Tomorrow is one of the worst days of the year in the NYC area: the annual Hoboken St. Patty’s Day Parade.

It’s not that I dislike St. Patty’s Day.  I’m Irish-American and am proud of that.  Nor do I oppose parades and drinking with assholes to celebrate the holiday, since every year I head up to Boston for the Southie St. Patty’s Day parade (I’ll be up there in two weeks).  But the Hoboken parade…I mean, ugh.
 
I do admit that, just as I am biased towards Italian-Americans, white women who hook up with black guys, people who love cats, and poors, I’m generally down on people who live in Hoboken.  There are two types of people who live there: the "striped shirt-roofie toting-fuck you in the ass on the first date-banker" variety or those who are too poor or uncool to live in NYC.  But they are united by one common bond that is stronger than the GHB they employ either on their victims or themselves: they are from New Fucking Jersey. 
 
What happens when you put a bunch of drunk Jersey assholes in a one square mile town to celebrate a holiday dedicated to drinking?  You get beat up, your girlfriend gets groped, and you listen to all manner of inane conversations with topics ranging from, "I really think Eli’s gonna pull it together next year" to "I’m up for Executive VP, but Wealth Management isn’t where I want to focus" to "That girl’s set-up is tight – I wonder how well she can take a punch?" 
 
Though I have been to the Hoboken Parade in the past, I have not gone (read: been dragged) for the past few years.  Of course, my old roommate Brian, born and bred in NJ, is trying to get me to go this year.  As much as I enjoy hanging out with Brian and knowing that going to this parade would mean watching him fall asleep on his feet from 6pm until 2am, there is still no way that I can stomach that parade again.  I know I’m going to get a bunch of emails from Hoboken people saying I’m a pussy and that the parade is fun and maybe even pointing out that I (briefly, fleetingly) thought of moving there over the summer, but I can’t do it.  I’m sorry to you, Hobokeners, and I’m sorry to you, Brian.  It’s just too much…Jersey. 
 
But to all who are going to the parade, have a good time.  If you are a woman, I would bring mace and possibly a small firearm.  If you are a dude, prepare to fight someone who’ll yell, "Do you know where I’m from?  I’m from Nutley, mother fucker!  That’s how I roll!" 

And Happy St. Patrick’s Day. 
 
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In an order to make this blog more popular, I’ve decided to report on the celebrities that I see on the street (I heard somewhere that people like hearing about celebrities in everyday situations).  In the past two or three weeks, I’ve seen:
 
- Courtney Love, strolling along Prince Street, a few blocks north of my apartment.  I don’t mean to be mean, but Courtney’s seen better days, methinks.  After I realized it was her, the first thought that came to my mind was, "Man – I don’t think I’d fuck her."  And then I thought, "Who am I kidding?  I fucked the sand four times when I was down the shore last weekend!"  
 
- Winona Ryder, walking along Spring Street, also a few blocks north of my apartment.  She was pulling a piece of luggage, which struck me as weird, because she’s Winona Ryder.  I would have offered to help her, but I had my hands full of groceries.  Also, a milkshake.  Yes, I was drinking a milkshake in the middle of February.  Whatever. 

Unlike Courtney Love, Winona looked pretty f’ing hot.  I always kinda dug her.  I bet she’s a pretty good lay, solidly in B+ territory.  And yes, I will begin masturbating in about four minutes. 
 
- Speaking of masturbating, I saw Jude Law, walking north on Thompson Street, I think between Houston and Bleecker (but I could be wrong about that and about Thompson Street, but somewhere in the vicinity).  All I can say is: HOLY CRAP.  You know the old saying, "I’m not gay, but I’d fuck Elvis?"  I think I can personalize that to, "I would be gay to fuck Jude Law.  Holy shit I want to kiss his mouth." 
 
I had a good look at him too, because it was just the two of us walking in opposite directions toward each other on the otherwise empty street.  My old roommate Brian, who works for a celebrity news show and has met/interviewed many celebrities, told me once that he literally ran into Leonardo DiCaprio coming out a hotel and he (Brian) was caught off-guard.  Off Brian’s surprised "Oh – I’m sorry," Leo gave Brian a look, not in a dickhead way, but in a way that said, "I’m Leonardo DiCaprio and I know you want to be me.  I don’t blame you; I absolutely CRUSH P-SSY" (don’t like writing the p-word in that context).  Brian was taken aback.
 
This is the kind of look that Jude Law gave me.  I knew it was him and he knew I recognized him, so he looked at me like, "Hey there, fat chops.  You know what I’m going to be doing when you’re home straddling the toilet and trimming your balls later?  Fucking two beautiful women in a $35,000 a month apartment.  I’m not bragging, but I thought you’d like to know."
 
Indeed, I would like to know.  Indeed I would. 
 
(And if I didn’t see Jude Law but rather some really hot gay guy, please just don’t tell my dad I wrote all this.  If it was for someone famous, he might understand.  Otherwise, it would kill him.  Thank you.)  

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Two general responses to the "Drink Until You Shit" post on Tuesday.
 
- You do not have to buy the shirts now.  You can buy them later.  I hope to sell some on here, but I wanted to show you the (proposed but not yet final) design. 
 
- What I was trying to say in that post was: The 9th Annual Flood/Mulgrew Quasi-Celebrity "Drink Until You Shit" Tour will be held in North Wildwood, New Jersey on Saturday, July 14, 2007 (exact time and locations to be determined).  Anyone can come.  More details will follow as they become available.  I just wanted to give you a little teaser for now and make sure you have ample time to plan accordingly. 
 
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I don’t usually recommend TV shows, but you guys have got to check out BBC Crown Jewels on VH1 Classic.  It’s a tremendous show that features never before seen in the US performances by artists of the 70′s.  I’ve only seen two episodes so far, and each has made me a better person.  The first show featured The Faces and kicked fucking ass.  The highlight was a touching rendition of Paul McCartney’s "Maybe I’m Amazed" by both Sir Rod Stewart and bass player/singer Ronnie Lane, two guys who totally fucked each other after the show.  That was perhaps the best part of the concert – knowing that the whole band had some sort of giant, British, coke-fueled orgy immediately after leaving the stage.  It didn’t take a pervert to pick up on the sexual energy on that stage.
 
I also saw the Hall & Oates BBCCJ (look how cool I am, using acronyms), which was, believe it or not, a little disappointing.  It was young Hall & Oates, as the show was from about 1976, before any of their mega-hits of the 80′s.  Also, unlike The Faces, it was plainly clear – and strangely disappointing – that Daryl Hall and John Oates did NOT fuck each other after the show.  Why I was so devastated by this, I don’t know. 
 
[Great tidbit from Hall & Oates Wikipedia entry: "Daryl Hall (born Hohl) first met John Oates at the Adelphi Ballroom in Philadelphia in 1967 while attending Temple University.  Both were heading their own musical groups at the time—the Temptones (Hall) and the Masters (Oates).  They were there for a band competition when gunfire rang out between two rival gangs, and in trying to escape, they ran to the same service elevator.  Because of their similar musical tastes, they quickly became acquainted."  God, I miss Philly.]
 
Still, the Hall & Oates BBCCJ was highly entertaining and I recommend the show.  Watch it over a PBR while getting appropriately drunk enough to leave your apartment and face the world.  At least, that’s what I do.
 
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Book pick
 
Memoirs by Pablo Neruda 
I do not read poetry with any sort of analytical eye, in part because I’m not smart enough to do so, but also because I believe that over-analysis destroys what makes poetry good; it should be read, it should make you think, and it should please you – whether it’s written in iambic pentameter or ballad meter should not matter.  Instead, I read poetry with the maudlin sentimentality of one whose parents went through a messy divorce in his formative years and who believes that Johnny Gill’s "My My My" just may be the greatest love song of all time. 
 
But I like the poetry of Pablo Neruda.  I realize this is like saying "I like pizza", as Neruda has been called the "most read poet in history" (Jason Mulgrew, February 28, 2007).  But all of Neruda’s talk of lust and grain and breasts and wheat and skin just really gets me going. 

However, I did not realize how much more there was to Neruda than some Chilean dude who wrote about breasts and wheat.  Turns out Neruda was a leading activist and politician in his native Chile and the world over.  Well I’ll be damned.

This, and not his love poems, makes up the bulk of the subject matter in Neruda’s autobiography.  And while I could not care less about activism – in any way, shape or form – what makes this book so enjoyable and fascinating is that Neruda’s style does not change whether he is writing about the beauty of Chile or the "positives" of Communism (and later Socialism); his words are at times wistful, at other times full of condemnation, but always passionate.  And if I know anything, it’s that chicks dig passion.  So read it. 

(And if you’re not interested in the content, just keep the book on your bookshelf.  A wise man once told me that a surefire way to get laid is to have some Neruda books lying around.  If you have his autobiography, well, you’d better prepare for some kinky shit.)

(Or so I’ve heard.  Usually the women I bring back to my apartment are too busy struggling with the restraints to notice my bookshelf, which is a shame, because it’s truly impressive.) 
 
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Six Songs
 
"Spread Your Love"  Black Rebel Motorcycle Club
One of your wrote in a few months ago and recommended a song (I can’t remember which) for my work-out mix, saying something like, "When I was on the treadmill at the gym and this song came on, I actually picked up the treadmill and started running around the gym carrying it above my head."  I laughed, but I had never felt that way about a particular song.  That is, until this song came on this week while I was running on the treadmill.  I then got off, tried to lift the treadmill, and was immediately tackled by the muscle-bound homosexual trainers that crawl all over my NYSC like cockroaches.  But at least I tried.
 
Also, the song is so…dirty.  I mean, this not only sexually ("Spread your love") but also hygienically ("like a fever").  Like saying, "Let’s fuck and get cholera."  If that’s not romance, I don’t know what is. 
 
"TKO"  Le Tigre
I’ll be damned if I don’t hate this bad.  And I hate this song.  I don’t even know why I’m recommending it, but I think it has song to do with it (the song) making me want to punch people in the fucking face (it is called "TKO" after all).

(God, I really hate this band.  Seriously, don’t you just want to punch someone – preferably a hipster – right in the mouth while listening to it?)

"Victoria"  The Kinks
I had to search the archives on this one and can not believe that in three years of doing this I have not recommended this song.  I’m shocked.  This song is easily one of my twenty favorite songs of all time, and is, without a doubt, the opening song for whatever movie I write (even though the movie won’t be about Queen Victoria – I don’t think).  If this doesn’t get your head bobbing no matter what mood you’re in – especially the last verse that starts "Canada/To India" you really need to talk to a therapist.  Terrific song to walk, drive, and just plain rock out to.

(I’m listening to this at my desk right now and practically dancing.  If I had any shame, I might be embarrassed.  But I don’t care – it’s Friday and I’m getting drunk tonight.  God bless America.)

(Also, I’ve linked to the live version, which is far, far inferior to the studio version.  But the latter is not available on iTunes.  Get the studio version if you can.)
 
"Level"  The Raconteurs
Sexual.  Dark.  Chocolatey.  For real.

"Custard Pie"  Led Zeppelin
Sexual again, though more light than dark.  And I think "custard pie" is a metaphor for a woman’s sexy region, which is a pretty awesome metaphor if I do say so myself.  Although I could do without the word "cut" in the last verse:

Your custard pie, yeah, sweet and nice
When you cut it, mama, save me a slice
Your custard pie, I declare, it’s sweet and nice
I like your custard pie
When you cut it, mama… mama, please save me a slice.

Yeah, "cut" is a little harsh there.  I mean, "serve" wouldn’t have been fine?  Or even "give"?  C’mon, guys.     

"Crossroads"  Cream
I think this is the only song on my iPod that I have never skipped when it’s come on shuffle.  The bass playing on this song is so good, I don’t even know what to say.  Jack Bruce goes absolutely fucking insane-o.  There is nothing I wouldn’t give to be able to play like that.

(You listening, Devil?  I know I don’t have much to offer, but there have to be some things you’re interested in.  I’m really good at fantasy sports, for instance, and though I only did it once, everybody said I was really great at that bukkake party.  Just throwing it out there.)
 
[Have a good weekend.]