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

Jake from Denver sums it up best:

whats up jason,

long time, first time, yadda yadda,

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

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

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

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

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

(Yet.)

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

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

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

(Yet.)

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

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

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

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:

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

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

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

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]