It’s a slow week on here (even though the last post was one of the longest I’ve ever written), because:

a) I’ve been busy at work (like you care);

b) I’ve been staving off illness (you should care – very much);

c) I’ve been busy preparing, as I’m leaving for Boston tonight for the wedding of my friends Joe and Danielle.

You’re probably thinking, "What kind of ‘preparing’ does one need to do prior to a wedding?"  Or perhaps you’re thinking, "That bump was not on my bird last night."  Well, the answer to the former is: not much. (The answer to the latter: Been down that road and better you than me, my friend.) 

However, I am the best man at this wedding, so there’s a greater degree of responsibility.  Normally when I attend a wedding, my only responsibility is to make sure that when the wedding is over, everyone I know who attended the wedding is still speaking to me.  This, believe it or not, is much more difficult than it sounds.  I distinctly recall a wedding a few years back, also attended by my old roommate Brian, in which I woke up in a strange hotel room that I shortly learned was my at-the-time ex’s room. (Apparently after our mutual friends’ wedding, I wanted to talk, she did not, I came into her room, she left. We haven’t spoken since. It’s like a real post-modern love story.)  

But when you’re the best man, there are more duties.  In addition to taking care of the groom and making sure you have the rings and yada yada yada, you have to give a speech. 

Fortunately, I have an edge in this area.  Not only do I love writing speeches and do so in my free time – I wrote one earlier this week titled, "What Am I and Why Do I Turn You On: The Pros and Cons and Nooks and Trannies of Trans-Gender and Trans-Sexual Pornography" – I was also my buddy Steve’s best man last year in Jamaica.  Of course, I’m not giving the same speech, but at least I have an idea of what to expect and what the crowd wants to hear.  For example, the crowd does not want to hear a six-minute story about you and the groom discussing whether or not he should ask his bride to sign a pre-nup.  Really, not a strong anecdote for a best man speech.  Not at all. 

But I’m having some fun with this speech by totally messing with the bride-to-be, Danielle.  Danielle is like my sister and has been since she started dating my roommate Joe in the fall of freshman year, so she knows what to expect from me in terms of public speaking.  And she’s a little afraid. (Rightly so.)

Below is a series of emails that Danielle and I exchanged today which I have titled, "How to Send the Bride-To-Be into Paroxysms of Fear Three Days Before Her Wedding."


—–Original Message—–
From: Jason
Sent: Thursday, April 26, 2007 11:46 AM
To: Danielle
Subject: question re: best man speech

Danielle,

I’m putting the finishing touches on the best man speech, but I have a question: are there going to be any black people at your wedding?

Best,
Jason


—–Original Message—–
From: Danielle
Sent: Thursday, April 26, 2007 11:53 AM
To: Jason
Subject: RE: question re: best man speech

Jason!  Off the top of my head, I don’t think so, but I’d have to think about it.  Why do you need to know this?


—–Original Message—–
From: Jason
Sent: Thursday, April 26, 2007 11:59 AM
To: Danielle
Subject: RE: question re: best man speech

OK.  How about any gay people?  Will there be any gay people there?


—–Original Message—–
From: Danielle
Sent: Thursday, April 26, 2007 12:07 PM
To: Jason
Subject: RE: question re: best man speech

JASON!!!  Why are you asking these questions???  I don’t know if there will be any gay people there – I could never answer that.  What are you going to say?


—–Original Message—–
From: Jason
Sent: Thursday, April 26, 2007 12:19 PM
To: Danielle
Subject: RE: question re: best man speech 

You know, you’re really not helping me out very much here.  A few other questions:

1) Are you and Joe going to be miked up at all?

2) Are there going to be any Vietnam Vets at the wedding?

3) You’re not related to any Puerto Rican people, right?  It’s ok if there are Puerto Ricans at the wedding, but if they’re related to you, they might be offended.  No aunts or uncles have adopted little PR kids, or no cousins have married PRs, right?

Please let me know.

Best,
Jason

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

This is where the email correspondence ended, because two minutes after I sent that last one, I got a call from Joe kindly asking me to stop messing with Danielle.  Also, she may not speak to me until after the wedding.  We’ll work that out when I get up to Boston. 

I’ll be back on Monday (hopefully with some pictures), but until then, wish me luck.  Joe has informed me that this wedding has both a margarita bar AND a sundae bar (in addition to mini-cheesesteak appetizers), so there is a great chance that I may never come home.  If I don’t, well, we had fun, did we?

[Have a good weekend]

 

 

[Author's Note: All names in the following post have been changed to protect the innocent.  Well, not all - I didn't change my name and some others.  So I guess most of the names have been changed.  But you know what I mean.]

October 2002 to October 2003 was arguably the greatest twelve months of my life, even if it did get off to a shaky start.

After returning from eleven soul-crushing, liver-pounding, gastrointestinal-inflaming days at Oktoberfest in Munich, I was promptly dumped by my long-term girlfriend – the day after I got home.  We dated long-distance for 2.5 years, but lasted six weeks in the same city.  Yikes.

At the time, the dumping was a great shock to me.  My understanding of love at that point in my life was naive and simplistic – you met someone in college (in our case, while studying abroad), dated for a while, graduated college, dated for a little while longer, got engaged, then got married.  Done and done.  I guess I never really thought much more about it than that, but apparently she did.  A lot.  In retrospect, in the weeks before the break-up, I should have seen the signs: how she cried to me three times a week about how she hated law school and NYC, how she constantly talked about her college friends and how much she missed them, how I’d ask "What’s going on?" and she’d say, "Stop smothering me!"  But, as my romantic history has proven, I am completely oblivious to such signs of impending doom.

[To wit, I once dated a girl for six months who never looked at me while we had sex.  Not once.  Now, I'm not saying I need some sort of hate-fuck death-stare action going on, but a little incidental or momentary eye contact would have been nice, rather than her looking at the walls, at the ceiling, out the window, at the cars passing by on the interstate, etc.  I swear that one time I could hear the words to "Raspberry Beret" playing in her head while we were doing it.  I told my buddies about this early on in our relationship and they thought it was quite a bad sign, but I ignored them.  Then, after our relationship ended, I learned that it was 98% likely that she was fucking her ex-boyfriend the whole time we were dating.  Whoops.  But deep down in my heart, I know that she liked me.  And by "liked me," I mean "liked me paying her cell phone bill" ("I'm a fool to do your dirty work - oh yeah").]       

But after my most unceremonious dumping, something strange happened: I released a maelstrom of lust upon the women of New York City the likes of which had been seen neither before nor since.  I did not change a single thing about my look (really, how can you improve on "chubby guy with beard?"), my wardrobe (best described as "What’s on sale at Banana Republic?"), or my approach to women (find the drunkest girl, stand near her, hope she settles), yet I was on fire.  Perhaps God was paying me back for the heartbreak, but I was unstoppable, and hooked up constantly.  I simply could not lose.  For a year, I knew what it felt like to be Antonio Banderas.  And, dear friends, it was awesome.

Facilitating my transformation into Sexual Deity was what I did for a living.  No, I did not work as an escort or exotic animal trainer, but rather as a legal assistant at the same large corporate law firm at which I currently work (though I left legal assisting over three years ago).  I realize that this job does not sound particularly sexy, but what it was was very social.  I worked with about 60 other people my age, all from similar education backgrounds, all with similar life goals, and, most encouragingly, all with similar boozing habits.

Our frequent happy hours led to an obscene amount of co-worker incest.  Everyone hooked up with everyone, seemingly regardless of whether they had a boy/girlfriend outside of the firm.  True, some legit romances were born during this time (I have a wedding in December that proves this), but for the most part it was good old-fashioned, fresh-outta-college, mostly-consequence-free hooking up. 

(God, I miss those days.)

Personally, I had a few affairs with co-workers during this time, but for our story, we will focus on one.  Emily and I were friends long before we started making out.  I don’t recall how we first got together, but I’m guessing it went something like this:

INT. – CROWDED BAR AFTER HAPPY HOUR – FRIDAY NIGHT, 11PM

Jason: [swaying] "So, um, do you want to go outside to make out or do you just want to do it here?"
Emily: [slowly opening eyes] "What?"

JASON and EMILY begin SUCKING FACE.

However, Emily and I needed to keep our affair secret, as she was dating an attorney who worked at the firm.  So a few select friends of ours knew about our romantic dalliance, but for the most part we kept things on the hush-hush.  This worked well for me, since I had romantic intentions with another girl that we worked with.  

Over time, because Emily was getting more serious with the attorney she was dating, and because I started hooking up with the other co-worker, it became imperative for Emily and I to be totally secret about our affair.  Though I was in full Antonio Banderas mode, if you know anything about Antonio Banderas, it’s that he hates drama.  And no, I have no idea what that means either.

So imagine my dismay then when, Ben, at the time a co-worker who later became my roommate and who knew of mine and Emily’s affair, pulled me aside one night (when we were not out with co-workers).

Ben: "Dude, I have some good news and some bad news about you and Emily. What do you want to hear first?"
Me: "Gimme the bad news."
Ben: "The bad news is that me, Sarah, Steve, Katie and Emily were all out getting margaritas last night and Emily was very drunk and told everyone about you guys."
Me: [panicking] "What?!?"  
Ben: [chuckling] "But there is good news."
Me: "What’s that?"
Ben: "Emily said that you were ‘hands down’ the best sex she’s ever had."

Well.

If there is one thing that everyone knows about Ben, it’s that he’s total prankster/prick when it comes to women.  I could write a whole post listing the ways in which Ben has been a dick when it comes to this stuff (and I will someday), but suffice it to say that I did not believe him in the least.  Not only because it was Ben telling me this, but because it was simply impossible.  Every time Emily and I hooked up, we were bombed.  It was nothing short of a miracle that I was able to even get an erection during these love-making sessions, which I would only be reminded of the next day when I’d wake up (alone) with an earring sticking out of my face (also, a lack of pizza boxes was a giveaway, since the only way I’d go home without pizza was if I was surely going to do it).  Emily was also an experienced girl who went through a self-described "fun bisexual phase" in college, meaning I was probably in the bottom ninth of her list of best lovers (and I’m being generous).  There was not a doubt in my mind that Ben was lying, perhaps trying to soften the blow about mine and Emily’s love affair being exposed.  Or he was just being a dick.  Whichever.

Back at work, I did not speak to Emily all week, which was not usual.  That next Friday night, all of the co-workers were out celebrating a birthday.  Everyone – including Emily but excepting me – was bombed.  I didn’t feel the need to get (too) bombed that night because it became apparent that at some point in the course of the evening, Emily and I would need to have a semi-serious talk about the status of our "relationship."  If she was going around telling everyone about it, it was going to be a big problem for both of us.

I did not have to think long about how I would breach this topic with Emily, because she soon came up to me.

Emily: [very drunk] "Hi."
Me: "Hi."
Emily: "I have a secret."
Me: "What is it?"
Emily: "I told Ben and Sarah and some other people about us."
Me: "Yeah, I know. That’s almost the opposite of a secret, you know."
Emily: "I have another secret. I told them that you were the best sex I ever had."
Me: [stunned, confused, more than a little scared] "You did?"
Emily: "Yep. And you are. Hands down."

Well.

Emily then asked me to have sex with her in the woman’s bathroom of the bar, a request I respectfully declined.  I wasn’t so sure I could deal with having sex with one co-worker while another one peed.  To this day, turning down this request is the greatest regret of my life. 

(God, I really, really miss those days.)

But at this moment, HD was born.  I, of course, relayed this story to my friends, who started calling me "HD" for "Hands Down."  I was surprised my friends took to this, but truly, it was the feel-good story of the century: chubby guy, recently dumped, down on his luck with no real prospects in terms of love or career, but here he was – a stunning lover.  Of course, I didn’t believe this (and neither did my friends).  I am certain that Emily was either a) lying and fucking with me; b) building up my ego, which she could tell was/is fragile; or c) just really, really into bad sex.

All things considered, however, not a bad rumor to be spread about you.  You can be certain that over the next few days, I was strutting around like the cock of the walk as the story made its rounds among my friends.  I was a little hurt when I told my female friends this story and they would then burst into laughter – long, hearty, and thorough laughter – but I dealt with it.  I was fucking HD.

Over the years, my friends and I have gotten a lot of mileage out of the HD nickname/story.  Of course, no woman since has ever said anything close to me being "hands down" the best sex she’s ever had.  This is probably because 95% of my sexual encounters are the anatomical equivalent of stuffing a wet dish rag into a shot glass and my art of seduction goes: 1) start kissing; 2) count to 20; 3) stick it in.  But to this day, after hooking up with a girl and talking to my buddies about it, they still invariably ask if she got the "HD treatment," which, in addition to stellar love-making, involves a laser light show, a half-dozen black children skipping jump rope, several Dolly Parton tracks, and a cameo appearance by Mike from "American Movie".  Also, it comes with a slice of cantaloupe at the end. 

This is why, however ridiculous and entirely erroneous it may be, one of my nicknames among my friends is HD.

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

Fast forward to this past Saturday night. 

My buddy Jeremy and I were out and about in Alphabet City, which, even if it is turning into the Lower East Side circa 2004, is still a lovely place to be when the weather is nice.  He and I were having drinks at some random bar with friends celebrating a birthday party when one of those rare but awesome moments occurred: I was "recognized." 

I know that "The Loser’s Guide to Marginal ‘Fame’" says that one should play it down and act like it’s no big deal, but I can’t help it – when a random person comes up to me at a bar and says, "Are you Jason Mulgrew?" (usually followed by "Your blog sucks"), it totally rocks my balls off.  I’m not ashamed to admit this.  Usually when it happens, I try to play it cool, but I wind up becoming so embarrassed by the situation that I blush (stupid Irish complexion), mumble, and shuffle off.  But fortunately, I was drunk and in a good mood on Saturday, so any awkwardness was quickly minimized with another sip of beer.

The girls who read this site were named Lisa and Jenn, and they were visiting town from California.  Since it was a small bar and they were not entirely terrified of me, we hung out and enjoyed some drinks.  Before long, we were getting along like old friends, when Lisa said, "We know a secret about you."

Secrets, of course, are generally a bad thing, especially if secrets are known by people you don’t know and who don’t know you.

(Or something.)

I asked what this secret was, and Jenn chimed in and said, "We’ll give you a hint – it comes from your friend Jessica."

Ah, Jessica.  Jessica is indeed my friend.  In addition to being my friend, she and I have done it.  That is, we have had sex.  Twice.  The good news is that it didn’t affect our friendship very much (at all, really) and it was sort of a one-time (or rather, two-time) thing.  We still see each other every once in a while, the last time being a few weeks ago when I randomly ran into her at a bar. 

[Author's Note: I realize that I sound like a whore in this post, but bear in mind that I do not use "hooking up" and "having sex" interchangeably and I've only admitted to sleeping with three girls in this post, one of whom didn't even look at me, so that shouldn't even count.  Also, as of three weeks ago, I have no STD's.  Just pointing that out in case my future wife is reading this post.  Thank you for listening.]

Jessica, however, does not know many secrets about me, or rather none that aren’t known to at least 150,000 of you.  Therefore, I really didn’t know what this secret could be (blame my lack of ratiocination on the booze) and asked Lisa and Jenn how they knew Jessica.  They didn’t, they said.

Now I was getting very intrigued, and maybe a little concerned.  Sensing this, Jenn began to explain.

Jenn and Lisa have a friend who lives in New York named Phil.  A few weeks ago, Phil was at a bar.  I was at this same bar.  So was Jessica.  This is, in fact, the bar at which and the night in which I randomly saw Jessica a few weeks ago.  All three of us, randomly, at this bar.

Apparently, this is what happened.

After Jessica and I spoke at this bar, she walked back over to her circle friends, who stood right next to Phil’s.  She then said to them, "Over there is Jason Mulgrew."  When her friends looked over at me, Jessica then added, "Yeah, he is a terrible, terrible lay."

Ouch.

I nearly choked at this point in the story, as my friend Jeremy burst out laughing.  Lisa then added, "Actually, Phil said she used the phrase ‘worst sex of her life.’" 

Again, ouch.

Jeremy nearly fell on the floor.  My mouth fell open.  Jenn said, "So, um, yeah – sorry about that."  Jeremy then did actually fall on the floor. 

(Seriously, ouch.)

Look, I know I’m a terrible lay.  I’ve always known I’m a terrible lay.  Hell, I tell you guys once a week that I’m a terrible lay.  But…it’s cute when I say it.  It’s kinda like black people and the n-word – only they can use it, and it’s downright adorable when they do so.  But to hear that a girl that I hooked up with is regaling a bar full of her friends and a group of strangers with tales of my inability to properly work a woman’s sexy regions, well, not so cute/adorable/awesome.

I immediately fired off a text message to Jessica, asking her why she was slandering my good name in public.  I thought back to the times that Jessica and I did it, and, while they were not spectacular (I invite you to drink sixteen beers and take a Vicodin and see how well you perform – and I’m talking about her), I would not use the phrase "worst sex of my life."  I considered for a moment that she might have been a virgin, or had only otherwise slept with Charlie Sheen, but realized neither of these were very likely.

Jessica, bless her heart, responded incoherently (it was almost 3:30am at this point), but the gist of her response was that she didn’t remember saying that, that she thinks that someone actually said that to her (???), and that she wasn’t that great either.  

Anyway you look at it, the damage was done.  There I sat, sitting in a bar in Alphabet City at almost 4 in the morning, listening to two strangers from California tell me they heard I was a terrible lay.  WTF, my friends.  WTF, indeed.

So to pre-empt this in the future, to prevent any readers of this site coming up to me in bars telling me they heard I’m a bad lover, I would like to go on record right now and say the following:

I, Jason Mulgrew, am a terrible lover.  I have no idea how to please a woman sexually (or emotionally, psychologically, or mentally, for that matter).  If you go to bed with me, it will be an unpleasant experience that will feature 40-80 seconds of rocking motion, then a noise that sounds like a grizzly bear falling down a flight of stairs, then a request for a high five.  This is all I can give you, aside for upwards of $90 for your troubles.  In my bedroom, you are more likely to find a Sasquatch eating a sandwich while Santa Claus masturbates than you are to have an orgasm.

As for HD, if he ever existed in the first place and was more than a fluke, I think it is safe to say that his time has passed.  There is nothing to be ashamed of, and he had a great run – much greater than any of us expected – but it is now officially over.  HD has gone the way of the dinosaur, the dodo bird, and Rasputin; he has been poisoned by women whose only intention was to build him up so that they could knock him down. 

Farewell, HD.  You were a magnificent son of a bitch and you will be missed.

(Meanwhile, what do you guys think is better: A Practical Guide To Lovemaking Secrets Of The East And West or An Intimate Guide to Soulful Sex?  I’m thinking both, just to be safe.)

Brothers and sisters, you have got to go see Joseph Arthur & The Lonely Astronauts.  Just trust me on this.

Am I hungover?  Sure.  Did I stay out until 4am last night for the first time on a school night in months?  Yes.  Am I so full of hungover emotion (and sausage egg and cheese bagel) that I shouldn’t be dispensing any advice about anything to anyone?  Yep.  But am I going back to Southpaw after work with my best shovel to pick up my brains from the floor after last night’s show?  You know it.

So yeah, the show was fucking fantastic.  But I guess I should start with the new album before getting into the show. 

What I like about Joseph Arthur’s music is how versatile and dynamic it is.  In simplest terms, I like his fast songs, I like his slow songs, I like his medium songs.

In my opinion, on no other album does Joseph displays the full extent of his versatility than on Let’s Just Be.  "Diamond Ring," the first song on the album and the one I mentioned yesterday, is a vintage rock n roll single, with a catchy chorus that’s been in my head all week (and which has infected a number of my friends, just by hearing me sing, "I said you/You could be my diamond ring" in my best scratchy falsetto).  I have adopted "Spaceman," which I first heard last time I saw him and made me pee and little bit, as my new anthem.  When I hear this song, I want to get high, I want to swim in a pool, I want to get out of the pool in slow motion, and then I want to jump off a mountain. (Author’s Note: Please do not try this at home.)  "Cocaine Feet" and "Good Life" make me want to have angry sex with a woman who works in the sex industry, while "I Will Carry You" makes me want to make sad love to an ex-girlfriend (really, any will do – I’m pretty lonely right now).  And there’s a lot more here, but I’m still working my way through the album. 

But what’s most appealing about it, if one listens to it top to bottom, is that it’s very…genuine (settling on that word over "real," "stripped," "informal," or "ephemeral").  This album sounds like it was recorded over a long weekend in the remote woods in a big house filled with best friends and a ton of booze and drugs, doing one take per song.  This may sound like a knock, but it’s actually a compliment because it implies that some sort of magic (admittedly possibly devil magic) was captured in this recording (as a matter of fact, you can hear Joseph’s voice say, "That was pure magic, man" at the end of "I Will Carry You").  And I totally fucking dig it. 

Last night’s show was tremendous.  What’s interesting is that I think that on the whole, Let’s Just Be is more rocking than his previous album Nuclear Daydream, but the show I saw in support of Daydream was more rocking.  The show last night had its balls out moments (the aforementioned "Cocaine Feet" and "Good Life" were so rocking I had to keep one hand on my testicles, lest the fall off due to overrocking), but what was most memorable to me was in the middle of the show, when Joseph came out with only his guitar and did some songs.

My all-time favorite of his songs is "Echo Park," which I will have Joseph play at my wedding (provided he works on draft beer and blowjobs from my wife’s bridesmaids, since I am sure she will be a woman of loose morals and, well, birds of a feather), but he didn’t play that one.  I was not disappointed however; he started with "A Smile That Explodes," which was so touching that by the end, my buddy Jeremy and I were hugging each other.

But the magic moment of the night came when Joseph sang "Honey and the Moon," just him and his guitar.  Everything stopped when he performed this song.  I’m being most literal here; not only was no one making a sound while he sang, but everyone was completely still, completely transfixed.  Even the bartenders, who must see five shows a week, stopped cleaning and talking and stood motionless, watching Joseph.  Out of the 200 people there, I don’t believe a single muscle was flinched for five minutes – it felt as though our breathing fell in sync while he played.  Total quiet, total concentration.  It was beautiful.  It felt unreal.  This sounds silly (especially if you’re not high), but listening to him play that song reminded me why I love music.  I listen to my iPod seven hours a day, have 12,000 songs on my computer, and consider myself a music fan of the highest order, but when Joseph played that song, I thought, "Oh…that’s right.  This is how it’s supposed to be."  I spent $15 expected to be rocked senseless; I walked away wanting to think and wanting to hug someone.  Which I did.  Jeremy again.  Maybe I should try to meet some girls.  Whatever.       

When the song was over, even Joseph seemed surprised, saying, "Wow – thanks so much for the quiet.  That was awesome."  But then the band came back, and shortly the place was rocking again ("The needle says she’ll tell you when she’s through," from "Too Much To Hide," has got to be one of my favorite opening lines in a song).  The show ended with "I Will Carry You" (mentioned above) and then the trippy "Star Song" (which was ok with me, because I need to ease out of the show after such an emotional roller coaster).   

After the show, I couldn’t go home.  I plied my buddy Jeremy with free beers to stay out with me and he and I got so shitcanned that I honestly think he may be dead right now.  He’s not answering his phone, text messages, or email.  (God, I hope he’s not really dead. I would feel pretty bad about that.)

But brothers, sisters, I cannot recommend this show strongly enough.  I know a lot of you took my advice after I saw him last time, but I wanted to share this different but equally awesome experience.  You can listen to many of his songs on the radio that pops up when you visit his website, and check the tour dates here. 

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to putting my head on my desk and thinking about hugging.  And if you hear from Jeremy, let me know.  I’m getting a little concerned. 

A few years back, my buddies got me a breathalyzer for my birthday.  It was quite a fun addition to our drinking; we’d take it out to bars, get people to blow in it, and see how high they’d score. 

However, the "in-bar" readings were often inaccurate.  This is because after taking a sip of beer you had to wait two or three minutes before blowing, lest your reading be inflated.  And since I and my friends had (and have) trouble waiting between sips, often our readings would be through the roof – usually over .30, after only a beer or two (the legal limit in most states is .08).  Therefore, it was impossible to accurately predict who had the highest reading while out boozing. 

So instead, the best use of the breathalyzer was in the morning.  We’d blow into it after a heavy night of drinking and after not having had a drink for six or eight hours.  This, we thought, would give us the most accurate reading.  The record was a tie between my friends Bill and Jen, who each blew a .22 in the morning after boozing.  Both records were recorded in the same weekend and blew the previous morning high – .16 – out of the water.  We were in awe of Bill and Jen.

However, Bill and Jen have nothing on this woman.

A former Seattle police officer returned the highest blood-alcohol reading ever recorded by a Washington state driver, and she was charged with driving under the influence Wednesday.

Deana F. Jarrett, of Woodinville, registered a 0.47 percent blood-alcohol reading after striking two cars April 11, said Trooper Jeff Merrill, public-information officer for the State Patrol. The legal limit in Washington is 0.08 percent.

A blood-alcohol level above 0.40 percent is potentially lethal.

.47???  I’m speechless.  I am without speech.  The article continues, "Five empty four-ounce plastic bottles of vodka and two empty 12-ounce cans of beer were found on the front passenger seat, according to a trooper’s report."  Just…wow. 

I really don’t know how I feel right now.  I think it’s somewhere between impressed and turned on, but also a little nauseous.  So basically the exact same way I felt the first time I saw a vagina.   

There is nothing funny about drinking and drinking, which we here at jasonmulgrew.com do not condone under any circumstances.  However, we would like to officially state that we will be dedicating this weekend’s drinking performance to Ms. Deana F. Jarrett, in recognition of her record-breaking performance.  Congratulations, Deana, and may God have mercy on you.  

Also, will you marry me? 

************  

Does anyone want my couch?  I’m getting new furniture this weekend and need to get rid of it.  I must confess - there was an incident, and, well, without getting into too much detail, I peed on the couch.  However, that was way back in December of 2003 and I immediately sprayed Febreeze on the urine stain.  And though it’s still there, this couch (which has a sofa bed) has been sat and slept on by dozens of people since my urination.  So please don’t let the pee keep you from taking it.  It’s otherwise a lovely couch.  

But if none of you want it, that’s fine.  The plan is for my buddy Jeremy to come over to my place after midnight on Friday night and he and I will take the couch and leave it on the street somewhere in Chinatown.  Knowing my neighbors, my guess is that the couch will be claimed no longer than 15 minutes after we put it down, and there may even be a line gathering around us as we look for a spot to drop it.   

So no worries.  I was just looking out for your guys.  I can think of few better pieces of memorabilia after my spectacular death in a hotel fire in October 2009 than the original Jason Mulgrew Piss Couch.    

(I am really gonna miss that couch.  I also think I’ve had sex on the couch, which would make it even rarer and more valuable, since the number of things I’ve peed on is far greater than the number of things I’ve had sex on, which go: my bed, the parking lot of Veterans Stadium, and, um…that’s about it.  Oh, once I fell off my bed while making love, so maybe my bedroom floor.  But I don’t know if that really counts since the girl was asleep at the time and stayed on the bed, so whatever.  I’m not a doctor.  Let’s just move on.)     

************  

I may be in Milwaukee in the first weekend of August.  I’ve always felt a connection to Milwaukee, which, as I understand it, is full of fat people who drink a lot of beer and eat a lot of cheese and sausage.  Which begs the question: where do I sign up?  My buddy Bob lives out there and a bunch of us – all Phillies fans – are planning to go out that weekend to catch a Phils-Brewers game.  Just a lovely mid-summer guys’ weekend.   

However, the trip is not definite.  Squeeze, one of my favorite bands, is reuniting for a tour.  And wouldn’t you know it – they will be playing in NYC the Friday I am planning on being in Milwaukee.  Complicating matters is that my buddy Griff wants to fly in from Seattle for the weekend to see Squeeze with me.  Hmmm…  

Though I love the 80’s Brit-Pop of Squeeze, methinks the beer/sausage/cheese combo that Milwaukee is offering me is going to win out.  As a compromise, I will tell Griff that I am willing to fly out to LA to see Squeeze on August 13 (a Monday).  We can spend the weekend together there, which sounds really gay now that I just wrote it out, and then catch Squeeze at the Greek Theatre, which is perfect because Griff is Greek.  Everyone wins.

Griff, if you’re reading this, let me know if this works for you.  If not, we can discuss at Joe’s wedding next weekend when you’re bombed and agreeable.  And if any of you reading live in Milwaukee, you’d better start the preparations now.  If you wow me enough, I may be moving out there.  Most will move for love or career or family; I will move for sausage.  And I am proud of that.     

************  

What the Phillies are doing right now to themselves, their fan base, and the city of Philadelphia is disgraceful.  They have the worst record in the NL, they moved their Opening Day starter to the bullpen, their best player and last year’s MVP may be hurt, and their manager wants to fistfight a radio show host.  What a fucking shitshow.   

(For some background that’s both bizarre and hilarious, go here.)

However, I really can’t complain (too much), since I’ve watched only one Phillies game this season.  But expect more insight soon as I just ordered the MLB Extra Innings package on cable.  Yes, that’s right – for only $160, I can watch a season’s worth of Philadelphia sports futility, resulting in stress, bitterness, weight gain, and heightened blood pressure.  Seriously, that’s a steal for $160.   

Anyone who says that Philly isn’t the unluckiest sports city in America is just plain wrong.  Fuck.   

************  

It seems wrong to discuss this between fart jokes, but I also didn’t want to make a grand statement that would seem either disingenuous or plainly inappropriate.  My reaction to the Virginia Tech shootings thus far has been purely visceral; it is a great tragedy and alternatively makes me feel sadness for those who were lost and anger toward some fucking nerd who thought he was a bad because he had a gun.  

But I have yet to formulate an intellectual response.  Two difficult questions are being addressed right now:  

1) What could the university have done differently, knowing that Cho Seung-Hui’s was mentally unstable and a potential threat to others?  

2) What of gun control laws – should they be tightened to prevent tragedies like this?  

The first question, I can not begin to answer.  I know nothing about the legal responsibilities of the university or the local authorities, nor do I understand the psychological conditions that are required to be met in order to take the weird/quiet kid from the dorm room down the hall and lock him up in a mental institution.  But boy does it seem like the school administrators dropped the ball there.   

As for the second, I’m torn.  On the one hand, I agree with Jeff Soyer, a self-described "gay gun nut in Vermont" who runs Alphecca, when he wrote that, "[Y]ou can’t legislate against insanity, certainly not against future insanity [his italics] by someone who hasn’t had a record of it already."  100% true.  But the fact is that this great loss of life would not have happened if Cho Seung-Hui was not able to purchase guns.  A tremendous oversimplification, sure, but a fact nonetheless.   

I don’t – and will never, apparently - understand the need to own guns.  I need to eat and I need to have a home.  I have a lot of hobbies and things that I love: sports, music, boobies, hoagies, etc.  But if I had to give up one of these hobbies in order to prevent 30+ people getting shot to death at a school or 110+ people from being murdered so far this year in Philly, well, then I think I can live without obsessing over Jason Bay’s on-base percentage.   

Anyway, thoughts, prayers, and good vibes to those affected by the shootings. 

************  

Six Songs  

"Diamond Ring"  Joseph Arthur
I got his new album and it fucking rocks.  However, I haven’t been able to get past this song, the first one, which has been stuck in my head since I picked up the album.  You can hear the full song on my MySpace page or, more appropriately, Joseph Arthur’s MySpace page.  His last album, Nuclear Daydream, blew my fucking doors off.  I still need more time, but it’s possible that I may like this new one, Let’s Just Be, even more than Daydream.  But give me a little bit – right now, it’s a little bit of a sensory overload, like that giddy and impatient feeling you get when you’re in a pool or jacuzzi and put your balls on one of the streams of water.     

(Actually, it’s exactly like that feeling.)  

"This Must Be The Place"  Talking Heads   
I’ve pimped this before.  Here’s the deal: I wouldn’t call myself a Talking Heads fan.  I’m not even sure that I like the band.  Yet, this is probably one of my top ten favorite songs.  Interesting, no?

"Heaven on Earth"  Belinda Carlisle
I saw this video over the weekend while watching a pre-recorded video block from VH1 Classic and it struck me: Belinda Carlisle was once the most beautiful woman on earth.

[youtube]VQahvFdQVu8[/youtube]

I mean, look at her!  She’s breathtaking!  The eyes, the smile, the hair, the bosom, the confidence – stunning!  Also, she was a monster party girl who’s admitted to doing coke and heroine and fucking female groupies!  Holy crap!   

I realize that this works better for me on paper than in real life, since I don’t like any girl I’m involved with to have had sex before - let alone coke-fueled orgies with members of the opposite sex - but I was blown away when I saw this video this weekend.  And sure, I was high and drunk and had spent the previous few minutes unsuccessfully masturbating to the Milli Vanilli video that preceded it, but this video immediately took a special place in my heart.  

(And when she’s dancing in the confessional!  Totally, totally hot.) 

(And she kinda looks a little like an ex-girlfriend’s older sister.  I have no idea if that adds to the attraction or takes away from it.)  

(And I think I could get behind the coke-fueled orgies if they were all women, but no D in there, please.)

"Homo Rainbow"  Ween
Is there another band out there like Ween?  One capable of writing a song about homosexuals that is both pretty and rocks?  I don’t think so.  This is on my main getting ready to go out playlist and is routinely blasting from my apartment on weekend evenings.  It’s a good thing that my neighbors don’t speak English, or else they’d be very confused about the guy in apt 2 who constantly listens to that song about the homo rainbow.   

"Shuffle Your Feet"  Black Rebel Motorcycle Club
I once looked up the guitar tab for Elvis Costello’s "Alison" and at the end, the guy who transcribed the song made the comment, "This song is entirely too short."  I thought it was a great thing to say about a song, and in the case of "Alison," very fitting.  It’s a very good thing when a song ends and you find yourself wishing for another verse or another run through the chorus.  

This song is also entirely too short.  Just listen to it, and you’ll get what I mean.  I feel like it ends just when I’m ready to pull out the acoustic guitar to start strumming along.     

"Luckenback Texas"  Waylon Jennings
There only two things in life that make it worth livin’
That’s guitars that tune good and firm feelin’ women
I don’t need my name in the marquee lights
I got my song and I got you with me tonight  

God bless America. 

(My apologies again for our recent technical difficulties, which are now mostly resolved.  I don’t know the technical name for what happened, but I believe my webhost, ipowerweb, how do you say, "shit the bed."  At any rate, the site and my email and Site Guy Brendan are now mostly back to normal.  Thank you for your patience.  We now resume your regularly scheduled programming, already in progress.)

So then I said to him, "Hey buddy – you’re the one who stepped in it, not me!"  And that’s when I learned it’s important to know Spanish in jail. 

Sigh.  What a great story. 

Anyway, my old roommate Ben and five other Seattleites were in town this weekend (fortunately, only Ben stayed at my place).  He arrived Wednesday morning – Matt, Kim, Staci, Jaime, and Samantha came on Thursday morning – and only escaped NYC on Tuesday, due to the storm.  Instead of giving a day-by-day account of what went down, I think it’s more effective to focus on four themes/highlights of the weekend, which, coincidentally, coincide with the four most important things in my life.

(And yes, I realize that I just used "coincidentally" and "coincide" together.  Leave me alone.  It’s been a rough couple of days.)

food
The amount of eating that took place this weekend was legendary.  And I mean that literally – years from now, when human beings have returned to the woods and their primitive ways after the Great Race War, tales will be told of that weekend, many years earlier, when three men ate most of New York City.  Young children will sit in awe listening to how one of them – the one with the beard and the diary – enjoyed a sausage egg and cheese bagel AND Baskin Robbins vanilla milkshake for breakfast on that sunny Saturday afternoon (and then returned home and slept from 2pm to 7pm).  Or how the one visiting from Seattle ate a double cheeseburger for breakfast and a chicken parm sandwich for lunch – 30 minutes apart.  Or how about how even the little one held his own, taking out (also for breakfast) an enchilada and a steak, even though the steak was not fit to be fed to most mutts (and actually may have been made from a mutt or two).

Sure, Ben came to NYC to see old friends, but really this was an eating (and drinking – see below) tour of NYC.  In a few days, we ate at all the places that we enjoyed when Ben, Brian and I lived together in NYC, from the diners of the Upper East Side to the late night eateries of the Lower East Side.  My personal favorite was the aforementioned sausage egg and cheese bagel from Bagel Express at 92nd and 3rd.  What makes this particular one special is that not only are they generous with eggs and not only is the bagel itself delicious, but two sausage patties are standard.  This may not seem like that big of a deal, but do you know how much the stakes are raised when you go from one sausage patty to a second?  Good lord.  That sandwich is not for the faint of heart (or, more appropriately, weak of heart).         

Thus was the pattern of the weekend: a lot of bad (but delicious) food, all the time.  Needless to say, I am a mess right now.  My body is bloated, tumescent; I look and feel like I’ve been involved in a complicated and dangerous mashed potato-eating contest for the past four days.  I was going to weigh myself on Monday morning just to see how much I’ve gained, but I had my first orgasm in nine weeks this weekend and so don’t need any more setbacks in the "sexual confidence" department.  Instead, I’ll just starve myself this week and survive only on fingernails and Budweiser and I should be back to my fighting weight in no time.   

(And my colon – don’t get me started.  All of the following words could be used to describe it right now: impacted, angry, spastic, confused, cold, frightened, delirious and in serious danger.)

alcohol
Likewise, the excess extended into alcohol consumption.  After a downright embarrassing Thursday night after which I called them out on here, the Seattle guys pulled it together and redeemed themselves over the course of the weekend.  As mentioned, my old roommate Ben was the only Seattleite who stayed with me, and my old roommate Brian – the three of us once roommates in NYC for two years – basically moved into my apartment over the weekend, using it as home base/launching point for the whole weekend.  And at this home base, with the help of our friends Molly and Nevin visiting from Boston and the ever-present Jeremy, we drank, conservatively, 200 beers.  All thanks to a sneak attack.

(Let me explain.)

I used to buy all my beer at the Chinese grocery store three blocks from my apartment in ChiLiTa (my name for the Chinatown/Little Italy neighborhood in which I live).  Make no mistake, this place is horrifying.  My whole neighborhood smells like a delicate mix of feces and old fish parts, but one would think that the supermarket – you know, where food is sold – would smell a little fresher.  Not so.  It fucking reeks of evil and stale.  I no longer fear hell, because after visiting this supermarket, I know what it smells like (feces, fish, old, and heat – and throw in some urine for good measure).

However, the beer at this supermarket is cheap.  Unbelievably cheap.  A comparison: at a bodega also three blocks away from my apartment (but in the opposite direction toward Soho), I once bought two six-packs of Rolling Rock for $24.  Conversely, the Chinese grocery store sells 12 packs of cans of Pabst (in my opinion, a far superior beer), for just over $7.  So I can go to the nicer store and pay $2 a beer, or I can deal with the vomit-smelling Chinese supermarket and pay 60 cents a beer.  I was never a math guy, but that seems like a no-brainer to me.  Also, it’s not often that I’m both the tallest person and also have the largest penis out of everyone in a supermarket, and it’s kind of a nice feeling (nevermind that I hold these titles by default because I’m the only white person that enters the store).

And so like clockwork, every Friday when I got home from work, I’d pick up at least three 12 packs of Pabst, and if I was feeling strong, a 30 of Bud (at $20, under 70 cents a beer).  But lately something happened: I stopped finding the beer. 

I walked in one Friday evening, same time as always, over to where the beer was usually kept – and it was gone.  After communicating with a store employee, mostly through gestures and racist epithets, I learned that the beer was moved to another part of the store.  I bought some and left.  The following Friday evening, I went to this new location and the beer was gone.  Now it was back where it was originally kept.  The Friday evening after that, all the beer was gone, save for a case of Tsingtao, which I of course bought, since I need to drink.  On my weekly Friday night trips since, I’ve been buying only one case of Tsingtao, as that’s all that’s there.  

This inspired a joke among my friends that the Chinese people who work in the store were hiding their beer for me.  Every time I go in the store, I’m the only white person and I buy as much beer as I can possibly carry.  It is my theory that the Chinese employees came to fear and despise me, White Man Who Takes All Beer, and so hid the beer.  However, they offered a lone case of Tsingtao – a Chinese beer – to me almost as a sacrifice or tribute.  Just as the islanders did to not want to draw King Kong’s wrath and gave him scantily-clad women, the Chinese fear what might happen if I do not get any beer.  So they leave me one case (of Chinese beer), just to get me satisfied and keep me under control.       

Back to this past weekend.  I had off on Friday so that I could spend time with Ben.  After getting Mexican for breakfast, he and I were walking back to my apartment around 3 in the afternoon.  Since it was en route, we decided to stop in the Chinese grocery store to buy beer then and there, rather than waiting until later in the night.

And the Chinese were completely unprepared.

Since I was four hours early, what did I find but stacks and stacks of PBR and Bud, right there, right in plain view, in the same place we’re I’ve been finding my single case of Tsingtao for the past few weeks.  You could almost feel the tension as I walked in the store – with Ben in tow, no less.  I don’t speak Chinese, but I am pretty sure that these Chinese employees were saying things like:

Chinese guy at front door: "He here! He early! Oh no!"
Chinese lady at register: "He look mad! And he look thirsty!"
Other Chinese lady at register: "And he bring friend! No time to hide beer!"

Sensing the panic that was quickly enveloping the store, I felt happy.  The White Man had found the beer.

Thus Ben and I exacted our vengeance.  We bought eight 12-packs of PBR on the spot, then quickly went back and bought four 30’s of Bud.  It was a true reckoning ("You tell ‘em I’m coming – and hell’s coming with me!").

And so my refrigerator looked like the one at the Beta house at UMass-Amherst, packed with hundreds of beers.  It’s a wonder we even made it out of the apartment all weekend, but all this beer meant that we were drinking constantly.  God bless America and God bless the Chinese.  

And of course when you have a lot of beer at your disposal, certain things happen. 

betrayal
On Saturday night, I was talking to a girl (we’ll call her Leslie).  Leslie was nice.  She was cute.  She was cool.  Most importantly, when I spoke to her, she responded to me with articulate and intentional answers, as opposed to "Ewww" or "Are you serious?" or "GET OFF MY PROPERTY!"  Naturally, I thought we were going to make out.  Sweet.

(And yes, I was very drunk.)

I was out with Brian, Ben, Molly and Nevin, and Leslie was out with a friend (we’ll call her Barbara).  I could have used a wingman, but Nevin is engaged to Molly, Ben had no interest in going down in flames with me, and Brian, well, I’ve documented Brian’s wingman ability before.  But a wingman was not necessary; I was feeling pretty confident and when necessary could lead Leslie and Barbara in and out of conversations with my other friends.  Smooth sailing, I thought.

Leslie and I had been talking and things were going well.  I excused myself to go to the restroom and when I came out, I saw she was talking to Brian, who at this point was so drunk from whiskey that his face was the color of red construction paper.  No matter, I thought, and went to talk to the rest of the group.  I could play it cool for a bit.

A few minutes later, I turned around to see Brian and Leslie in a full embrace.  Not kissing, but hugging and laughing.  As Molly was talking to Leslie’s friend Barbara, Nevin and Ben started to lay into me about Brian stealing my girl.  I contended that it wasn’t a big deal, that Brian was bombed and harmless and would never intentionally cockblock me like that. 

Leslie went to the restroom and I pulled Brian aside:

Me: "Dude, I’ve been working on that girl for like two hours.  Can you lay off?"
Brian: "Dude, I’m sorry, I totally didn’t know.  I’ll stop right now."

I went up to the bar to grab a drink.  After getting one I turned around and there was Brian, again hugging Leslie, this time a little tighter, both of them laughing away again.  Now however he was stroking her hair and face, telling her what beautiful hair she had, while she touched his face, telling him what beautiful eyelashes he had.

Mother fucker.

I did not take this well, but was placed into an awkward situation.  Brian was, as he usually is at 2am on Saturday night, destroyed.  Leslie was also very drunk.  There was essentially nothing I could do without looking like a sore loser/jerk, so instead I stood with Ben and Nevin, got ripped on, and stewed.  All I wanted was some pizza, and maybe a handjob for less than $30. 

I got neither.   

justice
I’ve written before that a major reason that Boston blows is that every time you’re out, every Masshole wants to fight you, any time, any place, any way.  There are such bad vibes in bars and dudes giving hard looks that it can make having a good time difficult.  This is Reason #14 why Boston sucks.

In New York, we don’t have this problem.  This is because we are pussies.  Sure, there are some elements who like to fight – the Long Island/NJ bridge and tunnel trash that invade the once-decent bars over the weekends, the former frat boy bankers who live in Murray Hill and Hoboken, and, of course, the minorities and poors.  But for the most part, people my age in NYC don’t like to fight.  I’m pretty sure I’ve seen more fights in one St. Patty’s Day weekend in Boston that I have in six years of going out in NYC.   

On this Saturday night, after watching Brian and Leslie cuddle, our group – including Leslie and Barbara – headed to Rosario’s to get some late night pizza.  At this point, I was resigned…I knew that Brian and Leslie weren’t going to go home together (no way he could even get an erection, let alone sustain it), but it didn’t matter.  It took us awhile to get a cab because it was pouring rain, but soon our taxi, which I shared with Ben, Nevin and Molly, pulled up to Rosario’s.  I would finally get my delicious pizza. 

Yet in keeping with the awesomeness of the night, when I opened the door to Rosario’s, two dudes tumbled out and fell at my feet, punching the shit out of each other.  I watched them for a nano-second, thinking, "I probably have to break up this fight, but the pizza is right over there. Is there any way I can just step around them?"  But if there’s anything I got very good at while growing up on Second Street in South Philly, it’s breaking up fights.  Instinct kicked in and soon I, with Ben and Nevin, were pulling the dudes apart from each other. 

We successfully separated them.  I led one to the take out window while Ben and Nevin walked the other guy across the street.  I tried to assess what was happening.  There was very little doubt in my mind that the guy I was "guarding" had taken in the LIRR (Long Island Railroad) into NYC that night, in the hopes of "doing it up Oyster Bay-style" and possibly "crushing some pussy" in the big city.  The guy that Ben and Nevin were guarding was a rare Angry Hipster – probably a big fan of The Islands and The Knife, but also not afraid to throw down.  Truly a rare breed.

Wanting to learn more, I tried to talk to my dude.

Me: "Bro, what happened?"
Dude: [thickest Long Island accent imaginable] "We were in line and I called into question his sexuality and he got pissed off."
Me: [surprisingly crestfallen] "Um, oh."
Dude: "Well, he’s a fag."

That was about when I decided it might be better to head back into the pizza place, which would be closing shortly and was definitely running out of food.  Also, it was fucking pouring and I was soaked.  Further irritating me was that while I was standing outside with this douchebag, I could see Brian and the three girls chowing down inside at a table.  Mother fuckers.  Things were calmed down anyway; the Angry Hipster had been led away and some of the LI Douche’s friends had come outside to take him from me.  So Ben, Nevin and I went back inside to get our eat on. 

Because so little was left, I had to go with a mushroom slice and frankie and cheese (this is an actual picture of the frankie and cheeses in Rosario’s).  But it was ok, because I was about to eat.  And then all the yelling began.    

As I was grabbing napkins by the door and moving to the table, I looked outside to see the LI Douche and the Angry Hipster rolling around on the street at the intersection of Orchard and Stanton.  Ben and Nevin and I looked at each other.  Prior to this night, I had never considered myself nor Nevin and Ben to be crusaders of justice, but for whatever reason, we threw our food on the table with the girls (and Brian) and were shortly again prying these morons off each other (did I mention it was raining like a mother fucker?).

This time, the calming took much longer until we decided to drop the "The cops are on their way – you’re going to spend a night in jail card," which sufficiently scared both the LI Douche and the Angry Hipster to go their separate ways.  I may have used only one sentence to describe what happened, but this whole process took a solid six or seven minutes.

When Ben, Nevin and I finally sat the table, I didn’t even have an appetite.  I was pathetic; bombed, cockblocked, soaked, and now tired.  Leslie and Barbara had the last bite of Brian’s frankie and cheese and were bummed out that there wasn’t any more, so I just gave them mine.  Then, our friend Lauren randomly appeared at the pizza place at 5am when they had nothing left, so I gave her my mushroom slice.  So I didn’t even have any food at the end of the night.

So much potential, so little actualization.  Crap.

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

However, despite Brian’s betrayal and my lack of pizza on Saturday night, the weekend in total was great fun.  Sadly, Ben has gone on record to say that because of the abuse he put his body through, he will never come to NYC again.  So I guess the next time I’ll see him will be in Seattle next December at the Second Annual West Coast Wine Drinking Competition.      

(Let’s just hope I can at least get a decent slice at the end.)

The site was down for a portion of yesterday because we are experiencing some technical difficulties (however, if you’re reading this, at least something’s working – I put the odds of this being posted at 3:1 that it didn’t make it up).  This actually is quite a clusterfuck; Site Guy Brendan has sent me numerous emails about the problems over the past 24 hours but all I could understand is that he had (and still has) to restore some stuff from back-up.  Also, he wrote, "I almost murdered some poor girl from India over instant messenger if that’s even possible."  So there’s that.

Sit tight and we’ll back up and running again shortly.  Also, if you are a witch, please put a curse on iPowerWeb.  Brendan’s blood pressure is really going through the roof right now. 

(In the meantime, a delightful clip from Will Ferrell and Adam McKay to entertain you.)

I’m not yet ready to discuss the events of last night, our first night out with my visiting Seattle friends. I’ll only say that I was bitten on the face so savagely – by a dude, of course – that I am developing a small lump in my beard. Also, at one point in the night my buddy Ben “escaped” (Brian’s word) and I came home at 3am to find him sleeping on the doorstep of my building, as he was too drunk to properly manipulate that enigma we call “keys.” Jesus. My New York friends and I are going to send these Seattle people home in boxes.

And now, in just about an hour, I have to go get my taxes done. I’ll get more into this later, but Uncle Jason is going to owe the government quite a bit of money. Start looking under your couch cushions for change now, because we’ll start the Jason Mulgrew Estate Sale on Monday at 10am (“I have here a lovely Sam Adams t-shirt that Jason was wearing the very day that he learned he was sterile – let’s start the bidding at $2”).

Since I’m off today and busy entertaining/babysitting my Seattle friends, here’s a video that I haven’t seen in years that caused me to pee my pants a little when I saw it again today.

[youtube]kjoCeL-f8Mk[/youtube]

[Have a good weekend. And please, keep these Seattle guys in your prayers. I don’t know who’s going to have a more difficult time – the guys, who drink like children, or the girls, who are ashamed that the guys drink like children. It’s going to be a long weekend.]

Ladies and gentlemen, stop the vote counting.  We have a winner.

Best headline ever.

The lesson: do not fuck with avowed lesbians from New Jersey.  But if you didn’t already know that, then you deserve what’s coming to you.

Last week, Nicole and I had our monthly dinner at Craftbar.

It was my turn to pick (and her turn to pay) and I originally wanted to go to Craft, Craftbar’s tonier older sister restaurant.  However, because I prolong and procrastinate with everything in life (except, of course, ejaculation, which I am ready to take care of….now), I waited until the day before to try to make a reservation at Craft and was given my choice of either 6pm or 10:15pm.  As you might expect, I pulled the old "Do you know who the fuck I am?" card, even throwing in, "Have you heard of the internet? Well, I’m on it. And I’m awesome."  However, the hostess, Gorgeous Luddite, was not impressed with my web prowess and instead Nicole and I had to settle for Craftbar.  

In a way, going in with this mindset worked to our advantage.  My personal philosophy on life is to make people expect very little of you.  That way, if you give them even a little bit, they’ll be pleasantly surprised. (This is why I’ve often compared my penis to a lightswitch or a pen cap on this site, when in reality it’s much closer to a thimble than either of those.)  Going into our meal at Craftbar, Nicole and I, label/name/scene whores that we are, expected very little.  But we got so much more.

(Nice segue, right?)

We started as we often do with a cheese plate, allowing the waiter, who I would describe as a confirmed bisexual, to pick two cheeses for us – one stronger, one smoother/creamier.  As an overweight man with a beard who has paid for sex in the past, I love me some cheese.  However, thus far in mine and Nicole’s culinary experiment, I have resisted all efforts to turn me into a cheese snob.  To take nothing away from her Meatloaf with River of Cheese, growing up my mom’s signature dish was Irish Chicken Parm – chicken cutlets with ragu spaghetti sauce and two well-placed slices of American cheese – and I loved it.  Since childhood, I have been involved with a number of Italian women (ok, so I’ve met three Italian chicks and burgled the home of another) who have scoffed at such a bastardization.  Subsequently, their arrogance and condescension toward my dear mother and her best dish has only a) confirmed my hatred of Eyetals; b) emboldened my love of American cheese.  In sum, I like my cheese like I like my women: simple, white and fake.  Keep your bries and your goats and your havartis and give me the Kraft "cheese product."  This is all I will say about the cheese plate that Nicole and I had, except that, despite my stubbornness, I still found it rather delicious.

Cheese was a featured ingredient in the appetizers that Nicole and I shared: the pecorino stuffed risotto balls and a bruschetta with speck, gorgonzola, and hazelnuts.  These appetizers were easy to choose; I make it a point to eat any food with "balls" in its name whenever possible, and once Nicole explained that speck is kinda like prosciutto, well, say no more.  As you might guess, both were delicious.  Although I expected something like the rice balls that I order at pizza places at 4:30am (i.e. Rosario’s), which are dry and a little bland, these risotto (Italian for "fancy rice") balls were absolutely oozing with a creamy, delicate cheese. ("Oozing cheese" is one of my all-time favorite adjective-noun combinations, right up there with "free booze," "easy lay," and "reunited Van Halen.")  The bruschetta was essentially a high-class cream cheese and bacon open-faced sandwich.  So, yeah, I can get behind that.

For our entrees, Nicole ordered the orecchiette with broccoli rabe, fennel sausage and parmesan.  I was a little surprised she went with this, frankly.  Not because Nicole typically doesn’t order pasta or anything, but because she knows that I hate (HATE) broccoli rabe and that our dinners usually end with her saying, "I’m stuffed -  you have to take this home."  Perhaps this was Nicole’s way of subtly protesting and ensuring that I do not end up going home with her leftovers (you know, like what usually happens when I’m out with my buddy Jeremy – zing!).  But the joke was on her because the broccoli rabe flavor was very light and I quite enjoyed the pasta.  Yet it was she who had the last laugh by finishing her dish and leaving me to go home empty-handed.

(Wait – did I just zing myself there?)

I went home empty-handed because there was no way my entree, the veal ricotta meatballs, was escaping me.  Typically, I do not eat veal.  Believe it or not, this is because I feel bad for the little calves that veal comes from.  I know, I know – this may sound strange coming from a man who would sell his sister into North Korean slavery for a high-def TV or a really cool knife, but it’s true.  Though I’ve dated more vegetarians than I care to admit (another of God’s cruel jokes on me), I once went on a date with one, a brilliant farm girl from North Carolina, who when I expressed my love of steak said, "Have you ever seen a cow?  I can’t eat anything that kinda looks like me."  This line struck me on a number of levels.  First, this girl did not look like a cow.  Second – holy shit - I kind of look like a cow.  Though I could never quit steak, I gave up veal on the spot (I look more like a calf than a cow anyway, especially considering the weight loss).      

However, my love of meatballs far outweighs my love of calves (after all, I don’t think a calf has ever comforted me at 3am after a bad date and/or guilty verdict).  Throw in that apparently these were supposedly famous meatballs, and I didn’t stand a chance.  The meatballs and I, we danced. 

(For the record, I love slow dancing.  Good thing I replied "+1" to my buddy Joe’s wedding in less than three weeks – at which I’ll be the best man – and I still don’t have a date.  I’m sure all of my female friends are waiting in breathless anticipation for my last minute phone call asking, "What are you doing this weekend? Do you want to pretend to be my girlfriend so that an entire wedding assembly doesn’t think I’m gay? $328 says you do. And I promise to keep everything PG-13, or at least above the belt."  God, I’m fucking smooth.  I really should be given my own dating show.)

The meatballs were…solid.  No, they were more than solid; they were very, very good.  But if you know me, you know I’m more about style than substance (did you see what I wore last weekend or on my last boating trip?), and these meatballs were unceremoniously served in a bowl.  That’s it.  Just three meatballs, a little pool of sauce, a white bowl.  Done.  I mean, can I get a little pasta in there or something?  Maybe a bread stick?  I’m not asking for Christmas lights around the bowl or asking that it be served by a gang of gypsy musicians, but c’mon – I want to be swept off my feet here, not left saying "Hmph" when the dish is placed in front of me.  Do you know nothing of seduction?  Do you approach women in bars, expose your penis to them, and ask, "So…yes or no?"  Fucking amateurs.

(I am particularly bothered by this because I chose the meatballs over the hanger steak with potato purée and caramelized onions.  I chose the meatballs for the reasons above and because I’ve been eating a lot of steak lately - I know, quite a problem to have.  Also, if I were to get married next week, caramelized onions would be in my wedding party.  Such is the relationship that they and I have developed over the past two months.  We both love and respect each other very much.) 

Finally, my favorite – dessert.  Nicole and I splurged a little bit and got two desserts instead of our usual splitting one.  Since we couldn’t make up our minds, we ordered the brown sugar cake with roasted pear and cinnamon ice cream and the apple tart tatin with caramel ice cream. 

Holy. Fucking. Shit. Balls. 

Despite my complaints about the meatballs, I had generally enjoyed the meal up to this point.  I also liked the layout of the place, our waiter was efficient and friendly, and the food was tasty, high quality, and reasonably priced.  But simply put, these desserts blew my mother fucking doors off.  I have to give a slight edge to the brown sugar cake, which had a gooey center that if no one was looking I would have stuck my penis into, but the apple tart was not without its charms. (Really, how can you go wrong anytime you combine apples, caramel, and ice cream?  Well, maybe if you add HPV in there, but that’s about it.)  But these…these desserts were something special and – and I say this without exaggeration – easily my favorite desserts since Nicole and I started our eating tour of NYC last July.  Bravo, Craftbar, bravo. 

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

My summation: I would highly recommend Craftbar as a place to take a date you want to impress.  It’s fancy and has a name (Craft is a legit four-star restaurant), but is chill enough for a casual date.  I would also add that it is reasonably cheap, although our bill was quite high because Nicole put on a fucking clinic, putting back a $14 martini and four glasses of $13 wine – to my four $8 beers – while I sat there in awe.  Of course, the quality of food doesn’t compare to some of the fancier (read: more expensive) places we’ve been to, but it was nonetheless delightful.  

(I think I’ll end here because I’ve never ended a post with the phrase "it was nonetheless delightful."  It sounds like the ending to a story told in 1871 by a British Duchess.  And no, this doesn’t count as the ending, dick.) 

- Alyssa Shelasky, one of the lovely ladies who blogs for Glamour, was nice enough to mention me in a post of hers last Thursday.  For this, I am grateful. (And for the record, I have never blurted out "I love you" to a woman, if only because, as mentioned before, the only two emotions I’m capable of at this point are lust and hunger.)  But for the 20 or so Glamour/Alyssa readers who came to this site, read my recent post(s), and then emailed me to tell that I’m an alcoholic and "should be ashamed of [myself]" or "really seek help"…not so grateful.

In part, I can’t blame strangers for reading what’s on here and thinking I’m an alcoholic.  Last week was an especially alcoholicy week, what with me blacking out and fracturing my ribs in a drunken blur (and I didn’t even mention all the stray dogs I killed after spending the night dancing with Mr. Beam).  So yes, I understand that that sounds like the behavior of an alcoholic.  I don’t think you need a Ph.D. in the psychology of dependence to make that leap, Doctor.   

But why, tell me, would anyone feel the need to write such harshly-worded, holier-than-thou emails to someone they do not know?  I’ve never understood this with "hate mail" that I sometimes get.  I’ll be the first to admit that I am full of hate, and many things bother and annoy me.  Poors, for example, or that fucking guy who works at my local soup place (what a cocksucker).  So I’m with you guys there.  But, as hateful as I am, I don’t think I’d take ten or twenty minutes out of my day to email someone I don’t know and berate or (try to) belittle them.  Not only does that seem like a lot of work, but it’s just…weird.

I know I may sound like a whiny bitch, but I don’t mean to.  Nor do I mean to sound defensive.  I actually like getting these types of emails.  Though I never respond to them, I sometimes forward them on to friends and we have a laugh.  The latest, from the Glamour/Alyssa readers, were especially enjoyable, since most of the people who visit this site are more likely to read Oui than Glamour.  As such, the emailers were particularly appalled and vituperative, which made for great reading.

But people, let’s make love, not war.  A wise man once said, "When you’re judging, you’re not loving."  I consider this website a judgment-free zone, where we all can come together, enjoy ourselves, and talk about our deepest, darkest secrets, free from any and all judgment.  And sure, none of what I’ve just written may be true, but it certainly sounds nice, no?

(So if you’re keeping count, the latest emails I’ve gotten have all revolved around either me being fragile and grossly out of shape or calling me an alcoholic.  The good news is that I fucked up my email account and accidentally deleted all my emails from Thursday to Sunday.  So if you sent me an email during this time that didn’t relate to my obesity or alcoholism and would like me to read it, please re-send it.  Thanks for your understanding.)

- Speaking of being an out-of-shape alcoholic, I had the day off on Friday (thank you, Jesus – or rather, thank you Jews, for killing my Savior) and after running some errands, I started drinking with my old roommate Brian at my place at 5pm.  We had big plans to go out to a birthday dinner, but instead ordered pizza and didn’t leave the apartment until after 1am.  Whoops.  However, in the eight hours that we sat there drinking, many other friends joined us and soon I had a little party going on in my apartment.  There was also an uncomfortable amount of guitar playing and singing, (poorly) covering such classics as The Band’s "The Weight," Van Halen’s "Dance the Night Away," and our piece de resistance, "Handle With Care" by the Traveling Wilburys, with each of us responsible for our own Wilbury (because of the physical similarity, I was Roy Orbison).

[youtube]dNVPMOY-w1Y[/youtube]

(I still contend that the Traveling Wilburys would be an awesome Halloween costume.  Mark my words: this will happen.)

We eventually did go out, the nine of us caravanning over to The Tile Bar/The James Fucking Iha Bar, where I must have been breakdancing or something.  I say this because when I woke up the next morning/afternoon, I was in such pain because of my fractured ribs that I actually threw up.  Surprisingly, throwing up is not the best cure for fractured ribs, as doing so made them hurt much, much worse.  Saturday afternoon was not a very good time for me. 

- Nor was Saturday night.  I tried my hardest to rally, but was convinced my insides were bleeding, despite the fact that I was drinking cranberry and vodka (it’s good for the kidneys).  I wound up watching four hours of "The History of Metal" on VH1 Classic, smoked about $160 worth of pot, ate a giant bag of pretzels dipped in the best mustard on the planet, and passed out on my couch.  And yes, I am single.  I know – I can’t believe it either.

- Sunday was Easter.  Easter was a big deal in my house as a kid, what with Jesus rising from the dead and all those Cadbury Creme Eggs.  But instead of dressing up in a suit, going to church, and eating a ton of candy, I woke up, put on some sweat pants, laid on the couch, and, um, ate a ton of candy.   

(Seriously - I want to eat my computer screen when I see that Cadbury Creme Egg picture.  I love those fucking things.  One of these days, I’m going to make a sundae with them.  Then I will stab myself in the heart.  Because I doubt my life could get any better than a Cadbury Creme Egg sundae.)  

The errands that I ran on Sunday, as well as the lonely/homoerotic dinner I had with my buddy Jeremy, I will not get into – mostly because I’m kinda riled up after mentioning the CCE sundae.  Suffice it to say that my Easter was tame.

- When I have a weekend like this one, in which nothing overly exciting happens and I stay in a night, it bums me out.  However, I can deal with this past slow weekend, because on Wednesday morning, at just about 8am, my old roommate Ben arrives from Seattle.  The next day, five others are coming from Seattle.  Remember, the last time we hung out with Ben, all hell broke loose (pictures here).  So if we want to think of this in the bigger picture, I should be unemployed by Friday morning and in the hospital by Saturday evening.  

So wish me luck. 

(Also, if anyone can pick up a gross of those Cadbury Creme Eggs on the cheap, please do so and I’ll get you back.  It’s going to be a long, lonely summer/fall/winter without them.)

Wednesday, after learning that I had cracked ribs, I went straight from work to dinner and then was home and in bed by 10pm, feeling content, believing that I had finally accomplished something. Then I woke up on Thursday morning and had 40 or so emails telling me I was a fat fuck with bones made of jelly.

Jake from Denver sums it up best:

whats up jason,

long time, first time, yadda yadda,

my friend’s older brother is an out of shape security guard who fractured his rib simply by lumbering his own fat ass into a jog in a likely hilarious attempt to run down a shoplifter. apparently as he rounded a corner, the unusual movement of his own organs applied enough pressure on his nutrient deprived bones to actually crack a rib. Thats right… no impact, just pressure.

Now, I’m not saying this is your case. I know your bones are quite strong from all the calcium in ice cream and tapioca pudding. But, if you hadn’t been in such great shape, I’m thinking that a movement such as over-aggressively swinging a whiffleball bat could cause a similar injury…

Needless to say, emails like Jake’s took me down a peg.

Look, I admit, I’m not in great shape. It’s hard for me to tie my shoes and certain bowel movements leave me spent. And I think I’m getting to the point that I’m legitimately not healthy enough for sexual activity, which, to be honest, would be a load off my mind.

But remember, last summer I went on a monster diet, lost almost 40 pounds, and was running three miles a day. Yes, last summer was a long time ago, but it wasn’t that long ago. And though I no longer run (I found it exhausting), I haven’t gained (much of) the weight back.

(Yet.)

The point is that I refuse to believe that I am so out of shape that swinging a plastic bat, getting lightly tackled in football, raising a beer to my lips, or offering a woman $28 and three Marlboro Reds to see a little more of her cleavage (these being the four main activities of the weekend), would be enough to fracture my ribs. Right now, I have three main theories:

- Someone beat me with a hammer while I slept
– I was bodyslammed, possibly by a ghost, and do not remember it
– My body, fed up by the abuse and lack of sexual gratification, is playing a practical joke on me

The first two, I can deal with. If it’s the third, well then, it’s a pretty good practical joke and I have to tip my hat. At least I haven’t lost my ability to get an erection.

(Yet.)

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

Now this is a cause I can get behind. You have no idea how enriched my life would be if I could find and enjoy creamed chipped beef in NYC. I fucking love creamed chipped beef, and only learned that Shopsin’s had it after it had closed, which is the equivalent finding out the girl you secretly loved for years had a crush on you too – but learning this only after she was already engaged/married/dead. Not a good day for me when I figured that out.

So implore you, NYC readers, comment, research, cajole your chef friends – whatever. I need some CCB in NYC, and I’m sure I’m not alone. You know how over the past five years there have been an explosion of successful cheesesteak places in NYC? Well, this wouldn’t be the case with CCB, but still, it would make me happy. Just help. Just fucking help.

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

There is no joke here, only sadness: For the past three or so weeks, I’ve been eating Girl Scout Cookies for breakfast almost every day. I bought four boxes of samoas and two each of the peanut butter ones whose names escape me (the sandwich cookies and the chocolate-covered wafers).

But this morning, before brunch, I finished off the last of the samoas, marking the end of that annual rite that is more dear to me than Christmas, Memorial Day Weekend and the start of summer, or even that week in July when I go out drinking with 100+ friends and crawl into bed with my buddy Kyle. I will now have to wait another eleven months before a samoa enters my mouth (I’ll let you make the “blowing a Pacific Islander” joke) and I feel very down about that.

Good thing I have all this codeine.

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

Please, men and women alike, I encourage you to start buying Hanes bras (or more Hanes bras). Then please write to the Hanes Corporation and explain to them that this was the reason you bought those bras:

[youtube]-vls8tMcrQk[/youtube]

I know Jennifer Love Hewitt is a nerd and if we ever started dated I would kill her because I am drinking more as I type this than she does in a year, but there’s no arguing that a) she is hot and b) she has beautiful – nay, breathtaking – boobies. Which I would like to see more of.

(I am also certain that she is a terrible lay. Just trust me on this – I have this almost supernatural ability as soon as I see a woman to determine a) how good of a lay she is and b) how well trimmed her lawn is. I am willing to provide email addresses of friends as references if you don’t believe me. I’m incredible. Just let me brag here, ok?)

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

On the heels of finishing The Executioner’s Song, I’ve made a decision: to the extent possible, I’m going to spend the rest of 2007 reading only:

- Works written by Norman Mailer
– Works written by William Shakespeare
– The Bible

That’s it. Well, apparently that’s not it, since after brunch today I bought The Castle in the Forest (good), Harmony of the World: Stories (Charles Baxter rocks my world, and although Saul and Patsy and First Light weren’t my favorites, The Feast of Love was probably the best book I read last year), and The Last Mughal: The Fall of the Mughal Dynasty (I did my independent study while aboard on the decline of the Mughal empire and got very into it).

But as for The Executioner’s Song…wow. The book, which follows the life and crimes of Death Row inmate Gary Gilmore and his fight for the right to die, won Mailer the Pulitzer Prize. It’s not for the faint of heart, however; it clocks in at just under 1100 pages. However, I typically do not read long books and devoured this one – when I finished, I wished it were longer.

(And yes, I know I read a lot of books about murder. But just as reading a lot of books (with pictures) about homosexuality doesn’t make you a homosexual, reading a lot of book (with pictures) about murder doesn’t make you a murderer, dig?)

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

Six Songs

"I Don’t Feel Like Dancing" Scissor Sisters
This is the gayest – and so the most wonderful song – I’ve heard in the last year or so. I don’t know why I didn’t discover it until this week, but wow. When I listen to this song, I’m happier, I feel prettier, and I am extremely attracted to Patrick Dempsey. I am actually dancing in my chair as I type this – and it’s not the type of dancing that a straight white guy with a beard and beer gut should be doing. If I don’t find a woman in the next 48 hours and kiss her on the mouth, the damage may be irreversible. Wish me luck.

(Methinks I’ll need it.)

"Postcards from Italy" Beirut
This song creeps me the fuck out. In a related story, I’ve masturbated to this song.

(God, I wish that was a joke.)

"Still" Elvis Costello
To class it up a bit. What I love about Elvis Costello is that he’s a musician in his early 50’s who’s been successful since his early 20’s, but instead of trying to recreate the magic of his early years and failing like others around his age (I don’t think I have to name names here), he continues to write wonderful, emotive music that spans different genres. Sure, he still writes some rockers, but listen to “Welcome to the Working Week” and then listen to this song. That, my friends, is progress.

"Lily and Parrots" Sun Kil Moon
Terrific band. Well, so far – I only know about eight or so of their songs, and most of them (though wonderful) would make me fall asleep at the wheel. This one, however, is a nice little rocker to that I’ve added to my shower playlist, which is called, “I’m Washing My Balls and Rocking Out – What?”

(Also, love the simple line starting the second verse: “You don’t know just how much I miss you.” It’s pretty hard to say that – and say it in a whiny voice, no less – without sounding like a pussy, but the singer pulls it off. Highly, highly recommended band. Check out “Carry Me Ohio” and “Neverending Math Equation” for their fall-asleep-while-driving-cross-country songs.)

"Just Kissed My Baby" The Meters
Exhibit A why I want a black girlfriend. In addition to causing several of my uncles to fistfight me at Christmas, having a black girlfriend would give me license to strut around listening to this song without feeling awkward and inadequate unless I’m either really high or really drunk.

Hear me: if you’re having friends over and want some good background music on while you drink, download a bunch of Meters songs. Trust me.

"Red Rabbits" The Shins
I added this one to my makeout mix, which on my old PC was called “Mood” but on the new Mac is called “Let’s Makeout or Something.” I like it because it’s a perfect makeout mix song; it’s both sweet and, more importantly, disorienting. Each time I listen to it, I kinda forget where I am and I feel like I need to be touched. So, um, yeah – it’s on the makeout mix. A no-brainer, really.

[Have a good weekend]

Remember how in the "Aftermath" part of Monday’s post, which described the bachelor party I attended over the weekend, I complained that I had bruises all over my body?  Specifically all over my arms and the right side of my body and chest?  And that I had no idea how those bruises got there?

Well, some news.  I went to the doctor’s this morning for something unrelated (c’mon STD test – Uncle Jason’s made some questionable decisions lately and he really needs a big fat "negative" here), and it turns out that I have fractured ribs.

Winner.

Well, some news.  I went to the doctor’s this morning for something unrelated (c’mon STD test – Uncle Jason’s made some questionable decisions lately and he really needs a big fat "negative" here), and it turns out that Winner.

Fractured fucking ribs, which I got while drunk, which I have no recollection of getting. 

My family must be so, so proud.   

Prior to this, my biggest unknown drunken injury was that I broke or sprained my second metatarsal bone in my toe and had to wear a booty to work for two weeks (no idea how I did that either).  But fractured ribs?  I mean, fractured fucking ribs?  That’s a winner right there, folks.

I have to admit, I feel kinda justified here.  Since I got back from the bachelor party, I’ve been complaining to everyone within earshot that my ribs seriously hurt and that I haven’t been able to sleep.  Every time I yawn, stretch, sneeze, cough, sigh, or make a sudden movement, I’ve felt as though someone is squeezing the right side of my body from the inside. 

Not only that, but every time I poop or pee at work, I use the bathroom four floors up and take the stairs (this and this alone is how I managed to keep my weight loss off after seven months).  Four floors is perfect; it leaves me winded, but not so much that I’m either sweating through my work clothes or panting at the urinal while someone is peeing next to me and terrified.  But since I’ve gotten back from the bachelor party, I’ve noticed that I’ve gotten winded around the second flight of stairs, which is earlier than usual.  It’s also been difficult and painful to catch my breath.  And now I know why: according to my doctor, who went to Duke Medical School and is 100% Jewish, I fractured my ribs.  Because I’m a drunk. 

(In the interest of full disclosure, I admit that my doctor is a bit…interesting.  Last time he gave me an STD test, which was the White Lightening, he started by asking, "So, you have anything weird on your dick or your balls?"  He used the same line this time, but no White Lightening, thank god.  Also, he didn’t take an X-ray on my ribs but rather felt me up and said that I "likely" had a fractured rib(s).  But that’s all semantics.  Because you know what fractured ribs mean?  Codeine!)

(Yes, I now will have a medicine cabinet that contains (legal, proscribed) Xanax and (legal, proscribed) codeine.  We are all in big, big trouble.)   

(Yes, I now will have a medicine cabinet that contains (legal, proscribed) Xanax and (legal, proscribed) codeine.  We are all in big, big trouble.)   

I know it says a lot about me as a person – all negative – that I am very, very proud of myself right now, but I can’t help it.  I mean, I don’t have a lot going for me in terms of achievements – I barely graduated college (for disciplinary reasons), I don’t have a lot of friends and routinely betray the friends I do have, the strongest relationship I’ve had with a woman in the past six years has been with Elisha Cuthbert (and her 2004 Maxim cover), and I am more than like going to get a D- on my latest STD test – but I almost broke my ribs while drunk and I have no idea how it happened.

And this is not an exaggeration here; I really don’t know how it happened.  We played some football over the weekend, and there was some general roughhousing going on (you know how it happens at bachelor parties - some beers lead to some fighting, which leads to some wrestling, which leads to someone’s dick falling out, and before you know it the guy who does your website for you is crying because he’s not sure what he’s going to tell his girlfriend ,and you’re all like, "Dude, a mouth is a mouth – just get over it," etc).  But there wasn’t any major fight that went down, I don’t think.  My only explanation would be if someone slept walk and attacked me in my sleep.  I joked about that earlier, but I don’t see any other way, unless I forget getting hit by a car.  

What’s more shocking is how this happened physiologically (not the right word, but bear with me).  Not that my ribs are padded by a layer of muscle by any means, but that my diet consists of so much dairy – and subsequently so much calcium – that my bones should be able to break down most small dams. I can’t recall the last vegetable I had that didn’t have "cream" before it or the last meal I ate that didn’t have a significant amount of dairy (milk, ice cream, extra cheese, milkshake, etc).   

Of course, none of that matters now.  All I have to do is limit my physical exertion (not a problem) and take some codeine for pain (also not a problem) and they’ll heal eventually.  I just wanted to share the good news with you, but must recommend that you not try this at home.  God did not bless me with much, but he did give me a tremendous capacity to break myself when I’m drunk.  Sure, now that I’m really thinking about it, maybe that’s not such a good thing, but it’s something I have to live with – and something I choose to celebrate.     

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go take some codeine, lie on my couch, and think of the best way to tell my friends that we shouldn’t share drinks anymore, due to my herpes/chlamydia/"we don’t even know what it is, but we know it’s not good." 

This just in from the AP Wires.  This made me laugh, cry and love – all at once.

Keith Richards says he snorted his father’s ashes mixed with cocaine

LONDON (AP) — Rolling Stones guitarist Keith Richards has acknowledged consuming a raft of illegal substances in his time.

In comments published Tuesday, he said he snorted his father’s ashes mixed with cocaine.

"The strangest thing I’ve tried to snort? My father. I snorted my father," Richards was quoted as saying by British music magazine NME.

"He was cremated and I couldn’t resist grinding him up with a little bit of blow. My dad wouldn’t have cared … It went down pretty well, and I’m still alive."

Richards’ father, Bert, died in 2002 at the age of 84.

Richards, 63, one of rock’s legendary wild men, told the magazine that his survival was the result of luck, and advised young musicians against trying to emulate him.

"I did it because that was the way I did it. Now people think it’s a way of life," he was quoted as saying.

"I’ve no pretensions about immortality," he added. "I’m the same as everyone … just kind of lucky.

"I was number one on the Who’s Likely To Die list for 10 years. I mean, I was really disappointed when I fell off the list."

(Copyright 2007 by The Associated Press.  All Rights Reserved.)

I thought I knew disappointment the first time I saw a naked woman in real life, but I bet that was nothing compared to what Keith must have felt. 

As my friend Brian pointed out, I would love to see the videotape of this interview: Keith, looking haggard in a cloud of smoke, delivering his line with a deadpan expression in a thick, garbled British accent, "My father. I snorted my father."  It’s like a morbid (but hilarious) twist on the old "Ron Wood Show" skit on SNL by Mike Myers ("Now, your father…").

I mean, wow.  I know there are probably some jokes to be made here, but I think I need to lie down.

(And I hereby give my blessing to my two children, Justice and Cody, wherever they are, to snort me after I die.  You guys might want to make sure all the chunks of ham are cleared out of the way first, but I doubt I need to tell you that.)

I am in a lot of pain right now – emotional, physical, and mental.  Just about everything either hurts or is sad in/on my body.

Last night, I got back to my apartment after spending the last four nights and four days at my buddy Joe’s bachelor party in Newport, Rhode Island, drinking everything I could get my hands on (including an embarrassing incident with a bottle of body wash that I don’t want to get into right now, but let’s just say that under the right circumstances it’s possible to confuse Adidas body wash for Everclear).

Before I get into the bulk of what happened over the weekend, two quick notes:1) I’ve touched on this before, but it’s worth mentioning again: getting drunk on a train is fucking spectacular, and perhaps my new favorite pastime.  In fact, I may not take a proper vacation this year and instead ride Amtrak across America, getting bombed and watching movies on my laptop.  On the ride up to Boston on Wednesday night, I had a ton of beers and watched "Tombstone," a movie that simply does not get old.  As predicted, I did cry after Virgil was shot and said, "That’s ok, Allie girl – I still got one good arm to hold you with," but did not cry when Morgan died, mostly because I looked to my left and the woman sitting there was watching me cry during the Virgil scene, so I had to rein it in when Morgan was offed.  If she wasn’t so good-looking, I would have opened the floodgates, but I tried to maintain a little dignity.

(For some reason, I never cry when Doc dies, since I’m convinced he’s off to a better place.  And Doc Holliday has to be one of the greatest five movie characters of all time.  I will not argue this.  After my nervous breakdown in the fall, I may take to dressing like him full time.  Just so you know.)

2) You know what’s awesome?  When you drop $100 on a pair of headphones and they break in eight weeks.  Thanks, people at Bose.  You guys are fucking assholes.  Now I’m rocking a $6 pair of giant headphones that I bought at CVS right before my train left.  I look fucking ridiculous and, worse, poor. 

The Groom, modeling my sweet new headphones, and the Best Man/Better Man

Now that that’s out of my system, onto the bachelor party.

The Cast
For your reference, the following people were in attendance at the bachelor party.  In order to give you a better picture, I’ve listed their names, ages, location, and a little about them.-

Joe, 27, Boston, Groom-to-be, sterile 
- Me, 27, New York, Best Man/Better Man, likely also sterile
- Bill, 27, Boston, Groomsman, former "star" of NBC’s "Average Joe 2: Hawaii" 
- John, 27, Boston, Groomsman, general dickhead about sports, life, but redeemed his lame performance of weekend by cleaning up Nameless Friend’s vomit
- Brendan, 28, Boston, more commonly known as "Site Guy Brendan" or "He Who Talks A Lot and Also Spits While Talking and Maybe Cried At One Point During the Bachelor Party"
- Griff, 27, Seattle, Greek friend who considering he’s married and doesn’t drink that much held up surprisingly well over the weekend among the drunks
- Kyle, 28, Philly, wearer of high top sneakers but still tremendous friend
- Tom, 28, Knoxville, "reformed" drunk and Masshole with near-allergy to alcohol
- Conor, 27, Boston, "reformed" cool guy, likes cheese and looks like Blaise Pascal 
- Terrence, 24, New York, Joe’s "younger brother," in that they are not related but almost exactly the same 
- Mike, 28, Providence, husband and father of one with another on the way, who showed up for one night, drank a ton and punched everyone, and then got so violently ill he may be deceased at the time of this writing 
- Frank, 31, Boston, future brother-in-law of groom, was horrified by Best Man’s near-constant nudity

The House
The house we rented was not actually in Newport but rather in the next town, Middletown.  However, the Newport town line was a tennis ball’s throw away, and a cab into downtown Newport was $7, so we’ll just call it Newport.

Kyle outside the house 

The house itself was a big ol’ one, with six bedrooms and two full bathrooms.  As you might expect, after arriving on Thursday, one toilet and shower was clogged by Friday evening, threatening the plumbing system of the whole house.  That meant none of us peed indoors from Friday night to Sunday afternoon, which was fine with me.       

The house had a huge yard which was used for various drinking-related athletic events (see below) and soon came to look like a prison yard.  The house was also perfectly situated.  There was a bar next door, a liquor store two doors away, and places to eat on either side of the house.  For sundry items, there was a Cumberland Farms just across the street.  Everything that we needed was within distance of a belly crawl – perfect for a group of men whose laziness is only rivaled by their abuse of alcohol and their abundant use of vulgarity. 

The Language
Speaking of vulgarity, there’s no real joke here, but I don’t think we used any sentences over the long weekend that weren’t quotes from "Goodfellas" or contained the words fuck, beer, dick, punch or dick punch.  Worth noting how quickly a group of otherwise respectable young men can turn into cretins when an unlimited supply of Bud Light is involved.   

The Games of Drinking
This is what we did all weekend – got bombed, played drinking games, and got violent. 

 

Brendan acting as peacemaker in a disagreement between Conor and Bill 

The four main drinking games were:

Lanner
Lanner is a Beirut/Beer Pong-style drinking that was invented by myself and my roommates in May of our senior year of college.  48 hours after it was invented, we were thrown out of housing and off campus, fined $4000 in damages, lost all senior week privileges, and had to accept blank diplomas at graduation until our fines were paid off (I got my diploma in August, thank you very much).  Translation: this game is not for the meek.   

There are two important rule changes from standard Beirut that make this game so destructive:

1) Instead of arcing the ball into a cup, the ball must be bounced in on one bounce
2) If at any time the ball hits the floor, a cup must be removed and drank (so basically it’s the same as hitting a cup)

This not only makes the games faster, which means less waiting for your drunk buddies to hit a cup and more drinking during the game, but it gets your heart pumping because you literally dive all over the floor to catch balls that are bouncing off cups.  Since it is a Gentleman’s Game, however, there is a Gentleman’s Rule that one can not quickly wing the ball at the cups so that it flies off and is uncatchable.  According to the Official Lanner Rulebook, an "earnest attempt" must be made to get the ball into the cup, and this happens via a normally paced and unrushed bounce onto the opposing team’s cups.   

But the speed, more than anything, is what makes Lanner so dangerous.  It’s fast-paced and aggressive and thus, much more awesome than Beirut (it is also, as the picture below illustrates, played on a much smaller board, which means that the ball has a greater chance of hitting the ground). 

The Lanner Board and Set Up 

And it was Lanner that took up the bulk of our weekend.  Kyle and I proved ourselves to be a formidable team, and had some astonishing runs on both Thursday and Friday nights.

This is what winners look like.  Well, not really.

But there were other fun, albeit less awesome drinking games played.

Cornhole
Cornhole is like horseshoes but with hand-sized bean bags, and inclined pieces of wood with a hole in them.  Throw the beanbag and if it hits and stays on the wood, you get one point.  If it goes through the cornhole, you get three points.  First team to 21 wins.  

I didn’t like this game.  I think it’s because it’s very similar to horseshoes and one of my first memories involves my dad being drunk and playing horseshoes with his buddies and neglecting me and subsequently me falling down a flight of stairs (true story).  But what was great about this game was that it turned the back lawn into a prison yard.

Doing hard time on the yard

Also, cornhole is apparently a legit game.  Of course, I use the word "legit" loosely, but I haven’t seen any Lanner websites or associations.  And yes, this is probably because only about 50 people in the world know and play Lanner, but shut up – it’s still a valid defense. 

Anchorman
Anchorman, also called Sailors, works like this.  Two teams, four players on each, stand on opposite sides of a table.  One team gets a quarter and huddles up to decide with team member will hold the quarter in his hand.  Then that team with the quarter comes to the table, counts off, and slams their open palms onto the table.  Each member of the opposing team has to guess, based on sound or expression or body language, which guy on the opposing team has the quarter in his hand.  If they guess correctly, the team with the quarter has to chug a pitcher of beer.  If they are incorrect, they are the ones that must chug the pitcher of beer.  The game is called "Anchorman" because before chugging, the winning team gets to pick one opposing team member to be Anchorman, who will then go last in the chugging order and must finish the pitcher. 

Kyle, as Anchorman, taking care of business 

I stink at this game.  Not only because I can’t (and have never been able to) chug, but because my hands are not made for this game.  They are big hands with long fingers and slimy palms, and each time I held the quarter a slight but easily discernable smack-ting could be heard (the smack from my sweaty hands, the ting from the quarter).  Not good.  I only played a few games of Anchorman, and stuck to my strengths, like…        

Wiffle Ball
Not really a drinking game, but we played a lot of wiffle ball over the weekend (you get a hit, pitcher drinks; you make an out or error, you drink).  And I am, arguably, one of the top 20 wiffle ball players in the nation.  I know that you don’t believe me when I say this, since my track record of failure in athletics has been well-documented, so below I include an excerpt from the 2007 edition of Wiffle Ball Prospectus, which includes scouting reports of over 1000 wiffle ball players.

Jason Mulgrew, P/OF
6′1", 200 lbs.
Born: July 17, 1979

Offense: Best bad ball hitter in Northeast region…power to all fields…makes adjustments in mid-swing that remind many of quick cat-like animal…can struggle sometimes against good curves, but will knock any knuckle or off-speed pitch out of the park…embarrassing when running…considering he hasn’t had any major injuries to his feet, ankles, knees, legs, back or spine, it’s astonishing he moves so slowly…looks something like an overweight, tranquilizer bear on the base paths…also, the bear has one leg, or is lame in some other way

Pitching/Defense: Good command of all pitches…has range with off-speed stuff and is comfortable throwing at 9 mph, but when dialed in can get up to 15…throws a very live ball that takes advantage of poorer hitters…curve is passable, but needs improvement…defense is deplorable…for as quickly as he reacts at the plate, I’ve seen him get hit in the face by a ball hit at him and not realize for a full ten seconds what happened…might as well have breasts at the ends of his arms instead of hands, so bad is his touch

Intangibles: Can be a leader when his back is pushed to the wall, but content sitting in the clubhouse staring off into space…is more concerned with getting a fresh beer than getting on base…will often have to take breaks from games to poop…has hepatitis

Sure, I have some holes, but what I do well, I do really well.

Sure, I have some holes, but what I do well, I do really well.

The Shirts
The weekend’s gimmick, if you can call it that, was that every person in the attendance was surprised with a personalized t-shirt to commemorate the weekend.  All the shirts had the same logo on the back, but on the front was a personalized design created by myself, Bill or Joe that often made fun of the person.  Below is Site Guy Brendan with his shirt, which features a picture of Brendan sitting at a computer and also thinking of a computer (because, you know, he’s a computer nerd).

Brendan, modeling his shirt

I won’t go into the others, since most are private or personal jokes that would require too much explanation.  As I mentioned, Bill, Joe and I created these t-shirts, but we kept each other’s t-shirts secret (for example, only Bill and I made Joe’s, so he would be surprised).  I was told very early on in the process by Bill and Joe that my t-shirt would "rock my world" and that it was the worst – meaning most ball-busting – of the bunch.  For this reason, during the t-shirt ceremony on Friday night, mine was presented last.

Well.

I won’t tell you what mine was, but suffice it to say, I can never wear it out.  As a matter of fact, I may have to destroy it immediately.  Not so much because it is damaging to me, but because it is unconscionably mean – even by my friends’ standards.  Let’s never speak of it again.  

The Newport Scene
We only made it out one night, Saturday night, and this was only because it was fairly obvious that if we were to remained cooped up in that house any longer, someone would surely die.  So we headed to downtown Newport to take in a little of the bar scene.

Despite the fact that the bars close at 1am (???), the bar scene in Newport was pretty good.  Not only that, but there were a ton of beautiful women out and about.  It’s not like I was expecting anything bad, but there were a number of "wow" women prowling the streets.  And, of course, my friends and I didn’t talk to any of them.

Dudes not talking to chicks

But it’s a pretty great lil’ town.  I would definitely go back, though probably not during summer.  I try, to the extent possible, to stay away from beach towns in the summer when the weather is warm and everyone is tan and fit.  It’s just not good for my self-esteem. 

The Absence of Boobies
To be honest, I think that what we did is the perfect way to have a bachelor party.  Rent a house somewhere cool, get a bunch of your buddies together, and enjoy a long weekend of getting bombed.  But one thing was missing from this bachelor party: boobies. 

In part, I understand and empathize with Joe.  I don’t particularly like strippers, and I certainly don’t like them putting their HPV boobies and coochies all over my body, which is what happens to the groom at bachelor parties.  But on the other hand, I like to see boobies.  A lot.  So do many of the guys who attended the bachelor party, save for a few (Conor, I’m looking in your direction).  

And, dang it, it just doesn’t feel like a bachelor party without boobies.  Call me old-fashioned, but the two go so well together in my book.  Not that it matters now.  Maybe I’m writing this to make Joe feel bad for vetoing the strippers idea.  Or maybe I’m writing it to make Joe look good in his fiancée Danielle’s eyes, because maybe we did get strippers, and maybe they did things that none of us knew that females - human or otherwise – could possibly do, and maybe Joe asked me to skim over this part for his sake, pulling the "You’re the best man and I haven’t asked you to do anything else but this" card.    

The point, as always, is that I like to see boobies.  Moving on. 

The Aftermath
When I got home just after 9pm last night, I was beat.  I opened the door to my apartment, which was clean but completely empty, and I felt a little lonely.  Simply: I was pretty beat up and needed some lovin’.  Not only was depression sinking in as the alcohol drained from my body, but I am literally beat up – in addition to various cuts and scrapes, I have three bruises on each of my arms and five bruises on the right side of my body, from my chest to my side.  I don’t know how any of these happened, but I’m thinking that since I often sleep on my left side, someone came into my bedroom as I slept and beat me with a hammer (these are the bruises on the right side).  I then awoke somewhat and raised my arms to defend myself (the bruises on my arms).  Then whoever was beating me with the hammer got tired and left.  This was the best explanation I could come up with last night as I lay uncomfortably in bed, thinking I may seriously have cracked a rib. 

But since I had no woman to come over and nurse me back to health, I had to settle for a long shower and a Xanax.  All things considered, not a bad alternative, and much less likely to ask "So are you ever going to shave your back again or are you growing it out for some sort of competition?"  Tonight, I see a similar fate, as I slowly try to detox (with Xanax?) and nurse myself back to health.   

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

Overall, a great time.  What Joe did for his bachelor party is pretty much exactly what I would like to do for mine.  Fortunately, we have at least four months before my bachelor party, so we don’t need to worry about that now.