, I really love "Transatlanticism'" and another thing to say, "Hey, I named a living creature, one that I will spend the next 13 years of my life with, after you."  I mean, if there were any dogs running around named Jason Mulgrew - or even Larry Awesome - it would probably be the high point of my life.  But anyway,

Perry Street

was spectacular and absolutely should be the place to take a girl who you just started seeing but really, really want to sleep with.  If you can't close the deal after a dinner there, then you should just cut your penis off and forget the whole thing.]

STK, on the other hand, was completely horrible.  I’ve thought of two snarky intros - tell me which one you like best:

- "STK’s slogan is ‘Not your daddy’s steakhouse.’  After that meal, I was longing for my daddy’s steakhouse!  And a decent meal!  Because the one I had there was shit!  Seriously!"

- "Many people think ‘STK’ is a fashionably-shortened version of ’steak.’  But after eating there last night, it’s apparently that it’s not an ‘e-a’ that’s missing, but an ‘i-n.’"

(I like the first because it’s more in-your-face, whereas the second is too cerebral.  Not for you guys, but for me.)

Nicole and I arrived exactly on time for our 8:30pm reservation in a building that looked more like a club than a restaurant.  I don’t like clubs in New York City - they make me sad.  This is, admittedly, because of my own insecurities; there are beautiful women at clubs and there are douchebag guys at clubs and yet everyone who goes to clubs fucks at the end of the night.  Meanwhile, on the other side of town, at the end of the night my friends and I are sitting in my apartment eating toothpaste to get fucked up because we’ve run out of beer and it’s too cold to go outside and get more.  So yeah, sad. 

But if NYC clubs make sadder, NYC club-steakhouses make me sadder.  Nicole and I were told it would be 20 minutes before we were seated (which is fine), so we checked our coats and headed to the bar for a drink.  This is when the problems started arising.

1) At the bar, Nicole and I were treated to various groups of mid- to late-thirties bankers/former frat boys, talking very loudly about "equity" or "derivatives" or some shit, wearing shoes that cost more than my entire wardrobe, and leering at every girl in the vicinity.  "Girl" is the appropriate word because most the females at the place that were my age and traveling in groups.  They were very attractive and well-dressed and might as well have had "husband-hunting expedition" signs above their tables.  As I watched, I imagined the conversations members of each group would have later in the night, after they were sufficiently filled with liquid courage:

Girl: "So what do you do?"
Guy: "Wealth Management at JP Morgan.  Can’t lie, my Harvard MBA helped me out there.  It’s a tough job, but I have to pay the mortgage on my $3.4 million loft in Gramercy somehow.  Why - what do you do?"
Girl: "I work in fashion.  Basically what I do is - "
Guy: "Hey, do you want go back to my place, do some coke, and fuck?  I gotta tell you: it’ll be pretty rough and I’m not going to wear a condom."
Girl: "OK!"

[Girl starts grabbing Guy's balls as Guy throws seven $100 bills on floor and they leave.  Everyone looks at the money falling on the floor, shrugs, and returns to their conversations.]

My philosophy all along has been that I’m going to marry whomever it is I’m dating at 30.  The bar scene last night only strengthened my conviction that this idea is genius.

2) Nicole and I alternate - one month, she picks and I pay; the next, I pick and she pays.  In this case, it was the latter, but since I don’t know any restaurants in NYC, I told Nicole what I want and she suggested some places.  STK was kind of a compromise; I get a steak, she gets a scene. 

Typically, the non-payer of the dinner (me) buys the first round of drinks.  So I did.  Two drinks (with tip): $36. I mean, wowza. 

(And no, I didn’t get the "Blood of Japanese Emperor" cocktail.  They even ran out of rye for my Manhattan, so it wasn’t even full.  Sweet.) 

3) There was a miscommunication early in the night.  When the hostess said, "We’ll be able to sit you in about 20 minutes", she really meant, "Sir, your shirt couldn’t have cost more than $50 and, let’s face it, you’re not very good looking.  I’m going to stand here behind my little desk and alternate between ignoring you and shooting you looks of disgust and disdain.  We’ll seat you in an hour and fifteen minutes."

What I’m trying to say is that Nicole and I waited an hour and fifteen minutes on a Wednesday night at an overcrowded, douchebag-filled restaurant for an over-priced, not very good meal.  Should I continue with the review or do you get the picture?

Things I learned from this dinner:

- Anytime you see a food item with the word "bisque" attached to it, order it.  Note this rule does not apply to any bisques served at rest stops, delis, or out of a food truck.  Consume those at your own risk and be sure to have toilet paper handy. 

- According to Nicole, I have a tendency to smother women.  Figuratively.  But little does she know that it is also true literally.

(Hahahahahaha!)

(More creepy cackling: hahahahahaha etc)

- Never, ever order scallops.  You will always be disappointed.  Take this to the bank.

- Um, I think there was more, but since we ate so late and since it was SO FUCKING LOUD and since I hit the red wine pretty hard, I don’t remember much else.

So don’t go to STK.  It’s terrible.

POST SCRIPT

This morning, I woke up at 5:45am.  I don’t know why, but for some reason I was overwhelmed with stress, woke up, and couldn’t fall back asleep.  So I started hanging out and trolling the internet for sex, like I do pretty much every morning.  But then I got bored.

Back up: When my show died, my friend Claire, the sweetest of sweets, took it upon herself to send me some rice pudding to help cheer me up.  But Claire did not just send me some rice pudding - she sent a shit-ton of rice pudding.  We’re talking probably four or five pounds of rice pudding here. Of course, I have to eat all this rice pudding, lest I seem ungrateful.

I eat pudding in a very specific way: from the outside in.  You see, I like when the pudding gets warm from being held in my hands, so when I eat it, I scrape the pudding from the sides of the container.  This will upset the center of the pudding, which will rise a little bit, but then the pudding will settle back to the sides of the container, where this next layer will be warmed by my hands, and then consumed in the same way.  Repeat.  Repeat.  Repeat.  Repeat. 

(And really, after re-reading that paragraph, can you believe that I’m not having sex on a regular basis?)

This morning, I was sitting naked on the edge of my tub while the shower was running, eating some of this rice pudding in my sauna-like bathroom (I mean, why not, right?).  There I was, balls dangling on the side of the tub, eating the rice pudding, having a grand old time, when I scraped the side of the pudding container with a little more vigor than usual.  Like tugging on a rope that you don’t realize is not tied to anything, my arm and the spoon were whipped out of the pudding container, sending my body backward and rice pudding flying.  When, milliseconds later, I had steadied myself on the edge of the tub, I saw that I thrown/spilled/gotten rice pudding all over my chest, belly, and genitals.  Not my best look.  Did I mention this was at about 6:45 in the morning?(Sorry, after re-reading

that paragraph, can you believe that I’m not having sex on a regular basis?)

So that’s how my day started.  And sadly, it hasn’t been much better since. 

(I just can’t wait to get home and get some more of that rice pudding.  Thanks again, Claire.)

thanks, my twin
Jason posted on January 24, 2007

A very big and heartfelt thank you for all the emails I’ve received from you all since Monday’s post.  I really appreciate your support and thank you for all the kind words and ego-boosting you’ve given me as I’ve spent the past few days drugged up in the shower and eating cupcakes (sometimes - most times - both at the same time).  Admittedly, you’ve been a little light in the booby pictures department in this whole "cheer up" process, but I guess I can’t have it all, can I?

(And yes, I realize by writing that I’m not getting booby pictures I’m going to be deluged with pictures of scrotums.  But I am undaunted.  If I get even one good booby picture which I can store on my computer for years and years to use as blackmail at the proper time, I’m willing to sift through dozens, if not millions, of pictures of testes.  Because that’s the kind of man I am.)

Since I won’t be able to respond to all your emails (you know, because I’m an asshole), I figured I’d answer some of the frequent questions that have been asked:

- No, you can’t read the script.  Not that I don’t want you to read it, but because the network owns the idea.  For me to post it on here would be a violation of copyright or some shit.  And I have enough law suits going on at the moment.

- No, I can’t film it myself/you can’t film it with me.  See above explanation.

- No, I can’t sell it to another network.  At least, I don’t think I can.  If some other network really wants it, they can contact the network that currently owns it and buy it off them, but that happens for people like Larry David, David Kohan and Max Mutchnick, and Steve Levitan, not Jason Mulgrew.

- In response to "Do you know what you’re talking about?": Kinda.  More than you, at least.  Jerk. 

- Yes, I really do plan on writing a book about the experience.  But let’s get the first book out, ok?

- No, there’s no need to protest or rise up with fists or whatnot.  Like I said, everyone I dealt with was very cool and no one fucked me over or anything like that.  I knew what the odds were going in, and knew that I had less than a 10% chance of getting the pilot shot (it actually turned out that I had something like a 4% chance).  That’s just the way it goes. 

And not to beat a dead horse here, but I feel ok about the whole thing.  Other opportunities will surely arise.  And I still have you all.  I mean, how can you not feel ok when you get emails like this one, from Grant in Vancouver, BC:

Jason,

Long time reader, first time emailer. Tough luck re your TV show. I would say I’m sorry to hear it but deep down I’m not. It’s not that I don’t enjoy your blog, which I very much do, but I just hate to see people in my demographic create successful lives out of nothing but their own talent and fortitude. I prefer people in similar stages of their lives as me to be the same, or better yet less successful than me. It just makes me look and feel better about myself.

Cheers,
Grant

p.s. You’re an alcoholic.

p.p.s. You posted a picture of your feet a while back. The caption read ‘my best quality’ or something like that. That picture continues to haunt me.  As a 100% heterosexual male I can say with all honesty and without any doubt that your feet are the most repulsive and hideous that I’ve ever seen.  There so stubby it’s eerie. Please do not post any more pics of your feet.  Thanks.

See?  Now that’s some support right there.  If getting called an alcoholic and having a stranger make fun of your feet doesn’t turn your frown upside down, well, you probably can’t read in the first place.

(But while we’re here: WTF?  To my dying day, I will defend my feet.  Sure, they may be gross, but that is because feet are inherently gross.  Remember, I’m a fat guy with a beard whose skin is so pale it’s practically translucent.  I probably have the nicest feet in my demographic, thank you very much.)

(And for the record, the focus of the picture is not my feet, but rather the number on the scale. I tried, with the help of Site Guy Brendan, to cut and edit the picture so that only the numbers were showing, but since my camera sucks, I couldn’t do it without totally blurring the numbers on the scale.  Thus the feet pics.)

(And I won’t link to the feet picture, lest I upset the easily upsetable, but if you want to see the post that Grant is referring to, it was written on August 25, 2006.)

But no one put a smile on my face quite like Erin in Kansas City, who simply wrote:

No way am I the only one who thinks you look a lil like this guy [editor's note: sound not safe for work].  No comment on the song content.  Oof.  Apologies.

First off, I really, really look like this guy.  I mean, it’s mindblowing.  I sent this clip to a few of my friends this morning and my phone was shortly ringing off the hook, with friends either laughing or saying, almost incoherently, "I…I mean…I don’t…" - just speechless.

Look here and then look at the video.  When I first saw him walking with his guitar, I thought to myself, "Oh my god - did I star in a music video when I had a moustache last year?"  It’s really uncanny.  An ex who I sent the clip to said, "He’s definitely chubbier than you, but you’re definitely hairier."  So I guess it’s a draw. 

Now, the song - and the reason why the lyrics are not safe for work, even though I couldn’t really listen to them - is called "God Hates a Fag."  The man looks so ridiculous (is this a self-deprecating remark?) and the song title is so obviously obnoxious that I thought it was a joke.  I mean, c’mon - I make gay jokes all the time and I’m not serious.

(Too much.)

But upon further review, I think he indeed might be serious.  His website says he’s a "reformed homosexual" (which just added to the delight of my friends when my buddy Ben found out this nugget) and he seems pretty pissed off about that.  His MySpace page says "I’m the Lead singer in a band called Evening Service. We are a Christian band dedicated to Gods [sic] word and taking on tough Christian topics, such as homosexuality and abortion."  Um, that doesn’t sound very funny to me.  Not at all.  If he wanted it to be funny, all he had to do was add an "and fucking hoagies" at the end there and I would have bought whatever it is he’s selling.  But since he didn’t, well, I think he may really hate the gays.

So bottom line: somewhere in the USA there is a man who looks exactly like me and he’s a reformed homosexual who does God’s will by promulgating hate.  Meanwhile, his identical twin is a (questionable) heterosexual who does his own will by writing about boobies and booze on the internet and one time ejaculated onto an oscillating fan, just to see what would happen (answer: awesomeness).

…

Honestly, I don’t know who’s more disappointed and weirded out: me, because I look like him, or him, because he looks like me. 

(And if this is all a joke, thank goodness - and I was totally fooled.)

(…)

(Man, that guy looks like me.)

death and hope, pina coladas and the robot
Jason posted on January 22, 2007

You have not heard from me because I have been in self-imposed exile since last Thursday, lamenting a great loss.  It is with heavy heart and great sadness that I inform you that my television show, which has been in development since August of 2005, has died.  The network announced Thursday that it was “passing” on the show, which is industry jargon for “Get the hell out of my office.”

Before we go any further, a quick background: How the sitcom-creating process works is that a network will buy an idea for a TV show based on a pitch meeting (like in Seinfeld).  Major networks will usually buy 70 or so of these ideas and pay the creators of said ideas to write one pilot script - the first episode of the series.  The writing will take place between September and January.  In January, the network will pick 8-10 of these 70 scripts to shoot (usually the shooting takes place between February and April).  Then, in May, the network will decide which of these 8-10 shot pilots will go on the air in the fall.  Usually only one or two of the original 70 will make it to the air.  I’m pretty sure this is correct, but if not, fuck it. 

My show was one of these 70-something pilots that the network (which I don’t think I can name but can be figured out by clicking on the “Variety” link in the “Press” section on the right) bought in the summer of 2005 to vie for inclusion for the Fall 2006 lineup.  But due to a scheduling conflict, it was rolled to this past summer and the Fall 2007 lineup.  Since this September, my co-writer and I had been feverishly working on the script.  But after many trips to LA, several intense discussions of the merits of “douche” vs. “dick”, and countless barroom utterances of “Did I mention that I have a development deal with a major network?”, it’s all over.

What’s worse about this is that we – the show, my co-writer and I, everyone who reads this site – made it very far in this process.  We’d been in bonus time for over a month, meaning at any point in time over the past few weeks the network could have said “No thanks” and it wouldn’t have been a shock.  Instead, we made it – literally – to the final week of cuts before getting the ax. The only analogy I can think of (and admittedly I suck at analogies) is that it’s like getting a blowjob from Jenna Jameson for four days and then just as your about to spooge she reveals that she’s not Jenna Jameson, but a man.  And not just any man, but your Uncle Frankie.  And worst: you’re in such a sorry state and so confused and wound up and desperate that you say “Fuck it” and offer him $14 to finish the job.  He does, then the two of you go bowling and never mention it again.  Yeah, that’s a pretty good analogy.

What does this all mean for me?  It means that I’ve been smoking a ton of pot alone in my apartment and dancing the robot to Ghostland Observatory’s “Silver City,” which, though it sounds pretty sweet, is probably a bad thing.  However, it also means that as soon as my normal work (you know, that 9 to 5 job that has been draining the life out of me for the past two or so months) slows down, I’m going to catch a plane to the Caribbean, drink my weight in pina coladas, and pay a strange woman to have sex with me.  Which is, undeniably, awesome.   

[I’ve been so out of it lately that seconds before I started to write this post, I masturbated to a clip of Tera Patrick while John Lennon’s “Jealous Guy” was playing on my iTunes.  Normally, I have the presence of mind to turn off what music is on while masturbating or at least put on some mood music, like Gerald Levert or Al B. Sure or Rush.  But I just spooged while John Lennon’s was singing, “I didn’t mean to hurt you…I’m sorry that I made you cry” over a piano and a string arrangement.  The saddest part: it was a pretty good session.]

But on the whole, I have no complaints and no regrets.  I got to meet and work with some very funny and intelligent people, who I will not thank here but have thanked and will continue to thank personally, mostly in the form of gag gifts and pictures of me in the tub.

(Seriously, contrary to the “everyone is a dick in Hollywood” image, everyone I met was cool and understanding and totally patient when I got lost in Burbank because my quick stop at the In-and-Out Burger before a meeting turned into an expedition worthy of Homer or whoever wrote those old Greek books about ships and shit.)

I also learned much about Hollywood and the entertainment industry and how to get girls who are way out of your league to sleep with you.  And most importantly, because I was gently asked not to talk about the process on here, I got a ton of material for a new book – How My Blog Got You to Buy This Book and Other Stories of Teeth and Teeth from the Entertainment Industry.  Let’s say late 2008 on this one. 

And though I despise loser talk – the “we tried hard” and “this team has a lot of heart” and “I’m proud of these guys” stuff – we, meaning me and you all, do have a lot to be proud of here.  I mean, I suck – there’s really no other way to cut that one – but because you guys passed on (and continue to pass on) the site to your friends, co-workers, and people you sleep with when it’s after 1am on Saturday nights and you’re feeling a little lonely, we landed a development deal with a major network despite having zero experience and only an internet diary to our credit.  Power to the people, mother fuckers.  And while this power probably should be used for more noble endeavors, like ending the genocide in Darfur or stopping hunger worldwide, if I had to make a list of such noble causes, getting me a blowjob in a rental car in Santa Monica is probably in the top ten.  At least, I think so.  

So in conclusion: it’s over, but it’s not completely over; there were some major positives in the process and I have no regrets; and most of all, we did good and thank you.  I’ll end there, lest I get too mushy.  Also, I want to get high and do the robot some more.  That shit is fun.

[Sigh] 

required readin’
Jason posted on January 18, 2007

This blog is really fucking funny.  Because she doesn’t post very often, I only check in about once a month.  But when I do, I can easily kill a significant portion of the workday.

Which is what I’ve done today.  Which is why you’re not getting a post from me.  Which is why I’m recommending the blog.

Happy reading and you’re welcome,
Jason

an open letter to stormy daniels, porn star
Jason posted on January 17, 2007

Dearest Stormy,

I will say straight away that this is not an easy letter for me to write.

From the moment I first laid eyes on you, I knew it was there.  The clip, titled "Stormy Waters fucked and cum shot," was one from the random torrent of pornography I download from Limewire onto my computer every week, leaving it crippled with viruses.  While the scene itself was not spectacular - thirty seconds of sideways sex on a bed, followed by obligatory pop shot - you looked amazing.  Nay, amazing doesn’t quite explain it; you looked super fucking hot.  T.T.B.B. (tall, tanned, blonde, boobied) all the way.

Immediately, I had thought I had found the answer.  Ever since Celeste retired a few years before, I had been in search of a new favorite porn star.  To that end, I dabbled quite a bit.  Chasey Lain, with her blue eyes and dark hair, was fun for awhile, but soon she retired and left me alone, sitting in front of my TV/VCR with my dick in my hand and no new material.  There is nothing wrong at all with Jenna Jameson, but she was the object of desire of far too many - I didn’t think she’d have the time for me (and, without getting into it, I was right). 

Feeling spurned by Jenna, I turned to Taylor Hayes, one of the most beautiful but also one of the nastiest starlets - if watching her "Best of…Blowjobs" doesn’t send chills up your spine, you either don’t have a spine, eyes, or penis; the woman is a semen-eating machine.  But with Taylor it was all physical.  Likewise with Stacey Valentine, who has the IQ roughly equivalent to that of a German Shephard.  I was into Kira Kener for some time, but c’mon - I can’t get seriously involved with an Asian girl (even if she is half-Norwegian). 

I then went through a fairly serious Sunrise Adams phase and nearly fell in love.  But, though I am admittedly a breast man, I fell in love with the Sunrise Adams pre-breast implants.  Once she got the fake boobies, I couldn’t make it.  I mean, I could make it - I ejaculated even more viciously than before - but I couldn’t make "us" work. 

Dejected, demoralized, and pretty much out of semen, it was then that I first saw you, Stormy.  After witnessing that first clip, I downloaded some more and - I’m not ashamed to write this - I fell completely head over heels for you.  This is in large part because I knew you were more than a sperm-covered smile and a pair of fake boobies.  Despite your easy manner and Leeeziana drawl (which, by the way, is adorable), you exuded a real sense of self-confidence, something so often missing from porn stars, who typically spent their formative years getting fucked by their dad/their uncle/a teacher/my dad.  

And all was right with the world.  I masturbated to your scenes with the reckless abandon of a bee who has first tasted honey or a poor who has taken his first hit from the pipe or a 26 year old who on the whole is pretty lonely and has a serious addiction to pornography, so much so that he occasionally has to fake orgasms while having actual sex.  The next few months were the greatest of my life, as I basked in that warm glow and semeny smell of porno love.

But, as with all relationships, the glow began to subside (though the semeny smell remained strong, if it did not grow in strength).  I still roughed up the suspect to your clips, but a scary notion began to dawn on me.  When I was not blinded by lust, I realized something.

Stormy, you don’t have it.  

Believe me - this is one of the most difficult things I’ve ever had to write.  But I do so because I believe that it’s not too late - that you could still have it.  But you need to work for it.   

I feel, Stormy, that in your scenes, you are simply not applying yourself as much as you should.  There is no fire, no real fire, in your fake love-making.  Like any good contract girl, you "ooh" and "aah" at the right times, have no qualms when ass-play is involved, and are willing to take the pop shot wherever and whenever, but it is obvious to any discernable porn connoisseur that you are giving only the minimum effort required. 

Like many gifted people, you rely solely on those talents that you have been born with (or that have been surgically inserted into your body) to get by.  All throughout your career, you have been considered so stunningly beautiful and sexy that you never had to really work in your scenes; it was enough for you to just show up, take off your clothes, S a little D, get slammed, and be on your way.  But I must tell you that your lack of effort and work ethic in your scenes is not only a slap in the face to your admirers, but a clear indication that - right now - you, Stormy Daniels, do not have it. 

And when I realized this, I was devastated. 

But this isn’t about me (too much).  I write to you to both enlighten you and plead with you to step it up - not just for your fans, but for yourself and your legacy.  Few in the modern porn industry have been able to combine looks of your caliber with a passion that makes even the most seasoned director blush.  Celeste could.  Jenna could.  And possibly Briana Banks can, if she stopped doing so many drugs (or at least stopped looking like she did so many drugs).

You, Stormy, could add your name to this list.  Your looks put you half-way there.  All you need now is that fire.  I encourage you to review the films of Melissa Hill, a starlet who may have been lacking in the looks department but who turned into a sexual wolverine when the director yelled "Action!"  If you have the time, I would also suggest checking out some of Chloe’s early work, though I would stay away from her whole eye-rolling bit, because, frankly, it’s kind of creepy. 

I know that you may find some of my words hurtful, but please remember that I write these things only because I care about you, and because I know that you are on the doorstep of greatness - true greatness - that so many of your peers can not even approach.  A few simple changes in your approach and shortly your name will be mentioned along side the all-time greats.  You are so close, Stormy.  So close.  And I am getting such an erection writing this letter to you. 

I close this letter with a quote from Calvin Coolidge, thirtieth president of the United States.  I think it sums up my feelings and your task very well:

‘Nothing in this world can take the place of persistence.  Talent will not; nothing is more common than unsuccessful people with talent.  Genius will not; unrewarded genius is almost a proverb.  Education will not; the world is full of educated derelicts.  Persistence and determination alone are omnipotent.’

Stormy, the key to the pantheon of porn greatness lies in your well-manicured hand.  Unlock the door, Stormy.  Unlock the door.

(Or something.)

As always, 
Green, as I love you, greenly,
Beneath the moon of the gypsies, 
Silent things are looking at you,
Things you cannot see,   
I am, 

Jason MJPAE Mulgrew

end of the eagles
Jason posted on January 16, 2007

I am pretty sure that I am the reason that the Philadelphia Eagles lost on Saturday night.  Let me explain.

I woke up Saturday morning/afternoon with a terrible hangover.  This is not unusual, but this particular hangover was more vicious than most, because I had made a rookie mistake on Friday night and violated one of the basic rules of drinking: Never end the night drinking Belgian beer. 

The night started harmlessly enough; my friends Jeremy and Meredith came over to my place Friday night for some drinks and soon we were out and about, hopping from bar to bar, meeting different groups of friends.  I was only mildly drunk when at 2am we went to Stanton Public, a (relatively) new place halfway between my apartment and the heart of the Lower East Side.

There, between 2am and close (4am), I had several pints of Delirium Tremens, a beer with a whopping 9% alcohol content.  I’ve had this beer several times before and enjoy it, but it is to be enjoyed at the beginning of the night, when you’re quickly trying to lay down a nice base of drunkeness.  By drinking it at the end of the night, I went from "I’m having a nice evening and feeling fine" to "Jeremy, you’re going to have to help me in the bathroom."  My buddy and old roommate Brian, who joined us at Stanton Public with some friends at 3am, remarked to me both there and the next day that I looked "way out of sorts."  Coming from Brian, who is usually a walking zombie by 2am and is kindly asked to leave 40% of the bars he enters, this is about as damning as it gets.   

I don’t remember leaving the bar, but I think I walked home.  The next morning I woke up with the aforementioned tremendous hangover and when I finally left my bedroom and came into my living room, I found a giant - and completely empty - bag of Cool Ranch Doritos, which I imagined were consumed on the jagged, criss-crossing walk home and explained why my breath was especially bad and the origin of colorful granules of food caked under my fingernails.  And yes, for the umpteenth time, ladies, I am single. 

Once I got my wits about me on Saturday morning/early afternoon, I trekked out to Brooklyn to have brunch with a friend (which was lovely) and planned on watching both the late Eagles-Saints game and the early Colts-Ravens game at my buddy Mike’s apartment on the Upper West Side.  I got back from brunch at 2pm and the Colts-Ravens game started at 4:30pm, so that meant I had 2.5 hours to shake the hangover and prepare my buddy for the numerous Bud Lights, wings, sliders, and waffle cheese fries that awaited it. 

I’ve mentioned before that I love to read in the shower (yes, I’m getting to how I made the Eagles lose - hold on a second).  I do this to relax and because I’m sicko and sexual freak.  How I arrange it so that the book doesn’t get wet is that I sit in the tub as though I were taking a bath, my back planted against the back of the tub, my head almost touching the wall.  Then I point the showerhead at my feet and keep the drain open, so that the only thing that is getting wet are my feet.  I stay dry, I read a little bit, it’s a lovely thing, really.  It’s relaxing and the steam rising from the water alleviates hangovers quite well. 

I got in the shower to read at 3:15pm, figuring I had plenty of time to read, relax, and then cab it up to the UWS for the game.  This was an especially good session, not only because the book I am reading is excellent (I will recommend it later in the week when finished) and because I was hungover, but because the steam was prefect - just hot enough to feel invigorating and cleansing, but not hot enough to burn the flesh off my feet and ankles. 

I read only a little bit before I started feeling tired, so I put the book down (outside of the shower, of course).  I closed my eyes for a little bit and soaked up the steam.

Then I fell asleep.  Right there in the shower.  For over an hour.  I was awoken only by the beeping of my cell phone, as I had gotten a text message from my buddy Mike, asking, "Where the hell are you?"  Had Mike not texted me, I probably could have slept for several hours.  In the shower.  With the water running. 

(God, I’m fucking awesome.)

As I was late, I rushed out of the house and forgot to tivo the Eagles-Saints game, something I normally do with big Eagles games.  I hopped into a cab and was in Mike’s apartment in no time, drinking those Bud Lights and eating those wings, sliders, and cheese fries during the Colts-Ravens game.  I felt great. 

And then I said it.

"You know, if the Eagles make the Super Bowl, I’m going to get a live feed set up in my buddy Steve’s house - where I’ll watch the game - so that people can log onto the website during the game to watch us watching it."

If there was a record playing, it would have scratched.  If there we were drinking bottles (as opposed to cans), they would have broken on the floor.  But instantly, the handful of Philly fans I was watching the early game with swiveled their heads around to stare at me in astonishment.

"What did you just say?"

I meekly tried to talk my way out of it, pointing out that I said "If…", but there was no use.  Just as the night before I had violated a basic rule of drinking, I had violated the number one rule of being a Philly fan: Never, ever talk about the future success of your team.

The result?  A 27-24 victory by the New Orleans Saints over the Philadelphia Eagles.  I won’t get much into the substance of the game – like why go for it on 4-and-10 but not 4-and-15 when you know they’re going to run the ball and had success all game in doing so up to that point (the Saints had 190+ yards rushing at the time) OR where Brian Dawkins was (I heard his name once, I think, on an assisted tackle) OR why Brian Westbrook only had 13 carries – because I got pretty drunk during the game and spent much of my time on the toilet, what with the hangover and the wings and sliders and beers and such. 

The point is that the season is over and I feel responsible, which makes me even more miserable.  Adding to my misery is that somewhere along the line, I convinced myself that maybe, just maybe, this was our year.  Look at the NFC – it’s a fucking shit-show.  I, like many others, believed all along that all a team had to do was get into the playoffs and then see what happens from there.  The Eagles got to the playoffs, won a game, and then lost an entirely winnable game.

The Eagles losing to the Saints was like getting dumped by your girlfriend just when you’re ready to propose to her.  You met her and were skeptical and there were some rough stretches, because she could be totally fucking insane-o.  But then you started having good sex – not just "early relationship sex" but "we’ve been together long enough for me to ask you to act out the shower scene in ‘Trailer Trash Nurses 6′ and you’re ok with that" sex – and you’re willing to dear with her craziness.  You even begin to find it endearing.  Then you met her friends and her parents and her family and they seem nice, and more importantly, they like you very much.  Things are going well.  You have made it past those things that give couples problem and seem on your way to a happy relationship.

And then, just when you think it’s smooth sailing, she dumps you.  Worse, she does so for no apparent reason.

This is how I feel about the 2006 Eagles.  We had already gotten over our adversity when McNabb went out (getting to the good sex and getting over the craziness).  Then, during that brutal six game stretch at the end of the season, we went 5-1 (meeting the parents and friends and such).  It seemed like now, once we were in the playoffs, this would be the easy part – nothing could be as hard as losing our star quarterback and having six tough, tough games to close the year.

Instead, after all that work, we have to start completely over from scratch.  You have to find a new girl, get over her craziness, get to the porn-caliber sex, and meet and win the approval of her friends and family.  Because all the work you just put in went down the tubes in one inexplicable evening.

And frankly, at this point, I just doing feel like doing it.  I think I need a little break from Philly sports, because once again, I’ve been burned and burned badly.  It is becoming downright cruel the way that our sports lives are playing out.  I don’t know whose idea of a joke this is, but I wish he/she would die.  Or at least become maimed.

But as of today, I’m on a break.  I don’t want to think about Philly or Philly sports for a little while, because I’ve been hurt.  Maybe I’ll play the field a little bit – root for the Celtics one night, then the Senators the next, maybe buy myself a Denver Broncos hat – just to see what’s out there.  In the meantime, I’m going to sit at my computer, drink a little whiskey, smoke some doobs, and listen to Ray Lamontagne’s "I Go All To Pieces."  Because I need some me time.     

[Also, now that the Eagles' season is over, I shaved my beard.  What a tremendous mistake.  In one fell swoop, I've made myself uglier (well, less handsome), fatter, paler, colder, and - believe it or not - older-looking.  I forgot that the reason I have a beard in the first place, aside from its obvious low-maintenance benefits, is because I have the smallest lips/mouth in the world and no chin.  The bottom half of my face is basically lots of paleness, chubby cheeks, two very thin pink lips, then neck.  Ugh.  Not to mention that since last night I've had to deal with a steady stream of people seeing me and exclaiming, "Oh my god - you shaved your beard!", said with the same tone and inflection as one would said, "Oh my god - you're fucking a dog!"  Terrible, just terrible.  Tomorrow, I'm wearing a fake beard to work.  This is going to be a long - and chaste - two weeks.  And no, there will not be pictures.]

retro pot, apt decorations, iggles/beckham, burger, headphones, music, iggles ii
Jason posted on January 12, 2007

The latest batch of pot I’ve been smoking reduces me to a 14 year old.  When I smoke it, it feels like the first time (it feels like the very first time): I get light-headed, my mouth gets dry, and I get the munchies - all symptoms I have not felt in years.

Last night, I was feelin’ kinda blue for no particular reason at all, and sat down at my computer to dick around and listen to my monumentally suicide-inducing "Sad as Fuck" iTunes playlist (and I know that "monumentally suicide-inducing" doesn’t make much sense, but if you heard this playlist, you would understand completely).  I had already been drinking some fine red (red) wine and decided, since it was Thursday night and all, to smoke a bowl or two.

What happened next, I can’t explain, but I was up until almost 3 in the morning smoking pot, drinking wine, listening to the "Sad as Fuck" playlist, and (saddest of all) playing computer solitaire.  I was so fucking incredibly high and sad that when I looked at the clock and saw it was 1:48am, I did a double take (albeit a very slow double take).  Then I played solitaire for another hour before going to bed.

(I had a 9am meeting this morning and was so stressed out about it that I woke up at 6:30 and came into work early.  Since I was in early, I decided to treat myself to a sausage, egg and cheese bagel and a large hot chocolate.  The effect these had on me was similar to when a bear gets hit with a tranquilizer dart.  I slurred my way through the meeting, dark circles under my eyes, sipping diet coke, fighting to make my mouth say what my brain wanted it to say and move my body the way my brain wanted it to move.  Now, I’m contemplating banging my head against a wall in the bathroom and going into my boss’s office to tell him that I fainted in the bathroom and need to go home, because I really need a nap.  Jason Mulgrew: Champion Employee.)

The point is that I enjoy drinking so much that I forget the simple joys of pot.  Just a couple of bingers can transform you from a successful 27 year old man, enjoying his fine Chilean wine in his downtown Manhattan two-bedroom apartment, into a groveling mess of emotions, practically weeping at his computer, hunched over playing solitaire, and trying to figure out the easiest route to marriage.  Or threesome. 

(Stoners: I know a "binger" is technically a bong hit but I enjoy the word so much that I use it to describe all types of pot-hitting.  So please don’t email me and call me out on it.)

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

Speaking of my apartment, I’ve begun to decorate it - only nineteen months after I moved in!  Since my old roommate Brian and I moved in, the walls of the apartment have been completely bare.  In June, when Brian moved out, I figured I’d start putting up some pictures or some shit.  Shockingly, that never happened.

Two nights ago, I got all manly, busted out the tape measure, hammer, and nails, and went to town.  Now I have a painting hanging in my bedroom, another above the TV, and four framed prints from this site hanging in my living room.  I got a new coffee table for Christmas and was going to put that together, but I don’t have a flathead screwdriver.  Heretofore, I had been using a boxcutter as a flathead screwdriver, but I had a premonition that if I were to use it on the new coffee table, the razor would break as I was tightening a screw, fly off, and strike me in the eye.  And as cool as I think eye patches are, I’m not ready for one at this point in my life.  At least, I don’t think I am. 

Anyway, the point is that I’ve want this poster in my apartment (don’t worry, I’ll get it framed and classy).  It’s from a Fellini movie called, "E La Nave Va", which, translated from the Italian, roughly means, "Rhino in a Boat."  I really like the poster, because to me, it’s symbolic: I am the man in the boat rowing, desperately trying to get somewhere, but I can’t, because I have this big fucking rhino in the boat (the rhino representing, of course, Oreo cookies).  It’s sold out everywhere or no longer in print, but if any of y’all find it, lemme know.  I love that fucking poster.

(And Oreo cookies.)

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

Look, I’m very happy that the Eagles have made it this far into the playoffs.  After the Tennessee game, I, like everyone else, thought the season was over.  Instead, the Eagles, winners of their last six games, bounced back and gave me something to root for.

But, as a gambler, I am obliged to tell you this: if you have a mortgage on your home, you should bet that mortgage on the Saints this weekend.  The Eagles looked like a JV squad against the Giants, who are arguably the worst playoff team in NFL history.  I won’t disparage their play last week any more, but with the Eagles playing like that, All Pro corner Lito Sheppard out, all the "Go New Orleans/Fuck Katrina!" sentiment, and most importantly, Deuce and Reggie, I don’t see how the Saints aren’t giving 8.  Instead, they’re giving 5.  Unless Westbrook and/or Garcia have career days (and I mean that in the most superlative sense, as in, games of their lives), I don’t see how New Orleans doesn’t win by at least 5. 

Please don’t think I am any less of a Birds fan because I say this.  While driving to Philly recently, I was alone in the car and "We Are the Champions" came on and I got so carried away thinking, "You know what? Maybe this is our year!" that I - no lie - starting crying a little bit in the car.  But Philly fans are a pessimistic, wounded bunch, and I refuse to get my hopes up only to get crushed again.  Typically, I’m not the type of person to settle or leave well enough alone, and if the Eagles lose on Sunday, I will NOT be satisfied (since the game is on Saturday night, if the Birds lose, I’m pretty much guaranteed to get in a bar fight and/or fall asleep in a public bathroom), but with perspective, maybe I will be content even with a loss to the Saints.  Maybe. 

(God, I get so fucking stressed out just thinking about this game.)

(I’m already sad about it even.  Let’s just move on.)

In other news, just a quick question: how the F do the Los Angeles Galaxy have $250 million to sign David Beckham?  And I don’t mean that like "how do they have the cap room?", but rather, how do they have enough money, period?  I’ve never met anyone who watches MLS, let alone has been to a game or has bought its merchandise.  And yet ONE TEAM has a quarter of a billion dollars to sign a player?  The equivalent would be me, as an eight year old in a house in which food stamps were used, coming down on Christmas morning to find a card with $190,000 in it.  What gives here? 

Can someone explain this to me?  Because if this is the way money works, I’m heading out straight from work to buy a building, because, hey, fuck it.   

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

This is nice, although I might take some umbrage with being compared, looks-wise, to a cheeseburger.  However, the Freddy Mercury comparison more than makes up for it.  I’m blushing, actually.

(And that is a very bad picture of me, taken in December of ‘04.  Just for the record.)

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

I listen to music probably, I’d say, six hours a day.  Most of the time, it’s through headphones, as I’m commuting to work, sitting at my desk, walking around the city, shaving my legs, etc.  For the longest time, I had been rocking the iPod headphones, but was looking for a change.  My interest slowly gravitated to Bose headphones, basically because the Bose Corporation thinks it’s the Greatest Thing That Ever Happened to Life.  Every one of their ads has the word "breakthrough", "revolution", or "unprecedented" in it (I think I even saw one ad with "scrumtrillescent" in it).

So, sucker that I am, I went out and dropped $100 on a pair of their in-ear headphones.  The fancy name for these headphones is the "Bose In-Ear Headphones with Triport Acoustic Headphone Structure," but they could really be called the "Jason Mulgrew Is Going to Get Hit By A Fucking Car Headphones."  See, the headphones go in your ear but come with these little rubber-like attachments that go on the end of the earpieces, so that you’re essentially clogging your eardrums.  In a way, this is great, because it allows for total immersion into the music, catching each melodious note from Mr. Otis John Redding or each saucy snarl from Ms. Lita Ann Ford.  Conversely, the earphones block out all external sounds, like, for example, cabs beeping at you in the middle of Second Ave as you run across to the falafel place before it closes or fellow subway passengers squealing in horror as they watch a homeless guy stand behind you and jack off, while you listening to those geniuses from the British Isles, Messrs. Liam and What’s-His-Face Gallagher.   

On the whole: good buy.  When I first started listening to them, I was blown away by the depth and clarity of the sound as compared to my one year old iPod headphones.  So maybe their ads are onto something…

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

Six Songs

"Inmates"  The Good Life
Like "Good Houses" from last week, I was driving into NYC and this song came on the radio station of the College of Staten Island.  This surprised me, since I assumed that the radio station of the College of Staten Island would play only trance music, interrupted by the occasional ads for hair salons, gyms, and Herpes medications.  I only caught the last line ("I can’t be your prisoner/Oh no"), but got home, googled that lyric, downloaded the song, and was pleased with it; it’s one of those intensely personal break up songs in which the singer (a woman) really drags her ex through the mud.  I like her style and would like to have a drink with her. 

"I’m Going to Stop Pretending That I Didn’t Break Your Heart"  The Eels
If the title alone isn’t enough to make you want to download it, then something’s wrong with you.

"I Don’t Love You Anymore"  Teddy Pendergrass
This song has been played at almost every wedding I’ve been to, and while I certainly admire its grooviness and dance-inducing-ness, the title says, "I don’t love you anymore."  I mean, c’mon people.  This is not a happy song.  Let’s not play it at weddings.  Bars and clubs - fine, but take it off the wedding playlist.

"Midnight Train to Georgia"  Gladys Knight and the Pips
I often wonder what it would be like to have The Pips singing back up for me for a day.  What I love most about this song is that they’re singing back up, but not repeating Gladys’ words; they seem to be improvising their own words around the lyrics, adding "No no" and "Uh uh" and just basically riffing.  In my case it could be like:

INT. DELI — LUNCHTIME

Me: [to man behind counter] "Can I get a #3, no mayo?"
Pips: [singing] "You better believe that there’s no mayo - uh uh."

INT. BAR — NIGHT

Me:[to girl at bar] "Why don’t you just come home with me?"
Pips: [singing] "He’ll try to put it in the butt - oh yeah!"

A boy can dream. 

"The Chokin’ Kind"  Joss Stone
[Said in snooty, hipster way] She was so much better when she was unknown.

"There Ain’t Nothing About You (That Don’t Do Something For Me)"  Brooks & Dunn (mp3 not available)
Great song, but what I especially like about it is that you can bastardize almost every word in the title with a grossly exaggerated Southern accent: "Thar ain nuthin’ ’bout choo, done do sumpin’ fer me."  You know, I think I could do reasonably well in the South.  I once went to San Antonio for work years ago and had a ball.  I also got so drunk that I called my girlfriend at the time and compared myself to Nietzsche.  God, I was such a weirdo.  Wonder why that relationship didn’t work out?

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

Have a good weekend.  Pray for me and the Philadelphia Eagles and the whole city.  Please. 

2006, 2007 resolutions
Jason posted on January 10, 2007

I don’t know why I didn’t do this, but I didn’t make any resolutions for 2006.  Maybe I was just feeling lazy around resolution time or felt that I had accomplished everything I wanted to accomplish in life, but what sucks is that I can’t now tell you how spectacularly I failed at keeping those 2006 resolutions. 

2006 was, on the whole, a pretty solid year.  I traveled a lot, was the best man at my buddy’s wedding in Jamaica, had my five-year college reunion, lost almost 40 pounds, started living alone, fell in love with drinking whiskey, enjoyed one of the best weekends of my life in Maine, and had a tremendous gambling season.  Not too shabby.

There were some sucky parts.  My grandmom died, which totally sucked.  Like, big time.  Then I was a vegetarian for a month, which also sucked, though much, much less.  And 2006 was an abominable year for me and women.  Good lord.  There were, of course, some exceptions, some lovely ladies and lovely times, but pretty much it was a disaster wire-to-wire.  I don’t think my sex life is sophisticated enough to use the word travesty to describe it - even in the nightmare that was 2006 - so let’s instead go with the more appropriate shit show.  Terrible, just fucking terrible.

(And I’m still not even close to getting that threesome, which is a resolution for every year.  I’ve been hoping for this for about fifteen years now, so maybe I should replace my yearly "Have a threesome" resolution with something more attainable like, "Stop masturbating into my laundry.")

(Actually, that’s not attainable at all.  I’ll think of something else.)

For 2007, I will, however, make some resolutions.  But we’re going to keep them simple and reasonable.

2007 Resolution #1: Spend the year training in order to become the World’s Strongest Man in 2008
I’ve been traveling so much over the past few weeks that my concept of time is warped (this weekend will be my first real one at home in NYC since before Thanksgiving), but once recently while in Philly, sitting on the couch next to my dad, who was, of course, smoking two cigarettes at once, we were watching the World’s Strongest Man competition.  Specifically, we were watching an event in which the competitors were on some tropical beach and had 90 seconds to throw ten 60 lb. kegs behind their back and over their heads over a 15 foot banner, which looked like a steel volleyball net.

The first thing to note about this event was that it was totally awesome.  The second to note is that for whatever reason I really, really want to do it.  I realize that it’s not exactly practical - the odds of me walking along the beach and coming upon some barrels that need to be thrown in the air are even worse than me being shirtless on a beach (what am I doing on the beach in the first place? did I get lost? shipwrecked?) - but there is something comforting to know that if something like that did happen, I could toss those kegs in no time.  I feel like this would help me sleep better at night.

After the diet ended, I said that it was only the end of Phase One of a body rehabilitation.  After I had shed the excess weight, I would start weight training for a few months (Phase Two), then really amp it up so that I could murder people with ease when the situation arose (Phase Three).  Before starting Phase Two, I took two weeks off the diet and learned something that essentially devastated my drive - I didn’t need to work out anymore.  Since the diet ended, I’ve been eating pretty much what I want and still have kept the weight off.  My guess is that I’ve awoken that biological process called a "metabolism" that hid from me for so long, the dickhead.

But sitting on that couch, the smoke from my dad’s cigarettes clouding the view of the TV and the muscle guys, I felt reinvigorated (and not at all in a gay way - I don’t think).  Since just after the New Year, I’ve gotten up at 7am each morning to do my sit-ups, then run a mile, then hit the weights.  And yes, of course, I’m lying.  Doing this has been my intention, but my first day at the gym I pulled so many muscles in my back and arms that I couldn’t wipe my ass properly for three days.  I was pooping at work when I first realized the damage I had done and was this close to jumping out of the stall and sticking my ass in urinal, hoping that a flush would clean me up proper.  Unfortunately, someone then walked into the bathroom and so I couldn’t go through with my plan.  I spent the next few days staying away from people at work and going through a lot of cologne.  

Yet I remain determined.  I’ve gone twice this week and am getting the hang of it. I realize it’s only a matter of time before I due some serious damage to myself while doing this, but my hope is that by the time I hurt myself so badly that I can never have sex missionary-style again I will have at least put on enough muscle to qualify for the 2008 World’s Strongest Man competition.  Wish me luck.  

(Also, if you see me at the gym doing