a lesson, wrought in garbage, scotch, and toilet water
Jason posted on February 28, 2007

All I wanted on Saturday was to get a haircut.

I woke up early – like, 11am – and couldn’t get back to sleep because I was feeling so sexually aggressive.  I tried masturbating, but with my blood pressure the way it is, I decided to take another course that would undoubtedly calm me down: doing my first fantasy baseball draft of the season (more on fantasy baseball another time). 

Four hours, three bowls of French Toast Crunch, and two aborted masturbatory sessions later, I was out and about in the East Village, walking to SuperCuts.

Let the record show that I hate getting haircuts.  I hate them because they are a hassle and put me in an awkward situation (“So, what do you do?” “Oh, rape, mostly”) and because I invariably leave SuperCuts with an uneven haircut, looking like an asshole.  And while they are a necessary evil and I get them fairly often (because, as you all know, looking good is very important to me), I really want to find a woman, a girlfriend, to cut my hair.  I recently adjusted my list of desirable qualities in a woman and haircutting skills now rank quite high:

1) (tie) Lovely boobies, no daddy issues
3) A doctor, or studying to be a doctor, or can at least provide me with a life of luxury
4) Can give me haircuts
5) At least two years younger than me, preferably four

(In case you were wondering, “Can make a kickass meatloaf” was knocked out of the top five.  It was tough, but I stand by my decision.) 

After a long “morning” and a long walk, I finally made it up to SuperCuts.  But, it was packed.  Usually there are no more than two people waiting to get a haircut; this time, there were about nine.  I stepped into the place, saw the crowd, turned around, and walked out.

Agitated, I wanted a drink, especially because I took it relatively easy the night before.  I texted my friend Jeremy, knowing he’d be out and about with his friends Cameron and Matt, visiting from the West Coast.  Sure enough, the three of them were around the corner at 9th and 2nd, eating at Veselka.  I joined the trio for some delicious fried pierogies (something tells me I’ll be going back to Veselka very, very soon) and we decided to get an afternoon drink.  I had dinner later – a dinner at which I hoped that Jeremy, Cameron and Matt would join me – before acting as a gay best friend/date for a friend at her co-worker’s b-day party.  However, it was only around 4 and dinner wasn’t until 9.  So we were off to an afternoon drink. 

This is where the wheels started to come off.

I should have known that I was in for trouble when the four of us, and later my old roommate Brian, were at a bar that had half-price drinks and a two-for-one happy hour special.  And it was dark.  And we were the only people in there and so had control of the jukebox.  And we were getting free shots.  And the bartender had tattoos and nice boobies.  A better recipe for disaster, I can think of none. 

What followed were several hours of solid, good ol’ fashioned afternoon drinking.  Five dudes, two of them with beards, three of them with mild to severe alcohol and drug problems, throwing ‘em back like men, real men, hairy men, who are angry about good-for-nothing politicians and evil women, scorpion women. 

I got bombed alarmingly quickly.  For whatever reason, I had the tolerance of an eight year old and may have even been singing a little bit.  Subsequently, I totally lost track of time.  When I checked my cell phone and saw it was ten after 8 – with dinner starting at 9 – I pounded my last beer and fled the bar, walking briskly downtown through the East Village and Chinatown back to my apartment to change and “freshen up” (read: shit out those at-the-time delicious but immediately-after suspect pierogies).     

Filled with the booze and some vigor and realizing how late I was, I switched from walk to speed-walk to jog as I made my way down the Bowery.  When I hit my street, I was in the heart of Chinatown.  I made a quick right and my apartment was only three blocks away.  I pulled out my cell phone to check the time and –

Down.

As in, down I went. 

Without realizing what happened, I found myself laying on the ground on my side, my back partially on a pile of trash bags and my body facing slightly upward.  A rolled some but didn’t get up right away, taking a second to figure out exactly what happened.  Though several continued on undisturbed, a small group of Chinese people had gathered around me, a bearded chubby white kid lying in the crash, saying things that I’m sure translated to “He too big to walk!” or “Fat white boy fall and is funny!”  As I lay there, I thought about how I graduated grade school with the highest general average in my class and now, almost fourteen years layer, was laying on a pile of garbage in Chinatown.  That’s when I learned that you do not know humility until you are drunk and laying in a pile of garbage in the middle of Chinatown at 8:30pm on a Saturday night.      

I picked myself up out of the trash and, red-faced, carried on the few more blocks to my apartment where I quickly showered and changed and grabbed a cab to the restaurant.

***

The whole “falling in garbage” incident sobered me up a little bit, but at dinner I did my best to dull the pain and embarrassment of the incident by having a few whiskey drinks, including some sazeracs, my favorite. 

Dinner ended and we parted; I went up to Midtown West to act as a date for my friend’s co-worker’s party (why she chooses to remain nameless will become apparent in a moment).  After the pints of beer, laying in garbage, a good bit of whiskey, and a huge bowl of pasta, I was in all sorts of pain and anguish.  At the party, a friend of a friend noticed I was drinking Maker’s Mark and suggested I try a scotch.

Not exactly what I needed.

I did not realize that, to paraphrase Ron Burgundy, I apparently love scotch.  Sure, I was bombed and I haven’t had it since, but the scotch, one of the “glens”, was delicious.  The first went down easy.  The second was a little tougher.  A few sips into the third, I was pretty sure that I was going to fall at any moment.

And remember: I was a date here.  I was supposed to be acting charming, impressing people with my funny stories and bawdy humor, making everyone like me.  Instead, I was standing quietly to the side by myself with my eyes mostly closed, clutching my brown drink with my long, pale, creepy fingers, looking like a cross between a sex offender, a painkiller addict, and a vampire. 

I knew that if I finished that third scotch, I would be in serious, friendship-ending trouble.  It wasn’t the type of situation in which I’d inappropriately hit on someone or even expose myself, but rather I’d fall asleep on my feet or in the bathroom.

The bathroom!  Of course!  I could go to the bathroom to collect myself.  It was a onesy and didn’t have any line, so I locked the door, put my drink on the sink, and took a deep breath.  As I was splashing water on my face, I looked over at how much dark brown liquid was still in my glass and realized that for one of the few times in my life, I was in way over my head.  If I was going to survive the next few hours, I needed to dilute my drink.  I poured some of the scotch into the sink and added some water.  This made me feel better.  I decided to take a pee.

I turned about body around and simultaneously tried to unbutton my (stupid) button-fly jeans and also reached for my cell phone.  As I struggled with the buttons and pulled out my cell phone, it fell.  I didn’t even have time to react before my cell phone made a deep “plop” noise as it landed in the toilet.  Before I could even think, I reached in and pulled it out, adding an “oh fuck” only after the fact.  My cell phone was soaked in toilet water.

As I stood there, hand and cell phone wet with toilet water, well, that was just about it for me.  I dried off the phone as best I could, washed up, and left the bathroom with my obviously watered-down scotch; the color of my drink went from Dave Chappelle to AC Slater during my time in the bathroom.  I stumbled over to my date, red-faced again (and not from the booze), and told her that I was drunk, had dropped my phone in the toilet, and should probably go home.  She pointed out that it was almost 3am and the party was breaking up anyway, but thanked me - not with a small amount of sarcasm - for coming with her.  As I left the bar, I didn’t even have enough strength or self-respect to get a slice of pizza (my hand had only moments earlier been in a bowl that dozens of people had pissed and shit in that night) so just grabbed a cab home.   

***

The good news is that I was able to get a new phone on Monday.  I was concerned, because I vaguely remembered a friend saying that he jumped into a pool with his phone and that circumstance wasn’t covered by his warranty.  However, when I dropped the phone off at the Sprint store and went to pick it up two hours later, they said only that they were giving me a new one.  The bad news is that all my phone numbers, games, and pictures - including semi-nude pictures of my ex’s - were lost.  So if you’re reading this right now and I once had your number and I accidentally left you off the email I sent to 200 or so people on Tuesday, you’d better email/call/text me your digits if you ever want to hear my voice again. 

The bad news is that I seriously have to stick to beer for a while - even if I was only drunk on beer when I fell in the garbage (we’ll chalk that up to a slip, not a booze-induced accident).  Or, at least, I should go back to drinking vodka, which I so mastered in 2001-2004 that after a few drinks I could have intermediate conversations in Russian.  This whole whiskey - and now potentially scotch - thing is only going to end in pain, sadness, and disease.  I have to do some serious thinking here or this is going to be bad for everyone.  And I am so, so confused.

(But at least I have a few days to map out a battle plan before Friday rolls around.)  

july 14, 2007
Jason posted on February 27, 2007

It’s coming.

fuzzy chalupa
Jason posted on February 27, 2007

I went to my local Taco Bell last night for dinner to find it was closed.  This is why:

[youtube]su0U37w2tws[/youtube]

That is really, really unfortunate.

…

Man, I’m hungry for a burrito supreme. 

february dinner: buddakan
Jason posted on February 22, 2007

Holy fucking shit.

Last night, Nicole and I had our monthly dinner at Buddakan.

Holy fucking shit.

(That means it was good.)

Going into it - and even after arriving at the restaurant - I was a little suspect.  This was Nicole’s pick, and as with many of Nicole’s picks, it was a little intimidating for me.  You see, Buddakan is very "hot" (as the kids say).  Rich, attractive, famous and powerful people eat there, people with whom I do not usually associate or am comfortable in the presence of (however, I take a bit of comfort in the fact that I think this might be the case as with most animals met in the wild: "They’re just as scared of you as you are of them").  I showed up wearing jeans that I pulled off my bedroom floor and a shirt about which four years ago my buddy Dave in Boston said, "You know, you wear that shirt every time you come up here."  As I mentioned yesterday, I have been sick and looked pale and sallow and had dark circles under my eyes - and I won’t even mention what the wind and humidity has been doing to my hair.  Meanwhile, Nicole looked immaculate with perfect hair, make up and dress and blended right in with all the attractive people at the restaurant, while I looked like a man going through a bitter divorce.     

Much has been written about the space of the restaurant, namely that it is huge.  I don’t give a fuck about this.  Architecture is right up there with fashion and The Ten Commandments on my list of things I don’t particularly care for, so if you want to read about the design of the place, you’ll have to do some googling. (But I at least wanted to mention it.)

Nicole and I arrived ten minutes early for our 8:15 reservation and were seated at 8:20, so immediately this place was better than that stinkhole STK that we ate at last month.  I had spent a good portion of the day studying Buddakan’s menu and knew what I wanted to get: I wanted to start with either the lobster egg rolls or the boneless spare ribs and for my entree have either the shrimp & lobster chow fun or the charred filet of beef, along with a side of crab fried rice.  I did not know beforehand that the food is served family-style, meaning you have to share everything.  This is not my favorite, mostly because I am selfish and also fat, but I got over it when Nicole was so impressed with my choices that we ordered every single one (with the addition of the edamame dumplings).

Then, holy fucking shit.

Nicole and I both agreed that this is one of the best restaurants we’ve eaten at on our lil’ tour.  This one is difficult to place, because it’s very hard to compare Buddakan with some of our other favorite places like

Perry Street

(new American) or The Strip House (steaks).  

But this…this was something special.  I didn’t even know what edamame was prior to eating these dumplings, but probably would have kissed a man on the mouth for some more.  The lobster egg rolls were as spectacular as they sound, but the boneless spare ribs…I mean, there is semen everywhere as I write this right now.  I can’t get through a sentence without having at least a mini-orgasm when I think about those boneless spare ribs.  They were so tender that not only did one not need a knife to cut them, but if you stared at them long enough, they would have divided themselves into neat bite-size pieces.  I don’t know what sauce or marinade they were covered in, but I want to marry it.  And that sauce and I would live happily ever after, because there is nothing that I wouldn’t do for it.

Then the entrees came.  The shrimp and lobster, though good, was the least good of all the different stuff we ordered.  This is, admittedly, perhaps because of my aversion to spice - I ate a chili pepper early on in the dish, and even after I calmed down and Nicole had procured me enough milkshakes to dull the heat, I was too shaken to dive haphazardly into the chow fun.  The crab fried rice was giant, but also vainglorious (and yes, I realize that "vainglorious" doesn’t make any sense, but that’s the first word I thought of when I first tasted the rice).  Who knew that the simple combination of rice, crab and egg could turn a bearded and jaded 200 pound man into a pile of quivering flesh, sobbing and praying in the middle of a crowded restaurant?

But the charred filet of beef…hold on a minute.

First, I love me some steak.  I don’t pretend to know anything about it, but I’ve eaten a lot of steak in my life (hey, I grew up on food stamps and like to treat myself now that I’m a grown-ass man) and I know what is good and what I like.  I keep a record of the top four steaks I’ve had in my life: the first at Ruth’s Chris in NYC, the second at El Gaucho in Seattle, the third at the Strip House in NYC, and the fourth at the Palm in Boston (the fifth may go to Spark’s in NYC).  So though I’m no foodie, I at least appreciate a good steak.   

Second, I have no idea why they call this "charred" filet of beef.  I work in marketing, and also self-promoted myself into (internet) fame, (imaginary) fortune, and the (size 22) pants of women the world over (mostly in Central America and for $7).  If I worked at Buddakan, I would suggest dropping the "charred" from this entree, as that might scare some people away.  I then might suggest replacing the "charred" with "there is no way that you deserve this" or "this is the opposite of being eaten by a shark - totally" or "if you like heroin, you’re going to love this" filet of beef. 

I guess what I’m trying to say is that the charred filet of beef, which was served sliced and with a delicate mustard sauce and some sort of magic sauce poured on top, was one of the best steaks I’ve ever had.  I know it’s not a "classic" steak because of the way it was served, but I was blown away.  I can’t say enough about it.  Or rather, I can’t say anything about it, because it was just too good.  I did not cry while eating it, nor did I yell, nor did I cream in my pants - I just sat there.  As soon as I tasted the steak, everything seemed to go in slow motion; my eyes widened, my jaw slackened, and I could hear the synthesizer intro to "Baba O’Reilly" start to play in my head.  It was a moment.  This may not make much sense, I actually learned while eating this steak.   I’m not kidding when I say that if (when) I go back to Buddakan, I’m ordering two of these.  Both for myself.  No sharing.  

(While we’re here, some more use of italics in this post.  I guess I just figured out what the slanted I in the tool bar does.  Good for me.) 

I gave up sweets for Lent, but was so moved by the steak that I momentarily lost consciousness and when I came to was eating dark chocolate pudding (very unimpressive, sadly).  The good news is that per yesterday’s post I didn’t drink during the meal.  However, I did drink after the meal, but it’s not my fault.  Nicole and I went to La Bottega at the Maritime Hotel for a drink, and the bartender essentially called me a pussy when I told him that I’d been sick for a while and might have an ulcer.  One Manhattan and a bottle of wine later, the mother fucker had shut his mouth.  That’s how I roll, son. 

I got him after midnight to wake up at 5:30 this morning with the same tremendous stomach problems I’ve been having lately and have been a mess all day (I actually walked to work this morning as opposed to taking the subway because I needed air and wanted to be above ground if I shit myself/threw up).  I’m going home and am taking some Xanax and drinking a half jar of Pepto at 8pm.  Uncle Jason needs to shut down the engines tonight. 

But today’s misery is worth last night’s ecstasy (which is really all I ask for in life).  Buddakan was fucking incredible and I highly recommend it.  Next up is mine and Nicole’s white whale: Babbo.  Since Nicole and I started our monthly dinners last July, we’ve been trying to get reservations at Babbo and so far have been unable until now (I haven’t even been able to get past a busy signal).  Expect a full recap in a few weeks.

(Provided I don’t shit myself to death before then.  Keep your fingers crossed.)

shore, sickness, resolution
Jason posted on February 21, 2007

At the beginning of the year, when I was trying to figure out how I would spend my 2007 vacation days, I circled President’s Day weekend.  With a proximity so close to Valentine’s Day and that Monday a firm holiday, I hoped that I would perhaps take a Trip of Love that weekend, perhaps with a bosomly-gifted woman, perhaps to a warm beach, perhaps to consume 150 pina coladas over the course of five or so days. 

But as President’s Day weekend approached, it became apparent that this fantasy would not play itself out.  I probably could have swung a beachy vacation financially, but there was no woman with whom I could share those pina coladas (or, more importantly, no woman who could help me bathe after I so horrifically sunburned my feet and hands, as these are the only body parts I expose while sunbathing).  I contemplated going to the Caribbean alone, but this idea was shortly dismissed because it would be just about the saddest thing I’ve ever done.  And there would be a greater than 60% chance I’d either get arrested for solicitation or contract another STD.

(If I’ve learned anything in my 27 years, it’s that STDs are like prison terms or homosexual encounters - one is enough, thank you very much.  One is something you can deal with, get over, and, most importantly, pretend like it never happened and never mention again.  But two…then you’ve got a problem.)   

So I adjusted my President’s Day weekend plans to something a little more realistic.  My aunt and uncle own a vacation house on the New Jersey shore in beautiful North Wildwood, so, if I wanted to, I could make the trip down there and at least be close to a beach (20° temperatures notwithstanding).  And though I may not be able to share that weekend with a bosomly-gifted woman, I could enjoy something that makes me almost equally happy: doing a bunch of cocaine and throwing all of my aunt’s dishes and glassware into the ocean at 5am (while screaming, and then crying, and then screaming some more, and then finally going home to take a bath and burn myself with the scalding water). 

As you might suspect, this became my plan.  Early last week, I was making all the arrangements for a long weekend alone in North Wildwood - and I was getting excited.  I love the shore in the off-season because I like being alone.  Actually, I love being alone.  Some of you may find this strange, but I think I’m sort of like a bipolar introvert-extrovert - I like to be either completely alone, preferably with no one I know within 60 miles; or I like to be surround by dozens of people, preferably at least one or two I have a chance of sleeping with.  This is why I like living alone and have difficulty staying with my family in Philly (though they are awesome).  I can handle zero people or 60 people, but don’t do so well with one or four around me for much of the time.  This is also why my first marriage will last less than two years.  But at least I realize this going into it and you bet your ass I’m getting a prenup.  But enough talk about romance… 

I have been sick for, I don’t know, about seven weeks now.  Ever since January went from 60° days to 15° days, I’ve been dealing with a mild head cold.  Not a problem for most people, but you’re forgetting: I am a 100% pussy when it comes to illness.  When the sickness first struck me, I called my mom at work so much that she started pretending that it wasn’t her when she answered the phone:

Mom: "Brokerage, Kathy speaking."
Me: "Mom, it’s Jason again.  I still feel sick and now my butt burns."
Mom: [using very high-pitched fake voice] "I mean, um, Layla speaking.  Can I take a message?"

Still, I soldiered on, because there was nothing I could really do about it - of course you’re going to be sick if the temperature in your apartment is constantly 53° and you drink four gallons of beer a week.  I mean, this is not rocket science, people.  So saying "F it" to the sickness, I got preparations for the shore in order and planned to take a train down to Philly on Friday night, where I’d pick up a car and then drive to North Wildwood.  Then, I’d spend the next few days basking in the cold loneliness of the Jersey shore in February.  Sweet!

But early last week, I noticed the head cold I had been dealing with for weeks started to take a turn for the worse.  It was one thing to spit up large balls of mucus in the privacy of my own home, but when I had to do so in my office, it was just plain unprofessional.  I woke up Thursday feeling abysmal, but still went it to work (and it’s not even bonus season!).  I spent the day coughing in my office, putting my head on my desk, and retching so loudly that numerous co-workers would pass by my office, stop to look in on me, then shake their heads disapprovingly and/or disgustedly.  Not fun.  But, again saying "F it", I still planned on leaving for the shore on Friday after work.

Until I woke up on Friday morning and was a mess.  I called in sick at 8am, then went back to bed until 1pm.  I dragged myself onto the couch, where I spent the next six (!) hours watching wildness and/or murder shows.  If I was just a little bit sicker, I would have been content peeing in a gatorade bottle, but I had just enough strength to get myself over to the bathroom to pee.  Otherwise, I didn’t move from the couch all day.  In the evening, I went outside to run some errands (read: get ice cream and pizza), but that was it.  I was immobile.  And it was pretty fucking terrific.

The next day I woke up feeling better and did make it down the shore (though the trip nearly killed me).  And, like I had hoped, it was incredible - from Saturday to Monday, I was completely alone, didn’t talk to hardly anyone, ate a lot and drank a little bit (wasn’t really feeling it in the booze department).  I slept a ton.  During the day I drove around and walked on the beach - in the f’ing snow - for awhile, which was lovely.  I especially enjoyed going to breakfast and dinner by myself; for some reason, there is something purifying about going to an "Island Cafe" in the middle of winter, sitting alone with a beer and some crab cakes, and watching a man in a Hawaiian shirt sing and play "Margaritaville" to eight people, all locals.  It was probably one of my favorite vacations ever.  And yes, I realize how sad that statement is.  

I returned to the city on Monday night, feeling better than I had in weeks, and ate a nice chicken parm dinner to cap off a restful, recuperative and enjoyable weekend.  Since I had been taking NyQuil every night for about two weeks, I needed a little help going to sleep, and so took so Xanax at about 9pm and it was lights out by 10pm.  Narcotic-induced sleep: the perfect end to a perfect weekend.    

And then I woke up five hours later and shit like a maniac.  And then did so again three hours later.  Repeat.  Repeat.  Repeat.  Um…repeat.

I’m not a doctor, but I think that chicken parm gave me some sort of case of mild food poisoning.  I came to work on Tuesday but can safely say that I spent more time on the toilet than I did at my desk.  Not only was I shitting immediately after eating, but I probably could have eaten a lump of raw ground beef and four perfectly cooked hamburgers would have appeared from my colon twenty minutes later.

It’s been a long, slow road to recovery since then, but I’m feeling better.  However, I’ve been getting intense stomach pains, kinda like my stomach is growling, but it is growling and scraping and pulling at my insides.  Again, I’m not a doctor, but I think this means that in the Feces Fest of the past day and a half I must have pooped out a kidney and possibly a large stretch of intestine.  So naturally I’ve been hitting the pepto pretty hard.  The good news is that it’s working, so if you’re into investments, I would get in now on Procter & Gamble, because I will be spending a substantial amount of my income on their products until this goes away (so for the next few days/weeks/months/ever).    

All this sickness, though not severe (save for the bleeding ulcer that is slowly killing me), gives me a bit of pause to take stock of my life.  This weekend, I "took it easy" and still drank almost a case of beer, probably.  Every once in a while I’ll get an email from a reformed lush who reads this site who either wanted to clean up or lost a bet and had to give up alcohol for a month.  They’ll write to me and say how great it felt not to poison themselves, how much awesome hungover-less sleep they were able to get, how nice it was to remember everything, how much money they saved, etc.  And sometimes, I think it sounds pretty nice.  I would certainly like to save some money and I do like sleep and hate hangovers.  And I’m pretty good at will power - I was a vegetarian for a month last year and also dieted and lost 35+ pounds (which I’ve kept off, six months later, by the way).  I don’t know if I could do a month, but I think I could do a week, at least. 

So that’s it: I’m not going to drink again - not a single drop - until March 1.  No beer when I get home, no wine with dinner, no vodka red bulls to kick start the night, and certainly no whiskey when it is apparent that I will not be having sex on that particular evening and thus have no use for my (erect, ejactulateable) penis.  But I can do this.  I know I can.  I ask only for your prayers and support (and drugs, if you have them).  This will not be a permanent thing, but just a stretch of sobriety to see what happens and see if I feel better.  Wish me luck.

[Actually, I have friends in town this weekend coming from Boston.  So we might have to exempt the weekend, because I would be a drag if they're pounding beers and I'm sipping ginger ale.

[Also, Nicole and I have our monthly dinner tonight, and I always get a whiskey drink before the meal.  Since it's a tradition, we'll also have to exempt tonight.]

[And Thursday night I have plans to go out as well for a friend's birthday.  I can't not drink then - what kind of cretin doesn't enjoy a birthday drink with the celebrant?]

[So that's no drinking on Sunday through Wednesday of next week.  It's gonna be tough, but I think I can make it.  Again, wish me luck.]     

car advert
Jason posted on February 15, 2007

I’m shamelessly stealing this clip from Ace, but “what are bloggers but not thiefs in the first place, henceforth?”  (- Thomas Jefferson, 1601)

[warning: not exactly safe for work.]

[youtube]4sZuN0xXWLc[/youtube]

flowers
Jason posted on February 14, 2007

One of the many tidbits gleaned from reading Motley’s Crue’s autobiography "The Dirt" is that drummer Tommy Lee loves getting flowers.  Several times he states his fondness for receiving flowers, even vociferously defending it, saying something to the effect of, "Any man who tells you he doesn’t love receiving flowers is a liar."  Then he goes on to talk a lot about drinking and fucking.  Good read.

I personally have never received flowers, so I am not in a position to either confirm or disconfirm Tommy Lee’s statement (I do not write this to elicit pity; I would much rather receive sweets or, say, beer than I would flowers).  I have, however, sent flowers on numerous occasions.  And what always surprises me about when a man sends a woman flowers is the dichotomy between how much women enjoy getting flowers and how easy it is for men to send flowers. 

Women, from what I’ve read about them in books and seen of them on tv, love receiving flowers.  I’ve spent many a sleepless night wondering why, and in between bouts of masturbation and bomb-making, I think I have discovered the answer.  On first thought, flowers appear to be a rather shitty gift: you can not eat them or wear them, they do not provide shelter, they do not get you fucked up, and they cost quite a bit of money and die in a matter of days.  So you can not really "use" them in any discernable way.

(Actually, I’m not a botanist, but maybe you could eat them and get fucked up.  But please, don’t try this at home.  Or, give me a call if you’re going to try it, and we’ll make a movie about it.)

The most redeeming quality about flowers is that they look and smell pretty.  As someone who is "funny" (in a sad, "Oh, I’ll fuck him and make his year" way) and sort of successful but STILL has only slept with 1.75 women, I can tell you that looking pretty and smelling pretty are very important to the female sex.  No matter how matter how much tell them about how you have zero cancer in your family history or how many times you tell the story about the time you nearly got into a fistfight with Vincent Gallo, unless you look and smell pretty, they will not let you into their secret garden (to borrow a phrase from Bruce Springsteen). 

Yet though flowers look and smell pretty, this is not the reason why women enjoying getting flowers so much.  An example may help explain.  I used to date a girl who would continually berate me for sending her flowers at work, because it would send her co-workers into a tizzy and the gossip mill would churn endlessly, with her as the star subject, for the next two days (many of my guy friends have heard this complaint from women).  Meanwhile, I am 90% sure that this girl spent those next two days masturbating in her work bathroom, excited from all the attention it put on her; nothing screams "Someone cares for me and I’m awesome" than an $80 gift that will begin to rot in four days. 

This, I think, is closer to the real reason women like getting flowers.  It confirms that someone, somewhere, cares for them.  The fact that flowers are pretty and completely impractical - even essentially a waste of money - only furthers a woman’s happiness upon their receipt.  Instead of getting flowers for my next girlfriend on Valentine’s Day, I’m going to walk into her office, scream that everyone pay attention to me, and then say, "Elisha, honey, this is how much I love you."  Then I will take a series of $20 bills from my wallet and light them, one by one.  I imagine I will get through five before security (and possibly the police) end my "Spectacle of Love" (as the papers will later call it), but I am certain that my girlfriend and I will have very good sex later that night and possibly even act out one of my oldest sexual fantasies: me as the birthday boy with the cake and party hat and she as the Ronald McDonald with a special birthday gift and not-the-best intentions.

Anyway, my point is (basically) that flowers should not be accorded such thanks or draw such awe from women, since any asshole with access to a phone and a debit card can send them, usually in under forty seconds.  There are certainly monkeys - and probably some dolphins - that you can train to send flowers.  It’s really very simple.  For this reason, any man who doesn’t not send flowers to his lover, knowing that it takes minimal effort but reaps maximum rewards, is an asshole.

(And yes, I realize I’m undermining myself and may never be able to send flowers with success again.  I can only hope that whichever one of you readers I marry has a short memory.  Otherwise, I’m fucked.)

***

The best part of sending flowers from the man’s point of view is that time in the conversation when the florist asks, "So what do you want the  card to say?"  This, my friends, is where the men get separated from the boys.  Even though the florist has written down hundreds of messages, it’s still a very awkward moment in the conversation.  Are you expected to reveal the depths of your love for your significant other in front of this stranger?  Or intimate details of what you love said person?  Or apologize for some surely scandalous mistake?  It is a moment of true vulnerability, and as such requires the utmost sensitivity. 

There are several ways that a man can approach this awkward "Valentine’s Day flowers card message" conversation with the florist.  Below are some ideas.   

The juvenile.

Josie,

A poem for you on Valentine’s Day:

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Some poems rhyme
Some poems don’t.

Yours,
Jason

I can’t take credit for making up this poem - I heard it many (many) years ago, possibly from a stand-up.  Yet it graced the card of most of the Valentine’s Day flowers I sent from junior high through college.  Simple, short, and a little quirky.  Exactly like my sexual urges.

The "all out of love."

Scarlett, 

These flowers cost me a goddamn fortune.  Jesus Christ.  Anyway, pick up some KFC on your way home.

Love,
Jason

Because really, anytime you can work a KFC reference into a love note, that’s a great thing.

(Also, it’s just not right that florists jack-up the prices on Valentine’s Day.  Christ.  They’re just plants.)

The bitter ex.

Emma,

I hope you die.

Fuck you,
Jason

If any of you can get a florist to write "fuck" on a love note, please let me know.  Because I will put that florist’s kids through college with my business.

The romantic storyteller.

Kate,

Well, today is Valentine’s Day, and I’m sitting here thinking of what I love about you.  Indeed, the list is long and lovely, as long and lovely as your legs, which I first noticed on that fateful sunny day on the beach in August of 1999.  You were there with your friends wearing a bikini and I couldn’t help but stare at your great legs: their length, how even and bronze they appeared in the summer sun, and their smoothness, as they every pore on them seemed to scream, "Jason - come hither and caress me."  I remember remarking to Juan Carlos, who was visiting me from Portugal at the time…

This is a good one to try and might even make for a good skit on one of those lame reality shows on MTV.  How long can you get a florist to take down what you’re writing before he says "enough"?  I think in this case he might yell "stop" after the word bikini, but it really all depends on your storytelling ability.   

The soothsayer.

Elisha,

This florist is a real fucking asshole.

Happy Valentine’s Day,
Jason

I dare you. 

[Happy Valentine's Day.]

a love story (kinda)
Jason posted on February 12, 2007

I had sort of a low-key weekend, so I must relay a friend’s story for your entertainment.  At first, he wouldn’t let me write about this because of the potential repercussions.  However, once I assured him that I am a writer of the highest caliber and capable of handling such stories with utmost delicacy, he relented.

(Translation: He said I couldn’t write about this but I’m doing so anyway.  I’m pretty sure our female lead doesn’t read this site, and my buddy rarely does.  So whatever.  Also, this is a great love story, perfect for Valentine’s Day.)

My buddy Frank (not his real name) used to hook up with a girl named Joyce (not her real name).  Their relationship was one that most guys dream of, because they hung out every couple of weeks only after 2am and had sex.  No dinners or dates or anything like that - just booty calls/text messages and making out.  They got along famously and did it.  Really, perfect.

(I was involved in a relationship like this and when it ended it devastated more than the end of most real relationships I was in.  I’m serious - I couldn’t believe how bummed out I was; even though I had constantly had a blood-alcohol level of at least .05 at all times when we hung out, I really did kinda like her.  While we’re here, if anyone is interested in this sort of relationship with me, please send resumes and pictures to either myself or Site Guy Brendan at your earliest convenience.  Thank you.)

However, the situation Frank and Joyce had did not last more than a few months, because, as you might guess, Joyce grew weary of the situation and realized that Frank was quite the opposite of weary - I think the word is "pretty fucking thrilled."  Joyce told Frank that she could not see him anymore.  Frank accepted and understood.  Against the advice of his friends (including yours truly), he sent her one or two post-2am text messages after the "break up" to see if she maybe had changed her mind, but she didn’t respond to these.  So Frank lost the Upper Hand, but got over it, mostly because he’s not really into "feelings."  Nor is he into "paying me back the money he owes me," but that is a post for another day. 

All this shook down around Thanksgiving.  Since then, Frank and Joyce had occasionally emailed but hadn’t seen each other.  Life goes on.

Last week, Frank decided that he wanted to see (read: sleep with) Joyce again, so against the advice of his friends (including, again, yours truly), he emailed her saying as much.  The email, which he later forwarded to us (you’ll see), did not explicitly say the thing about the wanting to do her, but warned her that he would be contacting her late at night over the weekend, so she should be prepared to deflect his advances.  Considering the delicacy of the situation and the sheer show of desperation, it was a pretty solid email (and this comes from someone who has written his fair share of "Please have sex with me again" emails). 

About an hour after Frank wrote his email, he received a reply from Joyce.  In her email, Joyce asked, in a very nice way, that Frank not contact her because she was…seeing someone (hey-yo!).  Joyce then included your typical "final end of relationship" disclaimer in which she said that Frank was a really great guy, that she enjoyed hanging out with him, and that she wished him luck in the future.

Frank was disappointed upon receipt of Joyce’s email, but, well, what are you gonna do?  He responded to her immediately, saying that he thought that might have been the case but that he had been thinking about her recently and wanted to contact her.  He closed with a similar "final end of relationship" disclaimer, wishing her good luck as she did for him.

At this point, knowing that I do little to nothing in the course of a workday, Frank called to tell me what happened.  After hearing a recap of the story, I quickly offered an "Oh well - what are you gonna do?" (see above) before immediately turning the topic of discussion back to me - particularly in regards to my fantasy basketball team, which is making a serious run right now - as I am wont to do.  While lamenting the fact that Jose Calderon has lost the starting point guard job in Toronto now that TJ Ford has recovered from injury, I heard Frank say, "Holy crap!"  He then laughed and said, "Wait a minute - I gotta call you back."

What made Frank use such foul language and abruptly hang up on me when I was in the middle of a terrific story?  An email had popped into his inbox.  The email was from a girl he didn’t recognize named Christine (not her real name).  The email said something to the effect of: "Very well handled, Joyce.  Honest, mature and awesome.  I LOVE that he wrote you and I KNOW he was not expecting to hear what you said.  Great job."

The email then concluded with Christine apologizing for not being able to get together during the week, but suggested they should "try to hang out next week."

Hmmm…

It took him a few seconds, but Frank figured it out. 

Joyce had bcc’ed her friend Christine when she replied to Frank, blowing him off and saying that she was seeing someone.  Christine, not being very good at the whole "email" thing, accidentally hit "reply to all" when she sent her congratulatory "You showed him!" email, instead of replying only to Joyce.  The result was that this email, which was only intended for Joyce, was promptly read by Frank. 

Zing!

In arguably the most impressive display of decisiveness in his life, Frank did two things immediately:

1) He responded to both Joyce and Christine, writing, "I’d say 8.5 out of 10, if only because the second paragraph is a little too schmaltzy.  Otherwise, great job."

2) He forwarded the entire email chain to eight or so of his friends (including yours truly), with the preface:

"Read from the bottom.  First email: Me telling Joyce that I’m going to contact her for sex this weekend.  Second email: Joyce telling me she’s seeing someone and asking me not to.  Third email: Joyce’s friend Christine, who I guess she bcc’ed, accidentally replying to all.  Fourth email: my response.

Girls
are
so
dumb."

As you might imagine, for a group of guys that do collectively very little at their places of employ, this was the highlight of our Friday afternoon.  We traded a few emails back and forth and waited in joyful anticipation for either Joyce or Christine to respond, but sadly, neither did.  At that point, this appeared to be another story that only further illustrates that women simply can’t be expected to operate certain things, like forklifts, remote controls, and state or municipal governments.

But this was not the end.

Friday night passed uneventfully, but on Saturday night, Frank received a call.  From Joyce.

(Note: I must admit that the following events were told to me on Sunday, as I did not hang out with Frank on Saturday night.  Instead, I stayed in my apartment that night, drank nine Bud bombers and a 40 of Coors Light, watched "Jackass 2" twice, and, of course, listened to a lot of Fleetwood Mac.  Again, ladies, I am still single.  But you should really act now.)

Joyce called Frank around midnight on Saturday night and told him that she felt very bad and embarrassed about what happened.  She was, as Frank later described, "pretty drunk but not bombed."  She said that Christine, who Frank later recalled meeting, was a good girl but a ditz but she was silly to include Christine on the email in the first place.  But, after all, Christine was her best friend.

Frank told Joyce that it wasn’t a big deal.  He said that he was not offended but rather that he found the whole thing funny.  This relieved Joyce and made her happy.  They shot the shit for a little while longer, Joyce continuing to say how bad she felt, Frank assuring her that it was ok, and Frank finally ending the conversation by wishing her good luck with her new man.  After they hung up, Frank felt like all was right in the world.  He continued to booze and enjoy his Saturday night. 

Two or three hours later, Frank’s phone rang again.  It was Joyce.  Again.

Joyce was significantly more intoxicated this time around, as was Frank.  Without getting into too many details - details which Frank thankfully spared us from - Frank and Joyce talked for a bit and decided to get together that night and do what people do at 3am in NYC when they get together.  That is, they had sex.  Apparently more than once, and apparently (partially) in Frank’s kitchen - while his roommate was asleep in his bedroom.  So there’s that.

(I just read that over and realized that I guess that is a lot of detail.  Oh well.) 

The next morning, after getting a nice morning romp in, Joyce asked Frank, probably with a bit of a smile, not to bother her again.  Frank said that he wouldn’t be a problem.  Joyce left his apartment to get a taxi and Frank went back to bed.

When Frank told myself and some other friends all this on Sunday afternoon over a table of wings, nachos, and half-price pints, I nearly applauded (I would have too, had I not been holding a delicious mushroom-onion-Swiss burger).  Even though it did not happen to me, no story has more perfectly described my life and my friends’ lives over the past six years. 

Emails, alcohol, casual sex, infidelity, and, above all, games and mistakes.  These are the trappings of love for the twenty-something New Yorker. 

(And in my case, Fleetwood Mac.  Can’t forget them.)

 

sadness, wow, italian, awesome, ice cream, music
Jason posted on February 9, 2007

I have to be honest - it doesn’t feel right posting today.  I contemplated a moratorium on posting out of respect for the loss that I - that we, that humanity - is feeling right now.  But I know that thousands of you (ok, six of you) are counting on me to be a beacon of strength in this difficult time.  Typically, I handle death well, as my Irish Catholic upbringing has taught me that when someone special dies, it is the responsibility of those who cared for that person not to mourn a death, but to celebrate a life. 

But in this case, I’m afraid that I’m just too sad.  We have lost an icon and there must be time to grieve.  I can not write any more on the subject, for fear that I will lose control.  My sadness is too great and the hole in my soul too deep.  I can only muster a goodbye to someone who has touched so many of our lives in such important ways.

Farewell, Grey Poupon Man.  May you have all the dijon mustard that your heart desires in the Rolls-Royce that is heaven.  We shall miss you, Sweet Prince.  We…shall…miss you.

***********

There was lots of hubbub in my inbox about the my recent posts about condoms vs. the pill.  Then, last night, there was this email from a man who asked only to be identified as "a fellow Eagles fan in Florida":

Jason,

Long time, first time, big fan, Go Birds.

After your last couple of posts on the benefits of the Pill, I had to tell you my story about love and sacrifice.  I was dating a girl a few years ago and after a couple of months I told her that condoms were really a shitty thing and she should go on the pill.  She did and we began some very happy latexless humping for the next three months or so.  Then one day she woke up and couldn’t feel half of her face.  She went to the hospital, where the thought she had a Bells Palsy and gave her all kinds of steroids and shit.  it went away, but a week or two later she realized that she was having difficulty writing.  Well, long story short, apparently one of the dangers of going on the pill and being a smoker (did I mention that she smoked a pack a day?) is that you can have a stroke. 

Things worked out well for this girl, though, because I was getting sick of her shit by this point.  But even I wasn’t a big enough douche to break up with a girl who just had a stroke for me, so I stayed with her for another 6 months.  So maybe she had a stroke, but she got an extra 6 months of my man meat, so it had to be worth it.

I hope you can someday feel the love that clogs a girls brain.

…

…

…

…

That’s really all I can say about that.  Aside from: I hope so too, my friend.  I hope so too.

…

(I think.  I’m not even sure what I think anymore.)

***********

My apartment is falling apart.  I have not turned on the radiator in my front room, formerly my bedroom but now my "office" (read: room where I keep shit and boxes), since mid-December, because when I do so water starts pouring out of it.  The radiator in my kitchen/living room was also spewing water, but it suddenly and abruptly stopped (I did not ask why, nor do I intend to).  And now the ceiling in my living room is leaking.  I have pots and towels under the leaks, but any day now the brown and soggy tiles should fall onto my floor and couch.  I’m really, really looking forward to that. 

As I have written before, my "Super" is an Italian guy who hangs out all day in and around the Italian restaurant I live above drinking wine and hitting on Chinese women.  He is outside and drunk when I leave for work in the morning.  He is outside and drunk when I get home from work in the evening.  He is outside and drunk (usually by himself) at 4am when I get home from the bars.  So in many ways, he’s pretty awesome.

One way in which he is not awesome is in the "speaking English" way.  I have told him at least a half dozen times that my ceiling and my radiators are leaking.  The first few times I told him in English, but each time that only elicited a stream of gibberish and a burp.  Then I started using a mix of English and some form of bastardized sign language ("ceiling" was easy enough to convey, as was "water", but try signing out "radiator").  That seemed more successful, because at the end of my explanation I got "Whatta apartamento you in?"  But still, it has not been fixed.     

So with no where else to turn, I turn to my Italian-speaking friends who read this site.  If you have the time, please translate the following into Italian, so that I may print it out and hand it to my "Super." 

Friend,

I hate to bother you as I know you have much wine to drink.  But the radiator in my front room leaks and so I can not turn it on - I have not had heat in the room since mid-December and am cold.  The kitchen radiator also leaks as well, but only sometimes.  And the living room ceiling is leaking.  I am concerned that the ceiling will soon fall from the water.

Again, I understand you have your hands full with yelling and drinking and fondling Chinese women who pass you on the street, but if you have the time to fix these things - preferably when I am not home - it would be most appreciated.  And please, do not go through my things.  You will only regret it if you do.

Best,
Jason (from Apartment 2)

Thank you in advance for all your help.

[Author's Note: I have received this translation.  Thank you for the help.]

***********

Thank you in advance for all your help.[Author's Note: I have received this translation.  Thank you for the help.]***********

Two things that are awesome:

1) I could get really used to hot hipster girls approaching me in the bathroom lines at bars asking, "Are you Jason Mulgrew?"  Really.  That is totally fucking cool with me.  Thank god I grew back my beard.

2) New obsession: girls whose boobs and hair bounce when they walk.  I was walking home along Prince Street and passed this girl who couldn’t have been taller than 5′3".  It was freezing out, but she was only mildly bundled up and had the most gorgeous hair I had ever seen; it was dark and it shone and it was so thick that it looked deep.  She was talking on her cell phone and walking quickly down the street, almost marching or even strutting, like she was on a catwalk.  As she did so, I could see her ample bosom bouncing inside her coat, flipping her hair lightly off her shoulders and chest, her boobs and her hair keeping time with each step she took, heels clicking loudly on the frozen pavement.  As we passed each other, we made eye contact for slightly longer than we should have.  Even though she was probably thinking, "Geez, that guy could really use a tissue," it made my whole evening. 

God, I love women.  If I were an artist, I would paint them; if I were a sculptor, I would sculpt them; if I were a writer, I would write them.  Instead, I’ll continue to write about my own sexual misgivings and take thinly veiled cheap shots at ex’s on my internet diary.  Sigh.     

(And yes, I am drinking right now.  Screw you for judging me.)

***********

Just as I did not let you down when I recommended Honey Bunches of Oats with Cinnamon Clusters and got dozens of emails thanking me for the recommendation, I will now blow your mind with two recommendations about an equally delicious foodstuff: ice cream.

There’s no artful way to get this out, so I’ll get right to it: EDY’S MAKES A SAMOAS ICE CREAM.  Yes, Samoas, the delicious caramel, chocolate and coconut Girl Scout cookie which I eat so many of in such a short amount of time once a year that I nearly fall into a diabetic coma.  The best part is that the ice cream is simple in its charms.  It’s not chocolate ice cream with caramel swirls and chunks of coconut or anything like that, but rather plain old vanilla ice cream with hunks of the cookie in there.  And the result is divine.  If you see this in your grocer’s freezer, you are a fool not to buy it.     

Also good but not quite as lovely as the Edy’s Samoas ice cream is a new flavor from the good people at Haagen Dazs called Sticky Toffee Pudding.  I won’t be able to describe it better than the people who make it, so I’ll leave it to them: "a tribute to the popular English dessert, our rich vanilla ice cream is swirled with a sticky toffee sauce and morsels of moist, brown sugar cake."  Um, yeah.  As I usually do with my ice cream, I popped this pint in the microwave for 30 seconds and it is arguably the best-heated ice cream I’ve ever had, because the toffee and the cake get slightly warmer in the ice cream and halfway through you just want to fuck it.  Phenomenal. 

You’re welcome. 

***********

Six Songs

"If Not For You"  Bob Dylan
I have a playlist titled "I Love You Because I’m Drunk" and it’s filled with whiskey-inspired songs of love (think: a lot of George Jones and Ryan Adams).  One of last week’s songs, "Wagon Wheel," inspired another playlist "I Love You Because We’re Dancing In A Field And I Really Do Love You."  "Wagon Wheel" is on there, as well as this lil’ ditty from Bobby D.  Both are simple exclamations of love and make me want to make love.  Not f, not have sex, but make love.  Preferably outside.  Because I’ve never done that (not even in a car). 

I’m kind of afraid where this is going, so let’s just move on.  

"Kiss and Say Goodbye"  The Manhattans
This song also inspired a new playlist: "I Am A Middle-Aged Black Man."  If I had enough money, I would make a music video to this song, in the mid-70’s retro style, starring me, as singer and main character, a black woman with a huge afro as my love interest, and my old roommate Brian doing the spoken-word intro.  As a matter of fact, if you are a film student, or even a drunk with a camera and a little ambition, let’s make this happen. 

(If you have any suggestions for this playlist, let me know.  If you actually are a middle-aged black man, I’m especially interested in hearing from you.  I’m thinking this playlist will feature everything from Sam Cooke and Solomon Burke to the soulful stuff of the 70’s, like lesser-known Marvin Gaye to Gladys Knight.  So if you have any suggestions for the "I Am A Middle-Aged Black Man" playlist, email me.)

"Can’t Let Go"  Anthony Hamilton
…Because now I’m in a soulful mood.  I’m convinced that if a man and a woman are standing together in a room and this song comes on, they will be grinding before the song is over.  I’d love to try this, but I don’t know any women (instead, what usually happens with me is that I close my eyes, rock gently back and forth in my desk chair, and snap my fingers).  However, I encourage you all at home to try.  If you and your man/woman friend are not grinding all up on each other by the time this song ends, I’ll give you your money back.  Seriously. 

"I Need You Back"  Ben Kweller
…And we’re back to being as white as possible.  Ben Kweller is fun.  I wonder if he gets fucked up.  If he does, I think we’d get along pretty well.  Bonus points for him because this is a great song to play and sing when you and your friends are sitting around, because they have no idea the loud "HEY!" is coming and you can really yell it and scare the crap out of them.

"God Shuffled His Feet"  Crash Test Dummies
I like this song because it is philosophical and has beautiful harmonies.  Sometimes all you need is a little philosophy and harmony to make a good song.  It can be that simple.

"Underneath Your Clothes"  Shakira
My sister loves - and possibly wants to be - Shakira.  My friend Corinne thinks Shakira sounds like a bird.  I think Shakira made 2001 one of the greatest years of my life when she released this song.  Once I was lying in bed with an ex-girlfriend and this song came on and she said, thoughtfully, "You know, this song kinda reminds me of you."  Flattered, I said, "Really?"  She then said, "No," and added, "That would be, like, the gayest shit ever." 

I think of her often.

[Have a good weekend.]

oh you crazy gals
Jason posted on February 8, 2007

I was planning on writing about this either tomorrow (or never), but I might as well get it out of the way now and save myself from reading 25 or so more emails I’ll get about the topic today.

In a post last week about condoms, I wrote about a buddy who dated a girl for five years who never went on the pill.  I claimed that her unwillingness to go on the pill was a sure sign that she didn’t love him, as any woman who truly loved her man would pop a pill once a day so her man could raw-dog it.  I also wondered why all women aren’t all the pill anyway - even if they’re not having sex - because it is truly a great invention.

Well.

This inspired maybe two hundred emails from ladies all over the world.  Some offered advice and insight as to why all women aren’t on the pill, some gave me a good ol’ fashioned scolding for being an ignorant male chauvinist (guilty as charged).  Either way, they made for entertaining reading.

But one thing I want to clear up, dear ladies, is OF COURSE I realize that the pill is not for everyone. (As a matter of fact, I think that exact phrase - "the pill is not for everyone" - regularly plays in a commercial during some of my favorite murder shows.)  Aside from tv-related birth control learning, I have also been in relationships with women who were either on the pill, or were not on the pill, or started re-taking the pill after we began dating (but it turned out that one of these re-takers was also re-fucking her ex-boyfriend, so it wasn’t just for my benefit).  So I know at least a little bit about the pill and its effects, emotionally, physically, and on my bird. 

Yet make no mistake: even though I realize the pill is not for every woman, that doesn’t mean I’m backtracking from my statement that if a woman truly loved her man, she get on the pill so he wouldn’t have to deal with condoms and could throw the old hot dog down the hallway as quickly as possible.  Mood swings, weight gain, and blood clots are nasty things to be sure, but men sacrifice for love all the time.  For example, do you think that I like coming home after a hard day of work on Friday, attaching my beard trimmer to a wooden ruler with some rubber bands, then spending the next twenty minutes in the bathroom listening to Abba and contorting my body in all sorts of strange and uncomfortable positions to get every last patch of back hair shaved away?  How about when you decide to slut it up at my cousin’s wedding and I have to listen to my mom say for the next two months, "[Girl's] outfit at Michael’s wedding was…interesting.  How well do you know her?  Does she dress like that all the time?"  Or how about when I get an email from a extremely attractive girl from Germany who reads the site, is coming to NYC, wants to meet up, and says in no uncertain terms things that I watch on my computer when I’m alone will happen between us, but I tell her I’m out of town that weekend because I don’t trust myself and apparently monogamy is "important" to you?  I mean, does that not count for anything?

[Deep breath here.]

[...]

[Ok.]

True love is about sacrifice.  Whether it’s me shaving my back and falling into the sink in the process or you taking a pill that for all intents and purposes turns you into a manic depressive doesn’t matter.  If you really care, you will inconvenience yourself.  This is the nature of love.  Embrace it or die alone.      

(Or just stop emailing me explaining the negatives of birth control pills.)

sb party
Jason posted on February 7, 2007

Every year, my buddy Bill, along with his brother Hal and their dad, host the mother of all Super Bowl parties in Roselle Park, New Jersey. I realize that the title "mother of all Super Bowl parties" is a contentious one, but as someone who is very familiar with both parties and Super Bowls and who this morning had to shit standing up because his toilet seat was too cold, I feel that I am qualified to name a champion in this department. And no, I don’t know what that last part has to do with anything, but I thought it was worth mentioning.

(Seriously, a -2° wind chill this morning when I woke up? Not cool. Not cool at all.)

Previously, I had only attended one such Handstand Family Super Bowl party. I did not go last year, because I was in Seattle bringing bad luck to the Seahawks and their fans. Nor did I attend the year before, because I was in Philly getting my heart broken, smashing unopened champagne bottles on the roofs of cars, and later eating on the beach in my white shorts.

The last time I attended the Handstand Family Super Bowl was in 2004. I won’t get into details, mostly because I don’t remember them. But suffice it to say that the day after the party, I was so hungover and hurting that I checked myself into the emergency room at St. Vincent’s Hospital because I thought I was having a heart attack. Any time you go to a party and the next day think you’re in danger of dying, I mean, that’s usually a pretty good fucking party.

But this year’s Super Bowl party did not have such disastrous or financially damaging repercussions (by the way, if your insurance carrier is Cigna, it will cost you about $450 for an EKG and a referral for a psychiatrist, but a doctor and a handful of nurses who think you are on cocaine, well, that’s free). Despite knowing that I would be drinking and overeating and gambling all day on Sunday, I had no intention of taking it easy on Saturday night. I took the day off on Monday, and expected that day would be filled with some serious couch time and Chinese food (and I was right). On Saturday, I met with my friend Brian (not my old roommate) for a quick afternoon drink at d.b.a. I was only marginally surprised when our "quick drink" turned into a five and a half hour bourbon and microbrew clinic which caused Brian to miss a dinner with friends and left me impotent and starving. Admittedly, these are two adjectives that are regularly used to describe me, but I was even more impotent and more starving than usual after this drinking session.

I made it back to my place around 9:30pm and had some drinks with my friends Brian (the old roommate) and Jeremy. We had big plans for the night, but I wasn’t feeling it…my afternoon of hard boozing sapped me of the little motivation I previously had, what with the frigid temperatures outside making me want crawl into bed with a nice big bowl of clam chowder - preferably in one of those bread bowls. Just before midnight, in a last ditch effort to salvage the night, I pounded two generous vodka red bulls, seeking motivation from chemicals and caffeine, but it was not meant to be. Jeremy and Brian said goodbye and went their separate ways: Jeremy to a co-worker’s party and Brian to his home, since he drank all of my Maker’s Mark in the course of the night. Again.

I hoped to get some sleep to watch up refreshed for the Super Bowl party, but my body had other ideas. I’ve mentioned before that I’m sensitive to caffeine and so grateful to red bull, because typically after one or two of them I’m able to fuck and fight all night (well, the latter, and not even really that one). However, these red bulls couldn’t pep me up enough to go out, the fucking failures. Instead, they kept me awake, tossing and turning in bed, until 5:45am. And the next morning, I was awake at 10am. Not a good way to start Super Bowl Sunday.

Still, like the players in Miami, I realized that I had to "get up" for this game, so I pulled myself together, bathed, and took the train out to lovely Roselle Park. There, I was met by the one and only Site Guy Brendan, who drove down from Boston for this party (told you it was a serious party). We soon arrived at the Handstand Home and from that point forward, it was, as they say, on.

What those of you who haven’t hung out or slept with Site Guy Brendan don’t know about him is that he is a tremendous drunk. Though I’m friends with a lot of drunks, what is unique about Brendan is that he never tires. Ever. I consider myself pretty good at getting drunk and maintaining enough of my poise to make fun of others and talk to the police, but Brendan is a machine. At the end of the party, when everyone else is tiring, passing out, going home, or retiring to bedrooms to make sloppy love, Brendan is up, alert (but drunk), and talking a mile a minute. I’m convinced that he has a serious addiction to methamphetamines, but I can’t prove that. Yet.

(Also, let the record show that I correctly spelled "methamphetamines" on my first try. I wonder if the first through twelfth place finishers in the 1991 Philadelphia City Spelling Bee could do that, suckas.)

Brendan and I immediately started on the keg beer, early as we were for the party. Soon however, fellow partygoers arrived and the shindig was in full swing. Though many of us came from different places and different backgrounds and there was even a black guy and some guy who had to be gay there, we could all agree on two things: we didn’t care much about the game and we wanted to get fucked up.

Well, in my case, the former is not exactly true. I don’t want to get into specifics, but let’s just say that per his post on Sunday, Uncle Jason went pretty heavy on the Bears. I bet on the Bears because I was (mistakenly) under the impression that Rex Grossman is a man. Obviously, his performance in the Super Bowl proved otherwise. A real man - if everyone in America had been saying that he stinks, looking at him and nodding disapprovingly, and offering apologies to his teammates for having to play with him – would have dug deep down in himself, pulled his shit together, and played the game of his life, so that even if his team didn’t win, he could walk off the field knowing it wasn’t his fault. Instead, Rex Grossman proved his is not a man but something much simpler: a terrible fucking football player. Nay, a terrible fucking football player who owes me a lot of money. Also, I’m pretty sure he cries when he fucks. The asshole.

I also went with the Bears because, as I have written in this space, I have had the gambling season of my life. And from the moment the Colts beat the Pats, I thought, "The Colts will give 8, and I will take the Bears." I have been operating on my gut all season long like this and had been so successful it was almost scary. It’s kinda like after you have sex with a girl and she’s all quietly crying afterwards and you’re like "What’s wrong?" and she’s like "I just know I’m pregnant now" and you say, "Jesus, you’re drunk – be quiet or I’m going to call your p.o." and then, sure enough, seven weeks later you’re shelling out $650 to get that problem solved. That’s kinda like how I’ve been gambling this season.

So I was watching the game with a very vested interest. Fortunately, I was also drinking pretty heavily, which helped ease the pain and make me (occasionally) forget how much the Bears were just killing me. So much for my great gambling season.

But the real attraction of the Handstand Family Super Bowl Party is not the game or the beer or the seven televisions, but the food. Your standard party fare was present – chips, dips, salsa, pretzels (yours truly brought six different kinds of Pringles) – but the main course is over 30 pizzas made during the game by the Handstand family. There are your standards like pepperoni and sausage, but also unique offerings. In particular, there were three pizzas that blew my mind.

Host Hal with the Mozzarella Stick Pizza

The mozzarella stick pizza. Why, for the love of God, has it taken America so long to combine the fried cheese of the mozzarella stick with the baked cheese of the people? I don’t know, but I’m ashamed. The mozzarella stick pizza was incredible. Greatest country in the world, my ass.

Breakfast meats. Mmm…

- The breakfast meat pizza. Bacon, breakfast sausage, and pork roll. When the pie was introduced, I thought, "What about ham and scrapple?" Then I tried a slice. And then I took the pizza cutter and cut myself. The pie was perfect. I am a pig.

This is what God looks like

- And lastly, my favorite pizza: the White Castle slider pizza. GOOD GOD. Five-holed White Castle beef patties, taken straight off the bun, with cheese and fried onions, on top of a piping hot pizza. While writing this, I think I just peed a little. But it’s not yellow and is more sticky than pee. And it smells like bleach. Someone please help me.

By the time the game was ending, we were all full of beer and pizza and having a great time. Sure, I had lost money, but I was happy. And sure, we went to a strip club afterward and I spent a little too much money to get a little too friendly with a girl that I normally wouldn’t make out with – let alone pay, say, $65 to make out with – but whatever. That’s why Super Bowl Sunday is only one day a year.

I can’t wait for next year.

[Oh, one other thing – by the time I checked my voicemail the next day, I had a message from my manager. Of course, this scared the shit out of me – I took off on Monday to recover and thought he was calling to tell me to come into work. But that was not why he was calling. He called to congratulate me on winning the office box pool, which I did not realize. I had participated in so many box pools (I had bought 15 boxes in all) and was so drunk, miserable, and looking forward to the strip club after the game that I didn't bother to check all my boxes. Well, I won one. And the biggest one, to the tune of four times what I had lost on the Bears during the game. So, basically: yeah, mother fuckers. Before, I was just a gambling god. Now, I may be The Gambling God. You'd better hope that you run into me in a bar in NYC this weekend, because I will totally buy you a drink.*]

(*As long as it’s under $4. Thank you for your understanding.)

success, finally
Jason posted on February 6, 2007

You know you’ve finally truly hit the big time when your college paper runs an interview with you.

Even though almost all of my curse words were removed, I’m happy with the interview.  And I’d also like to thank the interviewer Neil for keeping it real and mentioning (parenthetically), "Almost no complete sentence from his site could be quoted in this space."

That’s how I roll, son.

last-minute sb prediction
Jason posted on February 4, 2007

1) The Bears won’t win.

2) Take the Bears and the points.

3) Final score: Indy 27 Chicago 23

4) Or: Indy 48  Chicago 13

5) Trust me. 

the h is o
Jason posted on February 1, 2007

This is my old roommate Brian’s favorite SNL skit.  Enjoy (because it should be taken down in a matter of days) and happy Thursday.

[youtube]G70fQAVfNIk[/youtube]