In New York, I have many different groups of friends. Some I went to high school with, others I met in college; some I know through work, others I befriended while out in the city; some are former lovers, others wouldn’t sleep with me if my semen had large hunks of diamonds and/or luxury sedans in it.

But what’s great about the city of New York is that it’s easy to bring different groups of people together. If I’m out with some college buddies in the Lower East Side and I get a call from two guys I know from work on the Upper West Side looking to do something, I can say, "Hey, why don’t you hope into a cab and meet us down here?" And if they want to, they can be on the Lower East Side, $15 and a 20 minute cab ride later. Easy. Accessible. Conducive to maintaining various friendships.

In Los Angeles, I also have many different groups of friends. I know some people from high school and/or college out here, I met and befriended a number of people through my "entertainment industry" endeavors, and I also know a number of friends of friends who I share with the occasional drink with while on the west coast (I am, as you can probably tell, a pretty popular guy). After a rather long and difficult week last week, I looked forward to a weekend of reconnecting with everyone, getting drunk, socializing, and hearing, "Man, you really gained a lot of that weight back, huh?"

Unfortunately, it was not to be. I learned a very important LA lesson this weekend that goes something like: In LA, where you live determines everything about your social life, your romantic life, your professional life, and even possibly whether you end up in heaven or hell.

On Friday night, after yet another In-N-Out burger and a quick nap, I decided to meet my friends Dan and Donnie out in Santa Monica. I am staying in Westwood, which is only five or so miles from Dan and Donnie’s place two blocks from the beach in Santa Monica. Our plan was to meet there, have a few drinks, then go out somewhere in Santa Monica. My personal plan was to get bombed, act charming, and try to touch fake boobies. If this should fail, I had a pretty solid back-up plan: eat a whole pizza. One way or another, I was going home a winner.

So I started letting all my LA peeps know where I was going to be, either via call or text messages. The responses I received over the course of the night and their implications were horrifying.

You all probably know that in LA you need to drive in order to get around. That’s fine and understandable; not every place can be as compact and have as good public transportation as NYC. But this need to drive severely limits social opportunities. On Friday night, for example, when I was out in about in Santa Monica, one of my friends informed me that he was going out in Hollywood. Another was at a party in Hermosa Beach. A third was at a party in one of the canyons in the Hollywood Hills.

Even though each of these areas is only miles apart, I might as well have asked my friends in NYC where they were going to be that night, since I had as much a chance of seeing them as I did my friends in LA. In NYC terms, let’s say Santa Monica is the East Village (note: this is comparison is for purely geographical purposes and does not speak to any social and cultural similarities). Santa Monica is to Hollywood is to Hermosa Beach is to the Hollywood Hills as the East Village is to Astoria is to Roselle Park, New Jersey is to Manhasset, Long Island.

I have few complaints about Los Angeles, but this is my greatest. LA is provincial in a way that New York is not. Sure, New York has the eternal Manhattan vs. Brooklyn vs. Hoboken debate (living anywhere else is your own fault and so you deserve to be limited to that area), but when you live in say Marina Del Ray or Brentwood, your life will be restricted to those areas. This is not by force but by choice. Sure, one could reasonably venture out into other areas, but it seems to me that most people limit themselves to their neighborhoods. If you want to see a friend who lives in Beverly Hills, well, goddammit, you’d better get your ass into Beverly Hills. In this way, LA can be difficult, inaccessible, and make it difficult to maintain various friendships.

On Friday night, I hung out only with the people I met in Santa Monica. On Saturday night, the flurry of text messages and different locations made the prospect of going out so daunting that despite the fact that I had showered and prettied up, I got undressed, put on my robe, and got absurdly shitbombed alone in my hotel room until 4am, reading Wikipedia entries.

[Again, welcome to Saturday night in Los Angeles. It was quite a scene; my hotel room does not have a fridge, so one of my first purchases was a cooler. There was me, in a robe, drunk, going back and forth to the ice machine between the hours of 11pm and 4am to get ice for the beers in my cooler. I lieu of VH1 Classic, as mentioned I opted to read Wikipedia entries of VH1 Classic-type people. If you have the time, I would recommend Patti Boyd (she was even more of a muse than I thought) and Stevie Nicks (did you know she got breast implants in 1977 which she later blamed for her chronic malaise?). I actually had a wonderful little night on Saturday, with my robe, cooler, beers, and Wikipedia. And once again, ladies, I am single.]

This is Los Angeles, and I am helpless. I am chubby and lazy in a strange city and my friends are dispersed over this vast land. But as long as I have my robe, my beer-filled cooler, and a whole pizza nearby, I will thrive. 

Working in New York hours in Los Angeles has one major advantage: I leave the office at 2:30pm.

But working New York hours in Los Angeles has one major disadvantage: I leave the office at 2:30pm, go straight back to my hotel room, and masturbate like a mental patient for hours and hours.

(And hours.)

You see, I don’t really know what to do with myself when I get out of work that early. I know a few people in LA, sure, but they’re all still working when I knock off, so I can’t exactly meet up with them for a drink. I suppose I could go sightseeing or something, but why would I drive around in horrendous midday LA traffic to see the Chinese theater or the Strip? In NYC, I walk around a lot, exploring the nooks and crannies of the Village, Soho and the Lower East Side, but in LA walking consists of a) walking to the car in the morning; b) walking from the car in the afternoon. I’m staying in Westwood, a neighborhood around UCLA, but aside from a strip of cafes, there ain’t much going on.

(Also, one of you warned me that UCLA has a lot of programs for high school students going on right now, so it’s in my best interest to stay away from the area, or at least always look down on focus on baseball stats while there, lest something regrettable and/or awesome happen.)

What I should be doing is work. Not the 9-to-5 kind, but the "I’m trying to write poop jokes for a living" kind. But the problem is that I’m a night person. There’s no way my ass is sitting down at a computer to "write" when it’s the middle of the afternoon and the city is teeming with life. I find inspiration not when the sun is shining and people are out and about, but when it’s dark, when it’s quiet, when it’s lonely; I like being awake when most everyone else is asleep. In a related story, I like to strangle and be strangled when I have sex. So there’s that.

(The other problem with doing work is that I’m a drunk. Like most things in life – fighting, sexing, robbing – I’m better at "writing" when I’ve had a few (or more than a few) in me. Last night, I went out and bought a bottle of white wine and a 12 pack of Natty Light, hoping to set up a proper boozing and writing session, which would hopefully last well into the night. Instead, I had two beers and fell asleep in my bed with my laptop on my lap and my lights on. Welcome to my Thursday night in Los Angeles, Party Capital.)

So faced with no other options, I get home from work around 3pm and play with myself with extreme prejudice, stopping only when it’s dinner time. Between the porn I can order on TV (to compliment the porn in my laptop), the freedom of being completely nude in a fully air-conditioned room, and the gloriousness of climaxing into a hotel towel with the curtains open wide and looking out onto Los Angeles, I mean…I don’t even know how to end this sentence.

(Seriously, there is enough semen in the towels strewn about my hotel room to create an entire race of half-human/half-towel children that could possibly conquer civilization as we know it.)

Needless to say, it’s been an uneventful first week in LA (though I hesitate to call the way I masturbate "uneventful," what with the yelping and teeth gnashing and kicking and all). But I have high hopes for the weekend that do not involve being ashamed to make eye contact with the hotel maids. Wish me luck.

Ok – so I may have made a horrible, horrible mistake.

When you think about it, it takes so little to ruin someone’s day, doesn’t it? Seriously, try it. Tell a stranger that you pass by on the street that his or her shirt is ugly. Tell a waiter that it was the worst meal you ever had. Tell a host that his/her party sucks. A handful of words, a few seconds, and that person will stew over your asshole comment all day long. So little can affect such a significant and damaging impact.

And so it is something so little that is ruining my time in LA. What is it, exactly? About a half-second.

Though my firm has an office out here in LA, I am working "remotely." I don’t know exactly what that means since I’m a technical retard, but when in my office in NYC, I sit down, turn on my computer, and everything I need is right there at my fingertips. LA employees have this luxury as well. Like I do in NYC, when they sit at their computers, everything is right there, familiar and easy.

But I am not in the NY office. Nor am I an LA employee. Because I am basically squatting in the LA office for a few weeks, I’m remotely accessing my NY computer. Again, I have no idea what this means or why it’s necessary, but instead of simply logging on and finding everything at my need at my fingertips, I have to enter a series of passwords and navigate through multiple log-ons, only to get kicked off the system every few hours. While the getting kicked off would be enough for some people to seriously damage their computer with their fists, feet and possibly teeth, I don’t mind it (I time each log-off with a poop/soda break). What bothers me most, perhaps more than I have ever been bothered before by anything in the history of my life and humankind, is the half-second delay for everything I do.

During my work day, every single time a letter is typed, there is a half-second to full-second delay before it appears on the screen. I touch a key, and instead of appearing instantly, it appears a fraction of a second later.  The result is that I type faster than the words appear on the screen.  For example, under normal circumstances, I can type the following sentences in a few seconds:

“I like balls because they are delicious and nutritious and STICK ‘EM IN MY FACE!”

But because I have this delay on the computer, in the same amount of time I can only get out:

“I like balls because they are dicliosou and nutritiouos”

Notice if you will the typos.  Because of this delay, everything I write is riddled with typos.  I then have to go back and correct these typos, which, again, appear in everything I write.  All day long.  Every day.  The result is that I’m taking up to three or four times longer to do simple tasks at work, like discussing fantasy sports trades via messageboard or emailing my old roommate Brian to argue which is the best Bad Company song, “Shooting Star” or “Can’t Get Enough of Your Love.”

(Even if this is your first time visiting this site, you can probably guess that I’m in the latter camp, since, truly, I can’t get enough of your or anyone else’s love.  Brian argued that the two really can’t be compared, since “Shooting Star” is “more of a story song, a story about a guy who F’s and fights who he pleases.”  He’s got a pretty valid point.)

This delay does not just apply to keystrokes either. If I move my cursor to "File" in Word, it takes a half or full second before "File" is highlighted. If I click on "File", it takes another half or full second before the drop-down menu appears. If I move the cursor immediately down to "Save," it’s another half or full second before "Save" is highlighted.  I know that it must have been very tedious for you to have read that description, but imagine living it.  Every day.  All day long.

I consider myself a generally rageful person, in that I often fill with rage and like to curse and pull the hair out of my beard and celebrate anger in all its forms.  But I will only embrace rage up to a certain point; I like being angry, but I’m able to cool it before people or cars start getting pumped.  But this delay…it’s pushing me to the brink.

You’d think one would get used to and adapt to this remote working and the delay in everything that it causes, but it’s quite the opposite really.  I’m able to deal with it in the morning, but as the day drags on, and things seemingly get slower and slower, my anger grows and grows.  It does not help that because I have to wake up for work at 5:30am, I drink anywhere from six to eight caffeinated drinks per day.  This combination of a slow/1996-speed computer, my easy anger, and lots and lots of caffeine can only mean on thing: I am going to rip my penis off and beat my computer to death with it sometime in the next 48-72 hours.    

(Yes, I’m being generous in writing that I’m able to destroy my computer using my penis as a weapon, when I know full-well that it’d be more akin to trying to attack a refrigerator with a thimble.  Please allow me this exaggeration.)

But other than the brutal work situation, the homicide-level rage that I leave the office with, the bucketful of money I’m spending on my hotel, and the DUI that there is a 264% chance I get in the next two weeks, everything is great in LA.  Just great.    

I am writing to you from Los Angeles.  I arrived on Saturday evening.  I will be here for three weeks, until August 12.  However, there is a good chance I may never leave.

This morning, I woke up at 5:30am, quickly showered and dressed, picked up my rental car from the valet (a sweet-ass seafoam green Ford Taurus), and drove to work.  I have never felt more like an adult than I did this morning, waking up while it’s still dark and driving, actually driving to work.  I am used to walking past dozens of 300 year old Chinese people to my local subway stop, where I will get on a train and sit for a few minutes watching a homeless man masturbate, before arriving at work.  But today, I drove.  I sat in a car, rolled down the windows, turned on the radio and drove.  Like an adult.  Like a real, live adult. 

More than an adult, I felt like a man.  A man who rises before dawn, a man who is the first at his office, a man who works hard to provide for his woman and her children (because he is sterile and she was briefly entangled with a slow but highly fertile man named Ron before they met).  This is how I felt as I drove along Wilshire Boulevard in the pre-dawn light, the mist leftover from an overnight shower coating the buildings, sidewalks, and parked cars.  And I was hard.  Totally, fully erect.  Bonerized.

I all but disappeared from public life at the end of last week, as I hastily prepared for this trip.  First, there was the matter of tying up my work responsibilities.  While out here, I am continuing to work for my firm (we have an office in LA).  The catch is that I’m working NY hours, which, in local LA time, is 6:30am until 2:30pm.  And while I imagine it will be nice to get out of work at 2:30pm, it may be difficult for me to consistently get up at 5:30am in the morning.  While this morning’s drive was glorious, empowering, and disturbing sexual, I am fairly certain that the allure of waking up early, driving to work, and masturbating in your parked car will wear off.  Well, maybe not that last one.

Secondly, I needed to tend to the other affairs that I will be pursuing while I’m out here.  I can’t really get into it, but “other affairs” mean more than just lying in a robe in my hotel room, drinking wine, and watching prison documentaries on MSNBC Investigates.  Not much more, but more.  A little more. 

But now I’m here, enjoying the weather (despite the fog of today and Saturday, yesterday was about a 14 on a scale of one to ten), the scene (drinks with my buddies Dan and Donnie on Saturday night, staring at fake boobies), and the food (two double-doubles animal style at In-N-Out since my arrival on Saturday, with plenty more on the horizon).  I’m staying at a hotel in Westwood right now, but soon will be moving to a buddy’s place in Santa Monica (he’ll be out of town for a while and so he graciously offered me his room; thankfully, since Uncle Jason ain’t made of money and 23 nights at a hotel is a little out of his range). 

But friends, this is a test.  I’ve always loved LA, but every time I’ve visited I’ve always felt the same way: it’s great, but I could never live there.  For the next three weeks, I’ll be living here – working full time, having meetings after work, driving the city and surrounding area, hitting up the bars and restaurants.  I will be very (VERY) busy and will spend my time at work drinking red bull and will probably have to do cocaine while driving, but in the bigger picture, I’m not rushed.  This is not my standard LA trip, four days of visiting friends, getting bombed non-stop, then shipping out.  I have time, three whole weeks, even if I will be busy during these three weeks.  

Last week, I turned 28.  There are certain things you can’t do when you get older, either because they’re no longer cute (saying “It’s been awhile” after prematurely ejaculating is just not cutting it anymore) or because at some point, you have to concede that you are an adult (buying pot in bulk and selling it to your friends for video games is ok in college, but not near 30).  And while I’m not saying I’m too old to move, I will like the window is closing for me to pack up everything, say “Fuck it” and move out of my comfort zone and across the country.

Simply put, this is an audition for Los Angeles.  These next few weeks will determine a number of things, but mainly I will find out if my infatuation with this city is merely that – an infatuation that can be sated by the occasion visit – or if it’s something deeper. 

But only time will tell.  All I can do is welcome this experience with open arms, take full advantage of my situation, eat a shit ton of burgers and Mexican food, and make sure that every time I bring myself to climax in my rental car I make sure to clean up.  Because they really rake you over the coals for ejaculate removal.  Been there before and don’t want to go back, thank you very much. 

I live in Chinatown.  I say Little Italy/Chinatown (or, as I prefer, ChiLita), but Little Italy is one street, four blocks long.  All around it: Chinatown.

Anything you want in Chinatown you can buy off a little Chinese lady on the street.  Fake Prada bag?  Check.  Hot DVD?  Check.  Cool sunglasses?  Check.  Gimpy child from China-type country to do light housework and light your cigarettes?  Check.  Umbrella during rainstorm?  Check.

When it’s raining – and even before it’s raining, when the sky is looking ominous – literally dozens of little Chinese ladies pop up all over my neighborhood with carts selling cheap umbrellas, ranging in price from $3 to $5 (not expensive, but these umbrellas cost about 14¢ to make in the PRC).  I live off these umbrellas, precisely because I am bad with umbrellas.  Why spend $25 for a decent umbrella when I’m going to lose it when I can buy a cheap one for $3?  Sure, the cheap one will break after three or four rainstorms or I’ll lose it in a few weeks, but so what?  It’s only $3.

This morning when I woke up, it was very overcast and looked like it was about to rain.  When I got out of the shower, I saw that the heavens had opened up and it was now pouring.  Naturally, I did not have an umbrella, but was unconcerned – I could just buy one right outside my door from a Chinese lady. 

So I left my apartment, stood under the awning of the Italian restaurant I live above, and took stock of the rain.  Make no mistake, this was a torrential downpour, with raindrops the size of penises.  The large, heavy drops smacked against the pavement and street with a heavy thud that gave me pause; this was a classic, mid-summer, angry NYC rainstorm.  Fuckin’ A. 

My Chinese neighbors were scurrying about, trying to wield their cumbersome umbrellas against the driving rain.  Even with an umbrella this was going to be a difficult walk to the subway.

But there was one problem – I didn’t see any Chinese ladies selling umbrellas.  I looked left, I looked right, and nothing.  They were not there.  I felt a little anxious, but there was nothing I could do.  I didn’t have an umbrella and I had to get to work.  Perhaps, I thought, a Chinese umbrella lady would be on the next corner.  So I took off.

I ran for a block and stopped under another awning.  Already, I was drenched.  In my mad sprint I tried unsuccessfully to jump a puddle that had formed on the street, almost four feet in length, and landed almost smack in the middle, soaking my one foot through to the skin.  My shirt and pants were wet enough to be rung out.  I took my iPod off and out of my pocket and buried it deep in my gym bag to protect it from the rain.  I looked once more for the Chinese umbrella ladies – any Chinese umbrella lady – and could not find one.  I was beginning to lose hope.   

Desperate, and with no other recourse, I ran another block under another awning.  When I stopped under this awning, a sad realization set in: I was fucked.  For whatever reason, the Chinese umbrella ladies, normally a fixture in my neighborhood even under the worst weather conditions, had abandoned me.  I felt like a shipwrecked survivor on a raft who went unseen by a barge passing in the distance.  I was alone, I was wet, and there was nothing I could do.  There were no Chinese umbrella ladies, and they weren’t going to come to save me anytime soon.  Standing under the awning, I took a deep breath and felt the droplets of rain slide from my hair down my face.  I felt like I was wearing a full body sponge instead of shirts and pants.  I closed my eyes.  I cried a little. 

Then I took action.  I ran the rest of the way to the subway, like a magnificent son of a bitch.  I am a survivor.  Fuckin’ A.

***********

As I write this, I am sitting in my office, one hour after I arrived, still soaked.  Worse, I’m not sure what percentage of the moisture on my body is rain versus sweat.  Despite the rain, it is still a warm, humid day, and as the rain water dries on my clothes, it seems to seep deeper, onto my skin, causing me to sweat.  I’m guessing today is not going to be a very productive workday.  Nor would it be a good day to seduce me (just an FYI if you were planning on doing so).

Yet the mystery still remains: where did you go, sweet dependable Chinese umbrella ladies?  I realize that this morning’s rainstorm was especially intense, but I’ve seen you hawking your wares in worse conditions.  Though I don’t claim to be an expert in the art of street commerce, if anything I’d think you’d make it a point to be out on a day like today – I personally would have paid much more than $3 or $5 for an umbrella in this morning’s storm (I probably would have handed over my debit card, given you my PIN, and said, "Fuck it – go nuts"). 

But nothing.  My only hope is that the reason that none of you were present is that you all are at some sort of convention, possibly in the Midwest, at which you all share stories, compare notes, then eat shrimp cocktail and get drunk off call vodka at a large party on the last night of the conference.  This is what I hope, at least.  Also, maybe there’s a juggler at the convention.  Jugglers are hilarious. 

If not, and if you’re planning on no longing servicing the greater Chilita area with inexpensively-priced umbrellas during rainstorms, please have the courtesy to let me know.  I don’t want to drop $25 on an umbrella that I’m gonna leave in a cab in three weeks unless I have to, but I can no longer come into work dripping and nearly electrocute myself on my computer.  Something’s gotta give here.     

Today is my birthday.  I am 28 years old.

28 is an interesting year because it confirms what was already suspected: I am in my late 20’s.  No doubt about this.  It’s not the age that concerns me – in that I’m getting older or closer to dying or should be "settling down" soon or whatever – it’s that at 28, one loses much of the abstract concept of his or her "potential."  Meaning that at 28 and in your late twenties, you are very close to what you’re going to be. 

(Bear with me here, I promise I’m not stoned). 

I think that, barring mid-life crisis during which I shave my head, come out of the closet, and join a hippie commune that grows wheat germ (which is really 50/50 at this point), now that I’m in my late twenties, I don’t think I’m going to change much.  Sure, over the next few years I may become less interested in poop jokes and seeing how many beers I can drink before breaking the seal and more interested in my 401K and home ownership, but what I have right now is about all what you’re gonna get.  And I know that nothing much has changed between 27 and 28, but with the passing of this year, now that I’m firmly planted in my late twenties, I’ve lost just that much more of my "potential."  This is how I generally view birthdays.  Every year that goes by I am more who I am.  I’m not sure if that makes sense, but I really don’t feel like trying too hard to explain it – nor do I have to, because it’s my birthday.    

(Also, I was lying – I am a little stoned.  Sorry.  What, I can’t get high on my birthday?)

Otherwise, I feel good about my life so far up to 28.  I have a job that I like.  My family is great.  I have cool friends.  I’ve slept with a lot of women.*  I live in the greatest city in the world.  I get drunk until 4am every weekend.  I still masturbate with the same frequency I did when I was 15.  I eat with reckless abandon and at some of the nicest restaurants in the city, and I’m still nearly 40 pounds lighter than I was when I was in high school.  I have a big screen TV, two iPods, four guitars, and 800 thread count sheets.  Life is good.  The only thing really missing in my life is that I’ve never experienced a championship by a Philly sports team.  This is a source of great (GREAT) sadness for me, but all things considered, it’s not a bad regret to have if it’s your only one.    

[* Or at least more than I ever thought possible when I was a freshman in college who didn't drink and stayed in on the weekends to masturbate in the dorm laundry room.**]

[** God, I wish I was joking about that.]

Tonight, to celebrate my birthday, I’m going to get high in the shower and masturbate my penis.  You may ask how this is different from any other Tuesday night in my life, and I will tell you that it is not different at all (although I may push the grundle button a little, as it’s a special occasion).  But therein lies the theme for my 28th birthday and the next year of my life: Keeping It Real.  My plan, for my 29th year on earth, is to keep it as real as possible.  I’m not sure what this will entail exactly, but I’m guessing I’m going to have to stop tanning and hanging out with people I despise in order to advance my career in fashion.  It matters not – I’ll work out the specifics later.  But Keeping It Real, at this moment, sounds like a good plan to follow for the next year.  Let’s make it official and add it to the list of previous years’ birthday slogans:

25 - "Are You Gonna Finish That?"
26 - "Whore For Attention"
27 - "I Like Meatballs" 
28 - "Keeping It Real" 

(If you’d like to buy me a beer, I will fall in love with you a little more.  You can do so by clicking on the "make a donation" button on the right.  If you decide to do so, I can promise you this: whatever monies you donate will not be spent on rent, student loans, food, or even cab fare; I will spend it only on booze.  Maybe a nice case of beer or a nice bottle of bourbon or a good bottle of wine, but it’s gonna be alcohol, no doubt.  Thank you in advance for your consideration and if you are not able to buy me booze, I’ll settle for you throwing some good karma my way – and it goes without saying that boobies are always welcome.  Booze, karma, and boobies.  I’m a simple man, just keeping it real.  Happy birthday to me.)   

Today is the day that I’m supposed to give you a thorough (and hopefully funny) recap of my weekend down the shore, including a summary of our 9th Annual "Drink Until You Shit" tour.  But there’s just one problem.  I can’t. 

This is for two main reasons:

The first is that our DUYS tour went off without so much as a hitch.  Really, as far as pub crawls go, it was a model of efficiency.  We had a good turnout, with at least 150 people, possibly more.  We started, as planned, at Casey’s at 6:30pm, where we drank for almost two hours.  There, we had a short installation ceremony during which we named our dear friend Chucky captain (or "craptain," if you will) of the 9th Annual tour.  I said a few words, most of which couldn’t be heard because I hadn’t yet figured out how to use the megaphone (I’m a moron), and we presented Chucky with his special 9th Annual tour shirt, complete with a "C" stitched in the upper left of the shirt.  There was then a photo opp a la NBA lottery draft picks ("With the first selection of the 9th Annual DUYS tour, Flood/Mulgrew select…").  Prior to leaving Casey’s, as has become a mini-tour tradition, I pooped.  After all, I am a tour founder, so who better to christen the tour? 

And then, as they say, it was on.  We went to the #1 Tavern, which is not my favorite bar, but a necessary early stop on all North Wildwood pub crawls because of the Tullynut, the #1’s specialty drink.  The drink, which costs $8, is a red fruit juice cocktail that supposedly has a blend of five liquors.  Two of these Tullynuts will provide a nice foundation, four will get you sloppy, six will put you in the hospital.  Because I was still Johnny Pub Crawl at that point, selling t-shirts, directing traffic, and answering questions, I only had two.  (Relative) Sobriety: ad majorem tour gloriam.

And then, as they say, it was really on.  Other tourgoers did not show as much restraint as I did and stumbled out of the #1 gorgeously drunk and wonderfully sloppy.  The next bar, Westy’s, had a nice outdoor patio and dancing.  It was at this bar that I officially lost control of the tour, since few people wanted to leave (or at least leave when I asked them to).  So yes, again I was playing the role of Tour Nazi, but it was much easier this time around.  Mostly because I didn’t really care and instead focused on smiling at the empire I (and David) created, watching over 150 friends and family getting bombed together, dancing, and in some cases already making out with strangers (this was at about 9pm – bars close at 3am).  It was, in a word, glorious.

Our fourth bar, Echo’s, provided the second reason why my recap is not as thorough as it should be.  As I said, up to that point, I had been fairly well-composed, pacing myself, trying to play perfect host and making sure everyone had a good time.  At Echo’s, I met a new friend, Jim, a reader of this here site.  Jim, bless his lil’ heart, proceeded to buy me three shots of whiskey in a row, as well as two bud lights.  I showed my gratitude to Jim by pounding the shots and shuttling down those bud lights as quickly as possible.  From that point forward, it was pretty much lights out for me.  The switch had been flipped and there was no turning back.  Fathers, lock up your daughters; pizza shop owners, prepare for the reckoning. 

[There was a surprising turnout from readers of this site, with people coming from as far away as Oklahoma (!).  Needless to say, I'm humbled and grateful to those of you who made it out - especially grateful for your drinks.  This was the first time I met readers of this site en masse, and I learned an important lesson: I better be prepared to bring it.  Wow.  You guys were not joking with the whole "Here's a drink - now get drunk, fat chops!" thing.  It was awesome, don't get me wrong, but if y'all come again next year, I'm going to have to start practicing a few days before the tour.  Yowza.]  

I remember some of the rest of the night.  I know I made it to the two remaining bars, and I know I made some lame attempt at corralling others to join me (very unsuccessfully).  But that’s about it.  I don’t remember the circumstances at these bars or getting home or seeing people (I got an email from a friend today, telling me it was nice to see me, but I have absolutely no recollection of seeing her on the tour).  I woke up in my bathroom with my shower running, but this is (partially) explainable.  Because my hangovers after the last two DUYS tours had been so, so terrible, I was determined to do my best to prevent major brain bleeding the day after the tour.  To that end, I guess I tried staying up as long as I could, drinking water, and running the shower (it is my contention that running water – particularly from the shower – has an amazingly ameliorative effect on drunkenness and hangovers; I will write a best selling self-help/"So you’re a drunk" book on this topic one day).  It was still dark out, so I don’t think I was asleep there long, and then I was off to bed.  The next day, minimal hangover.  Success.

We’re still piecing together exactly what happened on the tour.  I’m pissed at myself, because I took great pains to pack my camera before leaving NYC – along with extra battery – but at the first bar, my camera battery died and I had left the replacement battery at home (again, I’m a moron).  So no pictures from me.  It appears that, from the emails I’ve been seeing, our friend Brown Eye has the early lead for next year’s captaincy.  Brown Eye (real name Danny) didn’t wear a shirt - any shirt – for much of the night and grabbed a hold of the megaphone early and used it as his own personal soapbox (I believe he was encouraging random bargoers to shit).  I also know that David’s girlfriend was a disaster, but she can’t be captain, due to her affiliation with David; we probably should have told her that ahead of time.  I learned that when I went home, I left 40 tour t-shirts at the bar, but they were fortunately salvaged and not stolen (we have extra shirts, by the way; if you want one, you can order here). 

The weekend otherwise was lovely – my friends Ryan and Becky got kicked out of their hotel room because of a cheesesteak (such a complicated story I dare not try to tell it) and stayed at my place for the weekend; ten of us went out to a big dinner on Friday night with ten bottles of wine; and I made top six scores in each animal category on the Big Buckhunter machine at Gateway 26 on the boardwalk (I’m kind of addicted to that game).  Today has not been kind.

But always keepin’ on keepin’ on, David, my tour co-founder, emailed me this morning about brainstorming ideas for next year, our 10th anniversary DUYS tour.  I don’t want to give too much away, but he wants to get an animal mascot.  And this animal shits.  A lot.  So mark it down now: July 12, 2008 – the 10th Annual Drink Until You Shit Tour.  I think I’m going to start practicing now.     

This is me, signing off for a long weekend down the shore and the drink until you shit tour.

Please have a happy and safe weekend and wish me luck.

(I am definitely going to need it.)

Love,
Jason

We may have a serious problem.

In college, I was obsessed with these frozen chicken cordon bleu thingees.  Practically every other night, my roommate Joe and I would throw two in the toaster oven, cook up a big ass bag of rice, break out the Country Crock, and go to town on our little meal.  Senior year, before I started seducing an adorable little sophomore with a meal plan, this is what I ate every other night.

(To be fair, it was a relationship based in utility for both people: I used her for a couple of sandwiches a week from the cafeteria, she used me for 40 cans of Natty Light every weekend for her roommates.  The hooking up part was inconsequential and could be described by both of us as "Eh.")

Even after I met the girl with the meal plan, I still cooked up these chicken cordon bleus.  They were delicious: breaded chicken, oozing with cheese and ham, everything about them totally artificial (which translates to "totally good" in my book).  They were easy to make, cheap, filling, and tasted good.  In short, I was falling in love with them.  We were going to be happy for a long, long time.

Then one day, shortly after Joe and I dined on the cordon bleus, I got violently ill.  I was sitting in our common room, watching a college basketball game, when something exploded inside my belly.  I ran to the bathroom and violently threw up.  I spent the next few hours there, laying on the bathroom floor (a bathroom floor shared by three seniors in college – yikes).  I threw up a few more times and spent the next two days looking pale and with a major pain in my stomach.  Physically, I would recover.  Emotionally, I would not.  Knowing that the cause of my illness was the chicken cordon bleu, I gave them up then and there.  After being so badly burned by something I trusted and loved so much, I wouldn’t allow myself to be betrayed again. 

(To make matters worse, my relationship with the sophomore went downhill shortly thereafter, leaving me without food-less and makeout-less.  Not a good time for me.)

To this day, almost six years later, I still haven’t eaten one of the chicken cordon bleus.  Every once in a while I will see them in my grocer’s freezer, we’ll look at each other, and I’ll feel that pang of nostalgia and regret – and not a small amount of affection.  I may even open the door to the freezer to reach in to touch them.  But invariably, I end up walking away, alone.  It is not easy for me to forgive and forget.

But I have adjusted, moved on, and met new and exciting foods to love.  Among them is the carrot cake at Dean & Deluca.  This carrot cake is breathtaking.  I mean that literally – when I eat it, I have trouble breathing.  I focus solely on how good the carrot cake is that I forget to inhale and exhale.  Then I choke and cough and crumbs of carrot cake shoot out of my mouth.  It’s embarrassing, but it’s absolutely worth it.  If you love carrot cake and have not had the carrot cake from Dean & DeLuca, you do not love carrot cake.  You love garbage and your life is incomplete.

I’ve been feeling kinda down because I’m turning 28 next week.  Though I’m successful in terms of loving luxury and owning luxurious things (books of poems, decanters, a cleaning lady, fine sheets, etc) and participating/running various drinking tours and wine drinking competitions all over the country, I still feel unfulfilled.  Sure, maybe this is because the highlight of my summer will occur on Saturday night when I get so drunk that I (hopefully) shit myself, but I’m not a psychiatrist.  So whatever.

Yesterday, with the general anxiety of my birthday hanging over me and after an especially crappy day at work, I decided that I would get some air and walk from my office to my local Dean & DeLuca to get a carrot cake.  If there’s one thing I learned from growing up fat and in a broken home, food is love.  And if food is love, this carrot cake is rapture.

So I walked and sweated my way through the rush hour streets of Lower Manhattan, slogging through the 90° heat and 90% humidity, up through Chinatown, into Soho, and finally to Dean & DeLuca.  The carrot cakes come in two sizes, small ($9, four slices) and large ($20, eight slices).  When I looked into the glass case, I saw that they were sold out of the small ones, so I had to get a large.  Man, I was pissed I had to get a large one [sarcasm].  I mean, what I am going to do with a whole, large, giant, delicious carrot cake [more sarcasm]?  Also, I think Dominicans are wonderful people [even more sarcasm] and am totally not afraid when they ride in the same subway car as me [extreme, extreme sarcasm].  By the way, I would never make out with a dude [sarcasm meter exploding].

I grabbed a quart of milk to enjoy with my carrot cake and was shortly on my way home.  When I got back to my apartment, I cut the carrot cake into sixths and ate a monster-sized slice.  It was, as usual, incredible.  After I was finished, I spent the next thirty minutes breathing heavily and making ga-ga noises in my oppressively hot apartment (also, I wasn’t wearing a shirt).  My name is Jason Mulgrew, I’m 28 years old, and I had a giant piece of carrot cake for dinner while not wearing a shirt.  And yes, I am single.   

This morning for breakfast, I had another giant piece of carrot cake (seriously – totally available, ladies).  I again had a tall glass of milk with the cake, so there I sat, watching Sportscenter, eating carrot cake, drinking my milk, having a great time getting ready for work.  When I finished, I went about my morning routine and got ready for work.  It was when I had put my gym bag around my shoulders and turned off my kitchen light that it hit me.

Something exploded inside my belly.  My mouth started salivating and boom – before I knew it, I was doubled over the toilet, dressed in work clothes, puking.  It wasn’t exactly one of those "I’m crying and I need my mom" pukes, but it was still a mighty one.  Short, but thorough, it was a bout of vomiting that demanded respect. 

But again, worse than the physical pain was the emotional trauma of the vomiting.  I had eaten nothing in the previous sixteen hours aside from carrot cake, milk and water.  Therefore, one of these had to have made me sick.  The thought of it being the carrot cake nearly caused me to faint.

God, I hope it wasn’t the carrot cake.  Losing the chicken cordon bleus was hard enough, but I was much younger than and had much less at stake.  I’m older now and realize I don’t have much time for games.  To have to cut this carrot cake out of my life might be the end of me.  I’m not even prepared to consider this.

My hope is that it was the milk that made me sick.  What I didn’t mention is that I bought the milk not from a closed-door refrigerator in Dean & DeLuca, but from a dairy case.  When I grabbed the milk, the first one in the line, it was covered in condensation (remember, it was extremely hot and humid in NYC yesterday).  By the time I had walked back to my apartment, cut the cake, and was drinking the milk, it was only slightly cooler than room temperature.  Under any other circumstances, I would have dumped the milk out or at least put it in the fridge to cool some more, but I was so hard for that carrot cake that I needed to have it right away.  This morning, after a night in my fridge, I didn’t notice anything strange about the milk, but again, this carrot cake has a strangely intoxicating effect.  I could have been drinking antifreeze and would not have noticed the difference.

But tonight will be the true test.  I plan on having the carrot cake again for dinner, but this time with a new milk (and maybe I’ll wear a shirt this time ’round – it’s raining out, so it should be a little cooler).  If I don’t get sick or experience any discomfort, all will be right with the world.  But if I wind up puking in my work clothes again…this will be the worst birthday ever.  Pray for me.              

This is your final reminder: the 9th Annual "Drink Until You Shit!" tour is this Saturday, July 14, in North Wildwood, New Jersey.

We will meet at Casey’s at 3rd & New York at 6:30pm.  We will congregate there and any tour participants who do not have shirts will be able to buy them at Casey’s.  Shirts are $15. 

(Re: shirts – As some of you know, we stopped selling shirts over the internet to non-tour participants, for fear that we might run out before the tour.  If we have shirts left over after the tour, we’ll put them back on sale here.) 

At approximately 7:15pm, there will be a short installation ceremony, during which we will crown the Captain of the 9th Annual Tour, our dear friend Chucky, whose stellar drunken performance last year earned him this year’s captaincy (or, if your prefer, craptaincy).

Shortly thereafter, we will be on the move and the tour will be underway.  God help us and be with us at that point.

As I wrote, I don’t expect any of you to attend, but it will surely be a good time.  For those of you who can’t make it, I will be taking lots of pictures and reporting back on here.  My personal theme song this year will be "Photograph" by Def Leppard, since I haven’t been able to get this song out of my head for about seven weeks now.  I am going to rock the fuck out.  I can’t make any promises, but I only hope at the end of the night I don’t crawl into bed with my buddy Kyle like I did last year.  I can’t help it – I get very lonely and confused when I drink.

Finally, my birthday is in exactly one week (July 17).  I will be 28.  If you want to buy me a beer, please feel free to click on the "make a donation" button on the right.  A pint of Guinness is $6, a bottle of Bud Light is $5 (it’s a travesty, but it’s NYC), and a Manhattan, which I’ve only gotten into since my last birthday, costs $12 at the Pegu Club.  Not that I deserve any of this things, but it would be nice gesture.  If not, a simple "Happy Birthday" greeting and/or boobie shot will do.  Thank you in advance for your consideration.  

My weekend sucked. 

(Mostly.)

I stayed in on Saturday night, drank a bottle of wine, had a half dozen or so Bud bombers, and watched Braveheart until almost 5am.  Also – and I’m not sure about this – I may have cried during the course of the movie.  Maybe a few times.  Maybe more than a few times.  Very emotional movie.

After Braveheart, I hit the tivo for this classic performance that achieved “Save Until Manually Deleted” status as soon as I first saw it:

[youtube]SLhoLkTyNkM[/youtube]

Two minutes into this video, I was crying and masturbating and there were some pretzels involved.  This happens every time I see The Faces perform.

This is a beautiful treatment of this song.  Not only does Rod’s whiskey-soaked throat gently through the Pines of Love, but these guys are terrific musicians who take a fairly sappy song and give it some real cock (and balls, even).  Gets me every time.

And if you can’t pick up on the heat between Rod and singer/bassist Ronnie Lane when the start singing with/to each other around the 2:45 mark, well, you have something seriously wrong with you.  I’ve had sex five times before in my life, and never did I look at the woman/uncooked chicken breast with as much passion as these two look at each other in this video.  There’s love, there’s passion, and there’s the look that Rod and Ronnie share.  Holy geez.  I want to write a poem after watching this video, and possibly buy an engagement ring, just in case.

[The next day, discussing this video with some friends, the discussion came up as to how much it would cost to have The Faces reunite and play this song at a wedding. We settled on $1.5 million, just for the one song.  This may seem like a lot, but The Faces had Rod Stewart and Ronnie Wood, who now plays guitar for the Rolling Stones.  The discussion became moot, however, when we learned that Ronnie Lane is dead.  So I will take that $1.5 million and spend it on something else at my wedding, like ninja outfits for all the guests or bringing my wife’s family over from Vietnam, so she doesn’t get lonely and, more importantly, leaves me the fuck alone when I’m taking my baths.]

Finally, on Sunday, I went out for a late afternoon/early evening drink with my buddy Jeremy, where we met some ladies.  When one of them told us she grew up in Trinidad, I was interested – not only because who grows up on Trinidad (?), but also because she was white as the driven snow and didn’t have dreadlocks or an island accent or immediately offer me cocaine or ask if I want to “party.”

I asked her what that was all about, and she said her dad was an oil industry exec who worked out of Trinidad.  Hmm, I said.  And then I said, “So did you guys have slaves or…I mean, how does that work?”

It was not very well received.

Of course, I realize that asking a stranger who probably grew up quite privileged on an island with many impoverished black people if she had slaves when she was a kid was not the best idea in the world.  But these girls, particularly the one who grew up in Trinidad, seemed pretty cool.  Yet to be sure, that coolness went right out the window after my little “joke.”

After navigating through a few “What does that mean?”/”What is that supposed to mean?” questions, I more or less told everyone to lighten up, which is never the right thing to do.  Needless to say, Jeremy and I did not get any numbers that night.

And you know what?  That’s a shame.  I think I’ll always be single because you know what I think the right answer to my slavery question/joke is? 

“Yes, we had about two dozen of them.  My favorite was Pogo, a slightly lame boy of twelve who took care of our pool.  He was slow mentally, but he taught my sister and I several charming Trinidadian folk songs.  She later married him.  It was a beautiful wedding.  He’s dead now.” 

If this girl had responded in that way, I probably would have proposed to her right there.  Instead, she got offended and the evening took an irrevocable turn for the worse.  Oh well.

So yeah, my weekend sucked.

(Mostly.) 

The "chicks dig writers" movement took a serious blow this week, when Salman Rushdie and his smokin’ hot wife Padma Lakshmi split up.  So sad.

I can’t say I’m surprised here – I mean, this just ain’t right – but I’m bummed.  Anytime an ugly guy loses a hot girl, ugly dudes the world over feel his loss.  Closer to home, I’m bummed because Salman (we’re on a first name basis) is a writer – not an actor or athlete or rock star – who scored a very attractive wife.  Of course, I’m not even technically a writer anymore, but I certainly aspire to be.  I also aspire to sleep with women who are way out of my league.  Salman and I, we are brothers-in-arms, and when he hurts, I hurt.      

The good news for Salman is that he’s probably going to bounce back pretty well (I think this was his fourth marriage).  But in the meantime, Salman, keep your head up.  Pretty of fish, my friend.

(And Padma, if you’re tired of talented writers and are looking for guys with blogs who write about poop, you know how to find me.)

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

I gotta say, if this is what they write about you when you’ve died, you’ve had a good run.  A really, really good run.

I’m actually pretty close to this description, except I don’t know what the word "louche" means and don’t feel like looking it up.  Also, my homosexual orgies are not so much "extravagant" as they are "intimate."  One could argue for the pluses of each, but I’m a more low-key, Roberta Flack "Set the Night to Music" kinda guy when it comes to having sex with twelve dudes at once.  That’s just how I roll.

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

Finally, please take a moment to vote for my buddy Matt’s girlfriend Lauren, as she vies to become a Celtics dancer for the next basketball season.  It will only take a second and I would be very grateful to you.  Thank you in advance.

[Again, just click here to vote.  Her name is Lauren.  Also, I get free beers if she wins.  So please help her and me.  Thank you again.]

[Have a good weekend.]

Continuing our recap of the weekend in Boston… 

Death, snackwraps
On Sunday, Kyle and I had tickets to return to NYC via Amtrak (hello, afternoon train boozing!), but our buddy Bill, who was driving to the Jersey shore from Boston, offered us a ride back.

Bill was, to put it mildly, still very shit-canned from the previous night.  He woke up at 2pm and we could still smell the booze coming off of him when we hit the road at 5pm.  Also, he smelled a little like hoagie, but that’s his natural scent.

I’ve written before that I’m convinced that I’m going to die in spectacular fashion.  Hotel fire is still number one on the last, but "fiery eight car crash" is not far behind.  Now of course, Bill was not drunk driving when we got in the car – at least, not in the traditional sense.  He hadn’t had a drink for about twelve hours, so really, there was nothing for me to be concerned about.  But, coming down from such a long and "exciting" weekend, I felt nervous and hypochondriacal as the booze escaped from my body.  Not a good feeling.

It was with great anxiety that I got in the car, but soon I saw that we were fine.  We scooted out of Boston and along the Masspike without a problem, and I calmed down.  We saw a sign for a McDonalds and stopped for some food. 

I wasn’t that hungry, but hey – fuck it.  Also, Bill spent ten miles from when we first saw the sign to when we arrived at the McDonalds talking about how good their snackwraps are.  I had never had one, but I knew Bill wouldn’t steer me wrong.  I got one ranch and one honey mustard.  Bill did the same and added a cheeseburger.  Kyle didn’t get food and instead pooped.

I thought we were going to eat at the rest stop, but Bill wanted to continue driving.  This made my anxiety returned, but I realized that if anyone can eat while driving, it’s probably Bill.

I sat shotgun with our McDonalds bag in my lap, and passed Bill his burger.  I went to town on my snackwraps, which, as Bill said, were delicious.  They are basically taco bell tacos but with chicken fingers instead of horsemeat.  So, yum.

So there we were, two fat guys in the front seat, passing food and garbage to each other, while Kyle sat in the back and said things like, "Man, you guys are some serious fatties" and "Jas, do you think if you gave Bill a sneaker he’d notice? Or would he just eat it?"

We approached a toll near the end of the Mass Pike.  Bill was going pretty fast, but he was in the center E-Z Pass lane with no car in front of him.  Bill asked me to pass him a snackwrap.  As he watched me, I reached into the bag to pull out his snackwrap, raising my eyes from the bag just in time to see a silver SUV cutting across our lane. 

Bill did not see the SUV, as he was hypnotized by the snackwrap I was pulling out of the bag, and did not slow down.  I screamed, "Bill! Bill!" and he looked away from the snackwrap, saw the SUV, and slammed on the brakes.  The car jerked to a sudden stop, tires screeched, our sodas in the cup holders went flying, and we all lunged forward.  Bill leaned on the horn and the SUV honked back.  In two seconds, it was over.

I have only been in a car accident once, and in that case we were driving around the back streets behind Upper Campus at Boston College, going about ten miles an hour down an icy road, and we harmlessly hit a telephone pole while listening to Prince’s "Seven" (it’s really the perfect song to listen to while driving around on ice).  I was in the backseat, but even as we lost control of the car, I didn’t get scared, since I probably could have punched the telephone pole harder than we hit it (there were minor damages to the car and telephone poll and no one in the car was hurt). 

But in this case, I was crapping myself (almost literally).  We were going pretty fast toward the E-Z Pass toll and had we hit that SUV – which we were about two seconds and ten feet from doing – there would have been some serious, serious damage.  We all were wearing seatbelts, but after drinking so much and sleeping so little over the weekend, not to mention my so-high-it’s-almost-hilarious blood pressure, I would have probably died from fright if we had been in an accident.  I’m kind of a pussy. 

But, God spared us and saved us (this time).  After we took a second to collect ourselves, we started driving again.  Bill then said, "Jesus Christ, Nass - I thought you were yelling at me to grab the snackwrap!" 

Bill knows that a snackwrap would inspire such emotion in me.  He knows me well.  

Please, have sex in my bed
Apparently, my friends and I have a communication problem.  Because I’m a good friend, I always let friends crash at my place – some even have their own keys (not necessarily to come and go when they please, but to make last minute stays easier).  But the problem is that when I say, "Sure, you can stay at my apartment," they hear, "Sure, you can have sex in my bed."

Sunday night, after nearing dying on the road and a punishing weekend, all I wanted was to crank up the AC and sleep in the comfort of my own bed, which, as I’ve stated before, is arguably the most comfortable in America.  A very simple and very attainable goal, I thought.

Not so.  The trouble started upon entering my apartment, when my buddy Kyle used the bathroom and yelled, "Dude, your toilet’s broken."  To that point, I had forgotten that my friend – who we’ll call Prudence – had left me a voicemail Friday afternoon, asking to stay at my place.  I forgot because I was partying and didn’t call her back, but I kinda didn’t want her to stay at my place when I wasn’t there anyway.  She has a lot of friends in NYC and could have made other plans, so whatever.  Not a big deal, and I forgot about it.

But now my toilet was broken.  Nothing serious, but still broken.  So Prudence had to have stayed there.  I then noticed that a Playboy magazine of mine (love those articles) was on my coffee table.  Next, I walked into my bedroom to find the bed haphazardly made, which I was sure I didn’t do.  Then, most damningly, I found two half-full wine glasses on my night table next to my bed.

Well.

As Kyle pointed out with a laugh, I don’t think Prudence drank both of these herself.  Grossed out to the umpteenth degree, I immediately started stripping the sheets.  It was then, much to my disgust, that I discovered matter in my bed.  Matter that comes from something like making love. 

[Rage]

Seeing as I haven’t had sex in my bed in, oh, seasons (told you – I’m going through a floor phase right now), I knew that I could have not left this evidence behind.  Putting it all together - the broken toilet, the Playboy, the two wine glasses, the sex mark – it seemed that Prudence had indeed made some kind of love in my bed.  

[Rage building]

I called our mutual friend to ask if he knew whether or not Prudence had stayed at my place and he said that yes, he thought she did.  All our mutual friend knew was that Prudence had a date on Friday night in Manhattan. 

[Rage - rage - rage]

Look – I love wine and I love making love.  And I hope that my friends find happiness in wine and making love as well – just not in my bed.  I can not express the extent of my disgust at this situation.  Strike one was crashing at my place without getting my explicit permission.  Strike two was bringing some stranger back to my apartment and in the course of the evening reading my Playboy, breaking my toilet, and drinking wine together in my bed.  Strike three was doing the dude in my bed.  The thought of my friend and some random dude lying, likely naked and post-coitus, drinking wine in my bed…I mean, I am filled with rage right now.  Rage.  Everywhere.  All over the place.  Walls.  Ceiling.  Floor.  Rage.   

And as I said in the beginning, this is, unfortunately, not the first time this has happened to me.  Not with Prudence, but with other friends.  But those others have owned up to it and bought back my love in the form of meals, drinks and even sheets.  Also, what’s different this time around is that these other transgressions were by my guy friends.  Something about Prudence being a girl and a random guy sleeping in my bed is much, much worse than a guy buddy doing a random chick in my bed.  Call me sexist, but that’s where I am, baby.  Random guys = gross.  Random chicks = hi, I’m Jason. 

Barring a major setback, I will be in LA for three weeks in late July/early August.  I was planning on basically giving my apartment over to my friends to use however they see fit (my buddy Brendan called me this weekend in Boston and complained that I can’t go away because my place is the clubhouse and when I’m gone my friends don’t have a place to congregate before going out, which I found oddly touching).  But now, I’m thinking about actually boarding the apartment up with plywood and padlocking the doors.  Because I’ll be damned if I come back to wine glasses on my night table and a strange dude’s goo in my bed.  

[Deep breaths...deep breaths...]

[I think I need a snackwrap.]

First, an admission: my buddy Kyle and I failed in our goal of getting cut off by the bartender on the train ride from NYC to Boston on Thursday night.  There were many reasons for this (there were long lines in the cafe car to get beer, there was a two beer per person limit which we sweet-talked to four, they eventually ran out of beer, etc), but frankly, we were out-classed.  There were a group of Massholes, financial-type guys in their mid-fifties, who stood in the cafe car drinking chardonnay the entire ride and getting bombed.  These guys were really, really impressive.  Every time I stood in line, I had to listen to them stammer and scream in their thick Mass accents, "We goht Ray Fahking Allen!  Are you fahking serious!  Arghh [garbled Masshole talk]!" (Editor’s Note: We rode up the night of the NBA draft).  If anyone was getting cut off aboard that train, it was those guys.  Back to the minor leagues for Kyle and I.  

But despite this early failure, the weekend in Boston was a great success. 

Children and ball games
It started in earnest on Friday afternoon, when I had a beer with my haircut at State Street Barbers (God, I love that place).  After that, we took a jaunt to Anna’s for, sadly, what was the worst Anna’s burrito I ever had, meaning it was only "very good."  After that, we headed back to the apartment of my friends and newlyweds Joe and Danielle where we had some beers before heading out to the Sox game.

I’ve been to Fenway a bunch of times and really like the park.  Sure, it’s built for guys who are 5′4" and 140 pounds, but otherwise, it’s a nice park with a lot of pluses: great location in the center of the city, colorful and joyously inarticulate fans, sense of history, etc. 

One of the negatives is that vendors are not walking around selling beer (not sure if this is true of the whole stadium or just in our section).  Therefore, we had to get up and actually go get beer each time we wanted more.  This was a problem at first, but I timed so that with every piss I’d buy two beers.  Perfect.  Also, we were on the end of the row, meaning I only had to climb over Joe and Dani to get to the aisle, rather than over a dozen people with my size 13 feet down the narrow, narrow row (seriously, the park was built for midgets).

(Note: I did not drop the "size 13" reference in there to subtly suggest that I have a large penis.  Far from it.  Having such large feet with such a small penis makes the whole situation much, much worse; I’d rather wear size 6 sneakers so I don’t have to hear, "You have big feet – you know what that means!" whenever someone discovers my shoe size.  Yes, I know what it means: Nothing.  It means I have big feet and can stick my dick in the cap of a water bottle if it’s frightened enough.  Asshole God.  Giving me big feet a little bird.  What a dick.) 

What I haven’t mentioned yet was that I was rocked at the game.  Friday was one of those loads where you have one beer and immediately feel a difference; I walked out of the haircut place with what felt like a solid buzz after just one beer.  The Anna’s "sobered" me up, but after that it was right back to heavy drinking at Joe’s, and by the third inning I couldn’t pay attention to the game.  All six of us sort of forgot about it (it was a pretty boring 2-1 Sox win anyway) and talked away.  To our dismay, we couldn’t curse, because there was a girl about five years old sitting directly in front of me, between her mom and her aunt.  So our discussion about the biggest cockhound we know would have to wait for another day.

The guys in our row further down were also very rocked at the game.  They were your standard Red Sox fans, four of them, maybe a few years older than ourselves.  They weren’t especially obnoxious (so maybe they weren’t "standard" Red Sox fans), but they annoyed us in that they kept getting up very often, causing my six friends and I to repeatedly stand up so they could squeeze by.  Every once in a while this is fine – c’mon, it’s a ball game – but one of the four would get up every half inning.  That’s too much.

By the seventh, I had just returned from a beer break, was holding two beers, and was really, really feeling it, in desperate need of a second wind.  I sat slumped in my seat while my friends were all out buying more beers or food or taking bathroom breaks.  Seeing as it was just me and five empty seats, two of my neighbors decided it would be a good time to walk by me and head for more beers or whatnot.     

You can probably figure out how the rest goes: two guys walk by drunk Jason, he struggles to stand and balance himself with a full beer in each hand, they pass by, and as Jason tries to sit down his spills not a small amount of beer in the little girl’s chair in front of him.  Fortunately, the little girl was sitting on the edge of her seat, so the beer didn’t directly hit her.  Instead, it ricocheted off the back of her chair and splashed her back.  Great.  My drunk ass had just poured beer on a little girl.

I apologized profusely as the girl fled onto the lap of her mom.  I didn’t have any napkins so I began rubbing by bare arm (I was wearing short sleeves) on the back of the little girl’s chair, saying "I’m sorry" over and over again.  The adults she was with kept saying, "That’s alright," but it was one of those "that’s alright" that really mean "You’re a real fucking asshole."  Again, great.

The good news, however, is that this incident provided me with that much-needed second wind.  I was so moved by embarrassment that I was reinvigorated.  Now, more awake and alert, I rode this second wind until the bars closed at 2am, enjoying it all the way.

So, little girl, I’m sorry, truly sorry, that I spilled beer on you.  Please believe me – I’m a scumbag and a drunk in many ways, but I never thought I’d be the type of drunk who spills his beer on little girls at baseball games.  My greatest hope is that you are not scarred by the incident and for the rest of your life you will stay away from fat guys with beards, all on account of my drunkenness.  Please accept my apologies.  We’re not all like that. 

(Actually, it’s probably best if you stay away from fat guys with beards.  You’ll be better off in the long run.)

Party floaters, cysts and pepper vodka
Saturday started with a monster hangover and my buddy Bill and I got Anna’s once again.  This time I went without the extra cheese and it proved to be a great decision – the burrito was phenomenal.  My faith in Anna’s was restored.

(I know – I never thought there was such a thing as "too much cheese," but I’m sad to say there is, my friends.  I’m sad to say there is.)

Bill and I then joined Joe, Danielle and Kyle (Kyle was staying with Joe and Dani; I was staying with Bill) for brunch.  Bill and I didn’t eat (I originally had "of course" in there, but I don’t think it’s appropriate with Bill and I – the two of us eating again would not have been out of the question) but we had beers and once again, it had started.  

Brunch turned into a three-hour affair with several beers and sangria on a rooftop bar on Boylston whose name escapes me.  I shouldn’t have to tell you that it was lovely: old friends, warm sunny weather, booze; Trinity of Love.

After brunch, it was back to Joe and Dani’s beautiful apartment on Boylston for several more beers.  I took a small nap and before long, it was 8pm and time for some action.  We decided to go get some dinner.

(I know – rough weekend.  Sleeping, eating, drinking, repeat.)

Without getting too into it, some ugliness ensued.  All I’ll say was that the four of them (Joe, Dani, Bill and Kyle) wanted to get sushi, but I don’t like sushi.  I pleaded with them for us to go to a restaurant that we all could enjoy, but they didn’t budge.  Like a petulant child, while the four of them had dinner at a sushi place next to Bill’s apartment in Beacon Hill, I sat in Bill’s apartment, alone, drinking beer and eating a chicken parm sandwich from a local pizza place.  Stupid jerk friends. 

The four came back to Bill’s place for more drinks.  After 11pm and after much debate and discussion, we finally decided to head out.  While out, we met up with our friend Cara and some of her friends, and some of Bill’s co-workers joined us, and the night was in full swing. 

But because we’re talking about Boston, the night ended too soon.  Just as everyone started enjoying themselves, last call was announced and we were kicked out of the bar.  Disgruntled, about 15 of us thought it would be a good idea to head back to Bill’s (tiny, one bedroom) apartment nearby for some nighttcaps.

Things get a little blurry from this point forward.

For one, Bill had a limited amount of alcohol in his apartment.  From what I could tell he had maybe 16 beers, a 40 (Joe’s from earlier in the day), a half a bottle of vodka, and a full bottle of Absolut Peppar, which is described as "containing a complex taste of green jalapeno peppers and fiery capsicum spices like paprika and chili."  Spicy vodka.  Terrific.   

Of the 15 people who came back to Bill’s, about six cracked open a beer, had a few sips, then left the party, leaving behind their floaters that were anywhere from half to mostly full.  This, I thought, was not a good use of our limited resources.

If you guys have picked up anything about me from reading this site, you know that I’m a team player.  My own happiness matters little compared to the happiness of those around me, so I do whatever it takes to improves the lives of those I’m with.  I’m just wired that way. 

Therefore, I figured it would be a good idea for me to drink these floaters so that everyone else could have fresh, full, new beers.  To that end, I discreetly collected the floaters and brought them over to a corner of the kitchen where I could work undisturbed.  I then combined them into as few beer cans as possible (from the six I made three nearly full cans), put two open cans in the fridge, and started drinking the other one.  Never mind the fact that I only knew two of the people whose old beers I was drinking and probably gave myself hepatitis, the party benefited because of my actions.  Winner.

(Did I mention I that I turned 28 in a few weeks?)        

Around floater number two, we started exploiting Bill’s cyst.  You see, my buddy Bill, formerly of "Average Joe: Hawaii," has what we believe is a cyst on his back.  He first showed this to me about two months ago when he visited me here in NYC, and it was nothing more than a small bump on his back.  Now, however, the cyst is somewhere between a golf ball and a racquetball – and appears to be getting stronger.  I imagine it is only a matter of time before it is talking, and world domination should follow in about three months.

All weekend long, we were bothering Bill about the cyst, making fun of it but also slapping him on the back or pushing him on the back, just to piss off him and the cyst (apparently, they are painful).  But now, drunk at just about 3am, our harassment took on all new levels.  We decided that we were going to try to burst Bill’s cyst.

In addition to slapping, Kyle and I spent the night throwing a tennis ball at Bill’s cyst, often doing alley-oops to one another from across the apartment.  Joe hit the cyst with a belt.  I hit the cyst with a phone book.  Bill helped his own cause my getting drunk, falling into his trash cans, cyst-first.  Despite our best efforts, the cyst would not burst – it just got purple and red and mean-looking.  

Lastly, we ran out of beer (I drank those floaters pretty quickly) and regular vodka.  At about 5am, the only thing we had left was the Absolut Peppar – and no ice.  Of course, we drank it anyway.  I have only one piece of advice to anyone about to drink Absolut Peppar: Don’t.  Put it down or, better yet, dump it out into the sink.  You’d be better off sucking the alcohol out of your own blood than drinking this vodka.  It’s one of the most disgusting things I’ve ever tasted and your next-day burps will instantly kill any elderly or infirm people within ten feet of you.  And yes, we nearly finished the bottle.  

(What else were we gonna do?)     

******

Tune in tomorrow for Part Two, featuring a brush with death because of a McDonald’s product and finding another man’s semen in my bed!   

SavvyMiss.com, a website for "connecting, empowering and informing women," approached me about being on an advice panel.  All I had to do was answer a question from a reader of their site, offering my unique perspective alongside a few other relationship "experts."   

Here is the question.  And here is my answer.

Um, after reading the other responses, I probably should have taken it a little more seriously.  Whoops.  I think that’s about it for my career in relationship advice.

(Also: is the Torquemada joke too cerebral?  I sent my response to a few friends before passing to the Savvy Miss people and they had no idea who Torquemada is.  But my friends are dumb.  So I went with it.  Now, I don’t know how I feel about it.  Such is life.)