weapons
Jason posted on October 30, 2007

Two Sundays ago, I went shooting with my dad.

I don’t know if my dad would consider himself a gun enthusiast, but that’s probably because he’d think that sounds kinda gay.  However, my dad is definitely a gun owner.  I wrote on this here site that for Father’s Day, we bought my dad a new .380 Beretta automatic, which is a fine-looking piece of weaponry (read: it’s shiny and makes me feel like I have to poo when I look at it).  This gift followed on the heels of last Christmas, when my brother, sister and I got my dad a membership at the local firing range.  Yes, this is a man who’s been stabbed, arrested for attempted murder, and is currently on an egregious amount of painkillers.  But when you find the perfect gift, it puts a smile on everyone’s face, doesn’t it?

Both my brother and sister had been to the firing range before with my dad.  My brother, I can see – he’s kinda angry and looks like a handgun guy (I know this sounds like it doesn’t make much sense, but the people reading this right now who know my brother are thinking, "You know what? He does seem kinda like a handgun guy").  My sister, however, is about five feet tall and weighs a hundred pounds.  Maybe it’s because of her diminutive size, but she likes the firing range possibly even more than my brother.  So to recap, my little sister and my younger brother love shooting guns.  Meanwhile, I spend at least two hours a day thinking about what I’m going to say in my wedding vows, and usually start crying around the 15 minute mark.  I don’t know if I’m adopted or just a total pussy.  Probably a bit of both.  

I was back home in Philly on this particular weekend for my high school reunion (which we’ll hopefully talk about some other time) when my dad asked if I wanted to go the firing range with him.  My life to this point has been about befuddling my dad; I was going to use the word disappointing, but I think befuddling is a better fit.  While it’s true that my dad is certainly disappointed that I’m not especially tough, not good at fixing things, and that I don’t have any tattoos, he’s more so confused that I read for fun and happy that I don’t live in his basement or ask him for money.  So he’s not disappointed in me, just befuddled.

But when he asked me to go to the firing range, I seized upon the opportunity to show him that maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t such a pussy after all.  This wasn’t like we were going hunting, which would require being in (relatively) good shape and murdering an animal.  All I had to do was shoot at a piece of paper ten feet in front of me and not kill myself or anyone else in the process.  That, I could handle.  And I think this was the most my dad could have hoped for when he asked me.  So I said, sure, let’s do it.

My buddy Kyle joined us for this gun-shooting adventure, as when I told him the idea he begged to tag along.  Before going to the range, my dad went up to his bedroom to get his six (!) handguns, all of which we would shoot at the range, for a short tutorial.  One by one, he laid them out on his dining room table in front of us.

The only way that I can describe it is that seeing a handgun in person for the first time is like seeing a vagina in person for the first time.  You think you’re prepared for it and think think that you’ll know what to do when the time comes, but when it’s sitting right in front of you and all you have to do is touch it, you freeze up, become terrified, suddenly realize that for all you’ve seen of it on tv, you have no idea how to go about making it work.  Also, when seeing the guns for the first time, Kyle fainted - which is exactly what happened the first time he saw a vagina (trust me, I was there). 

My dad has two revolvers, a .22 (similar to this one) and a .38 (kinda like this one).  He also has three other automatics, a .22 and two .32s, which all sort of look like this.  And of course, the Beretta we got him for Father’s Day.  Not especially intimidating guns, but legit and poo-inducing nonetheless.

Picking up one of the .32 automatics, two things immediately struck me.  The first was that guns are really heavy.  The second thing was FUCK WITH ME MOTHER FUCKER AND I’LL KILL YOUR WHITE ASS, YOU COCKSUCKER HONKEY-ASS BITCH!!!!  Unlike the first time I touched a vagina, an experience that made me queasy, insecure, and not so sure I’m 100% straight, picking up a gun made me feel like a man, a real fucking man, a man who will fuck you up if you cross him, who will take out his gun and beat you with it in public, a man who after doing so will grab your girls’ tits on his way out of the bar and expose his giant penis to everyone.  Fuck yeah.  Once we had them in our hands, neither me nor Kyle could pay any attention to my dad’s tutorial.  We just wanted to shoot some shit.

(Also, picking up the gun apparently made me a racist black man.  Whatever.  I was just rolling with it.)   

Things only got better - and by "better" I mean "totally and completely empowering and bonerizing" - at the firing range.  My dad showed us how to load the two revolvers, simple six shooters that I had seen in countless Westerns and 80’s cop shows, and lined me up to shoot the smaller .22.  After the first shot, I was kind of disappointed; though the .22 revolver had a long nozzle (or nose or front part or whatever it’s called), it’s pop was surprisingly light, feeling more like a glorified bb gun than a revolver.  Still, the rush of seeing the fire and smoke explode was palpable; I could have sworn my penis had grown by an inch after I finish firing off the first six shots.   

Asking for a little more juice, my dad gave me the .38 revolver, with a shorter nozzle but more weight.  I lackadaisically aimed this gun at the target it, fired it - and it’s a miracle that the fucking thing didn’t fly out of my hand.  This mother fucker had some serious kick; the pow after firing that first shot made my whole body tense and fill with power.  I’m currently weighing in at about 205 and firing this guy felt like being seriously pushed by someone, instilling the same amount of anger as well.  This is what I was talking about. 

We spent about an hour there, shooting the shit out of various targets.  As it was both mine and Kyle’s first time, we were not quite marksmen; my dad now calls Kyle "Seven O’Clock Kyle," since all of his hits were grouped at seven o’clock on the target bulls eye.  By contrast, I shot pretty well, save for a few times with the lighter automatics that I fired off several shots in a row in quick succession, which is awesome but ruins accuracy (firing quickly is also frowned on in the range).  Still, I think my dad was proud of my ease and comfort level with the gun, which wasn’t quite natural but was not unnatural either.  That’s a win in my book. 

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

Now I want to make something abundantly clear: Though going to the firing range was an awesome (in the most literal sense) experience, not only because shooting guns is cool but because I may have found something that both my dad and I enjoy aside from trading insults about the Philadelphia Eagles, I am still not pro-gun.  My dad has been saying for some time that I should get a "nice little piece," but I don’t even have to tell you all how much of a terrible idea this is.  My friends and I drink so much for such long periods of time in my apartment that it’d be a matter of weeks before there was some sort of "The gun just went off" incident.  If I were to buy a gun and keep it in my apartment, I could never have any ammunition at my place to prevent any injury.  And while the thought of relaxing in the bath and reading a book, with a glass of wine and a unloaded revolver sitting on the ledge of the tub, sounds so appealing it’s almost sexual, there’s really no point in buying a gun if you’re only going to bathe with it and not use it.   

(I think.)

Still, next time I’m back in Philly, you can bet that me, my dad, and Seven O’Clock Kyle are hitting up the firing range.  Having not shot anyone in the arm, severely burned by chest, or exploded my local supermarket, my dexterity with guns already surpasses my dexterity with vaginas, so the sky’s the limit from this point forward.

return to unfitness, big(ish) words
Jason posted on October 29, 2007

I’ve been away.  I’m sorry.  I’ve been traveling.  It sucked (mostly).  But I’m back to NYC, back to my routine, back to my apartment and my bed, and I’m not going away until the holidays.  Thank you, Jesus Christ Almighty.

(And I am going to get so much Sea Thai tonight that someone might get hurt.)

Speaking of traveling, I feel like I’ve picked on the city a lot, but here’s my final word on LA: If you go to Los Angeles to find an attractive mate, you’ll be fine.  The city is crawling with people who are very good-looking, very fit and very tan.  It’s astonishing, really, like there’s some sort of physical challenge involved to move into certain zip codes and to get into certain bars.  Almost by default, you’re eventually going to fuck someone very good-looking.  It’s just a numbers game.    

However, if you go to Los Angeles to find someone who reads the newspaper or is even vaguely familiar with the concept of a "newspaper," you are in trouble.  Serious, serious trouble. 

Newspaper reader: "Hey, did you read that sleep study article in yesterday’s New York Times?"
LA Resident: [squints eyes, gives confused look] "Squats?"
NR: "No, um, there was an article about sleep in the Times.  Did you catch it?"
LA Res: [tilts head, flexes triceps] "Delts?"
NR: "No, an article.  A series of words that tells a story, argues a point or otherwise provides information.  In a newspaper.  Black and white things, ink on paper. I guess you didn’t read it?"
LA Res: [seven seconds of silence] "Fag."

[LA Resident goes off to crush pussy and high five.]

Seriously, if you can’t fuck it, bench press it, or put it in a shot glass and drop it into a half pint glass of Red Bull, I don’t think these people are aware of its existence.

Of course, this isn’t to say that there aren’t intelligent, weak people (like me) in LA.  I guess they’re just too afraid to leave their apartments (like me), so they spend their time drinking Bud bombers in the privacy of their own homes (like me) and judging people more fit and good-looking than they are, assuming that muscle mass is always inversely proportionate to brain power (oh my god, this one is totally like me). 

And that’s not to say that all muscley/fit/tan people in LA are morons and/or dicks.  One of the most fun nights I had recently in LA involved hanging out with a cool dude who happened to be so jacked that he sneezed and actually knocked me out for forty minutes.  I still don’t know what happened.  But I know it hurt.  A lot.  Really nice guy, though.

[Note that I'm talking less about the "industry" type people who inhabit Hollywood and the surrounding area and more about the Santa Monica/South Bay types.  There is a huge difference between the wannabe actor who lives in studio on Sunset and will talk your ear off at a bar discussing his various "roles" and the guy who lives in an apartment in Hermosa with four of this frat brothers and works in sales because sales gives him ample to time lift and dip.]  

But my goodness, what a fascinating city.  At the start of my bicoastal experiment [insert gay joke here] back in July, I told y’all LA was auditioning for me, that I was contemplating moving there and might just do so if I continued to be enamored with the city.  But after living there, day in and day out for a week or more per month for the last few months…no way.  I could certainly move there, and I’d enjoy the weather, having a car, the Mexican food, and walking down the street gawking at some of the hottest/plasticist women on earth.  But if I did move there, I’d need either a dog or a girlfriend, because otherwise I would undoubtedly be the loneliest man in the city.  I like my friends ugly, my beer canned, my gym equipment dusty, and my VH1 Classic always on.  LA, this ain’t.   

I’m glad to be back.

intimate moments with the cleaning lady
Jason posted on October 16, 2007

I have a cleaning lady.  Her name is Zoila.  She is wonderful.

When I think about it, I really don’t need a cleaning lady.  For a 28 year old man, I’m pretty neat; for a 28 year old man covered in hair, I’m so extraordinarily neat that I should probably see a therapist.  I keep my apartment in order because of my slight OCD - I feel genuinely more relaxed when my dishes are clean, when my coffee table is neat, when my clothes are put away, and when all my electronic devices (iPod, cell phone, blackberry, beard/back hair/pube trimmer) are fully charged.  This honestly helps me sleep better at night.

(Well, that and the Xanax, which I unfortunately think my body is growing immune to.  Next stop on the "I’ll Suck Dick for Sleep" Train: Vicodin Junction.)

But while my apartment is neat, it’s not especially clean.  I’m good at maintaining the appearance of order in my home, but I don’t like the nitty gritty.  I’m not into, say, dusting.  I’ll never say to myself, "You know what?  I’m gonna drink a couple of vodka red bulls, grab a bottle of Fantastik and a roll of paper towels, and just go fucking nuts in my kitchen."  Though I like the appearance of a made bed, I hate and have always hated making the bed, a useless exercise considering the bed’s just going to get messed up in a few hours (also, it’s a pain in the ass to make a bed).  The first time I used a mop in my apartment was a few months back when my toilet exploded, spewing feces and toilet water all over my floor.  Prior to that, my floor looked nice because there were no splotches of spaghetti sauce or empty beer cans on it.  But in reality it wasn’t clean, as it was covered in a fine, nearly invisible layer of film composed of sweat, Zima, a little bit of semen, and not a small amount of glaze.

This is where Zoila comes in.  For $75 every two weeks, Zoila takes care of the nitty gritty.  She cleans my kitchen sink and stove, removing the burners and washing them down.  She pours Comet all over the bathtub and scrubs until it’s immaculate.  She dusts off the lamp and night table in my bedroom and makes the surface of my desk clean enough to eat off of.  She does not fuck around. 

Like me, Zoila also has a touch of OCD.  Whenever I know she’s coming, I’ll sort of let things go a bit and my place will fall into a (very) mild state of disarray.  But then I’ll come home on Monday evening and find my coffee table, hours before covered with a scattering of mail, books, magazines and other junk, completely organized.  On the left side of the coffee table, she’ll stack my magazines, largest on the bottom in ascending order.  To the right is the books, and to the right of the books is the mail, all stacked in order with the largest book/piece of mail on the bottom, the smallest on top.  If I have loose change laying around, she’ll stack the coins left to right in order of value: one stack of quarters, another of dimes, and so on.  She even does this with guitar picks: a stack of brown picks, a stack of red, a stack of blue.    

Zoila is also adorable.  When she calls to say she’s coming, even though we have a set schedule of every other Monday, she leaves me long voicemails calling me "Mr. Jason" and wishing me a good weekend.  When she’s finished cleaning my apartment, she leaves me little notes saying that she hopes she did a good job and she looks forward to coming again, wishing me a happy week.  She’s also about 4′8" tall and I have no idea if she’s 22 or 42. 

For these and other reasons, I love Zoila.  It is not a sexual love, even though my little Panamanian princess is actually kinda cute.  It’s…I don’t know what it is, really.  In part, she’s kind of motherly, since she cleans up after me.  So there’s that.  In another way, there is (or was) an element of pity.  Since I’m a horrible racist, I used to have an elitist attitude, like, "Look at me! I have a cleaning lady! What a success I am! My cleaning lady is from a Mexico-type country! I’m awesome!"  So I felt this bit of pity for her, having to clean up after this fat white guy who burns through all the money that he makes.  But the more I thought about it, I realized that she has a pretty good thing going on.  She originally told me it would take her 3 hours to clean my apartment each day, so we settled on $75.  In actuality, it takes her about an hour to clean my place (I know this because one day I was off work, let her in, left the apartment, came back a little over an hour later and my apartment was clean and she was gone).  $75 - cash - for an hour’s work is not bad, and I was referred to her by a lawyer at my firm, so I’m sure she has more than a few well-to-do clients.  Maybe I’m the one who should be pitied.

But it’s a strange dynamic, and I can say that I’m definitely not myself when it comes to Zoila.  I have a friend whose family had a cleaning lady growing up and each time before the maid came, her mother told her and her brother, "Alright kids, let’s clean up for the maid!"  While it’s not quite like that in my case, I certainly straighten up a little bit before Zoila comes.  And I also try to protect her from my more deviant tendencies and the mess that results from them.  For example, I masturbate into my boxers with the tenacity of a mental patient.  There is so much semen in my boxers in my laundry bag that I would not be surprised if one day I came home and there was a half-Jason/half-boxers baby in my closet, crying out about fantasy sports, PBR and titties.  When I first met her, Zoila offered to do my laundry, which I vehemently declined.  I can’t have Zoila touching my semen boxers.  Shit ain’t right.  This is also the reason I take great pains to hide my any pornography and discard any used condoms for Zoila.  I would never let her virgin eyes see such depravity.       

The point is that the relationship I have with Zoila is unique, like nothing else in my life.  On the one hand, she takes care of me, which engenders my trust.  On the other, she’s a complete stranger in my home when I’m not there, something I tend to forget when I see her cute little notes.  But either way, she makes me want to be a better man - a cleaner man, a more respectful man, a man less obsessed with inseminating his apartment. 

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

I was thinking about Zoila as I walked home from work yesterday.  It was Monday, so I knew she had been in my apartment earlier that morning, cleaning it for me.  As I walked along, I thought about how happy it made me to come home to a sparkling apartment and how that $75 every two weeks was worth it.  I decided that come Christmas time, I would definitely give her a bonus or something.  I may have even fallen in love with her a little bit, looking forward as I did to the note that she surely left me.

When I got home, I turned on the lights in my place, looked onto my neat-as-ever coffee table, but couldn’t see her friendly little note.  This made me frown a little bit, but I figured that maybe Zoila was busy and didn’t have time to write me a note.  Not a big deal.

I went into the room that serves as my office and got changed and ready for some serious feeding.  As I walked into the living room, I passed my bedroom to admire my freshly-made bed.  And that’s when I  saw it.

Neatly piled on my nicely made bed were four condoms (unused, in their wrappers).  On top of the wrappers was a tube of KY jelly.

So, ok.

I stopped in my tracks and stared at the pile of sex paraphernalia on my bed.  The condoms, I recognized.  They were the purple Durex ones that I’ve been rocking for some time on the advice of a buddy and condom guru who suggested I switched from the light blue Trojans.  The KY was another matter.  I did not own a bottle of KY jelly.  So why was it on my bed?  More specifically, why did my cleaning lady put condoms and KY in the middle of my neatly made bed?  Was this some sort of cryptic message?  Some old Panamanian curse?

After a few deep breaths and a glass of water, I calmed down enough and started to put it all together.

Many moons ago, I brought home a lady to my apartment in the hopes of getting her to make love to me - or at least in the hopes of getting her hand to make love to my penis.  As you might imagine, any lady willing to come back to my apartment, even under the influence of a serious amount of hard alcohol, has questionable morals.  But following the axiom about beggars unable to be choosers, morals aren’t a necessity for me.  Breath, hole.  That’s about all I need to make something work.  And the former…eh.

(God, that last part kinda grosses me out a bit.  Just for the record.)

But the morals of this lady were especially questionable, I think.  It was apparent that in the course of our fooling around (read: me coughing, apologizing, then asking her to describe all of her childhood Halloween costumes - slowly and in detail) that I was incapable of arousing her very much.  For this, I don’t blame her.  Not at all.  And I’m used to it, since it happens fairly frequently.  But what doesn’t happen often is the unaroused lady reaching into her purse and pulling out…a tube of KY jelly.

The only thing I will further say about this whole incident is that guys, if a lady you bring home whips a tube of KY out of her purse, well, you probably don’t want to go asking for her ring size right away.  There are a few sexual dealbreakers for me, meaning a few things that a woman can do to make sure that we may do it (and do it more than once) but we will never date.  Carrying a bottle of KY in your purse is one of these dealbreakers, as is having had the hair lasered off your coochie (if you’re taking a laser to your coochie, it probably means that a lot of people are seeing that coochie on a frequent basis), asking for a high-five after sex (only cute when I do it, horrifying when you do), or going anywhere near the heinie (I barely even wash back there, I’m so afraid of it).

Anyway, this incident went down on a weeknight, so there was a rush for her to wake up and clear out of my apartment in the morning, just as there was a rush for me to wake up and get my hungover ass in the shower.  I didn’t notice that she had left the tube of KY as a souvenir for me until after I got out of the shower and returned to my bedroom and saw the tube laying on the floor.  At that point, I did what any dude who was hungover and in a rush to get to work would do - I kicked the KY under my bed.  It’s not like since that time I forget the KY, but what was I gonna do with it?  I figured no one would see it there (it was kicked pretty far under), so it was fine.  

So I knew that at least Zoila did not plant the tube of KY in my apartment and on my bed.  As I said, the condoms I recognized.  I keep condoms in strategic locations all throughout my apartment in case a random bout of love-making breaks out.  Feeling randy while brushing our teeth?  Condoms behind my extra deodorant under the sink.  Making pasta and feeling like a little gabba goul?  Condoms in the kitchen cabinet next to the sugar.  Laying on the couch when a relaxing moment turns into the right moment?  Check the drawer of the coffee table under the mail.

(And no, these have never come in handy.  I was really hoping you wouldn’t ask.)

I also keep a few condoms just under my bed.  While under my bed, they are just so, making it easy for me to grab them as soon as the lady is ready or just when she’s finally (finally!) fallen asleep.  You always have to be ready.  

So that explains the existence of the condoms and the KY.  But why were they on my bed?  I can answer this one, too.

On Monday morning, I woke up wanting to change the sheets on my bed.  By "change the sheets" I mean that I wanted to take my dirty sheet off, throw it in my hamper, and leave a new clean sheet on the bed for Zoila to put on.  I said that I hate making the bed, but I also hate making my bed.  It’s in a corner and up against the wall and on wheels, which means there is a significant amount of agility, patience and upper body strength needed to take off the old sheet and put on a new one as it careens around the room.  Agility, patience and upper body strength are not my finest qualities. 

Neither is remembering, apparently.  I didn’t remember my plan until I had closed my apartment door behind in the morning.  I was running late for work but I still wanted Zoila to put on the new sheet, so I quickly ripped the old sheet of the bed, put it in the hamper, grabbed a new sheet from the closet, and threw it on the bed, figuring Zoila would put it on.  Which she did.

But what I had done in this process was turn my bed askew in my bedroom.  As I said, the bedframe is on wheels on a hardwood floor.  Ripping the sheet off moved the bed, and I assume this brought both my condoms and the tube of KY, normally hidden by the bed, into view.  Zoila, in the course of putting the sheet on and cleaning my bedroom, must have seen the KY and the condoms simply laying on the floor.  And, keeping with her good cleaning lady self, she picked them up and placed them neatly on my bed after she had made it.

Ladies and gentleman, I rest my case.  Zoila was not sending me a cryptic message or putting some ancient Mayan curse on me.  She was just being a great cleaning lady.

Still, this doesn’t make me any less embarrassed that Zoila had to see this stuff.  I would have preferred she not get this glimpse into my world of sexual deviancy and unsatisfaction.  All I can hope is that next time, she won’t be too embarrassed to write me one her notes.  If not, I will miss those notes.

(If not, I have a tube of KY jelly.  Which is pretty sweet.) 

sleep, making out, iphone thoughts, email, bets, music
Jason posted on October 10, 2007

[Since I have off Thursday and Friday, and since I've been working like a crazy monkey to make sure that I can have off on Thursday and Friday, you're getting all this week's posts shortened and condensed into one.  So there.]

I’m going through one of my lovely little stretches of insomnia.  This is sarcasm.  These stretches suck.

This insomnia not only makes the week nearly unbearable, but my weekend was a total wash.  On Friday night, I got bombed and slept three hours.  I was so beat that I wound up "napping" for five hours during the day on Saturday, from 4:30pm until 9:30pm.  I was too tired to go out on Saturday night and stayed up until 6am watching "Deer Hunter" (pretty good, but not as great as I’d hoped).  I woke up at 10am on Sunday and was a zombie all day.  I didn’t nap, hoping to sleep well on Sunday night, and I was rewarded with a grand total of three hours sleep on Sunday night.  Awesome.  Just totally awesome.

(I realize that for many of you that that previous paragraph was excruciating to read.  Take that feeling, multiply by 100, punch yourself in the face, and imagine you just caught your girlfriend getting fucked by your manager at work and Tank Johnson, and you’ll get close to how it felt to live it.)

Part of my recurring once every-few-weeks-insomnia is intense dreams which are either extremely horrific or very sexually explicit.  I don’t often remember these dreams until the next day or a few days later, but a few highlights from dreams of the past few nights include:

- Riding bicycles through my South Philly neighborhood with a male relative.  We’re riding along, having fun, when he falls off the bike.  I stop, go over attend to him, and he dies in my arms.  Whoops.

- Having sex with a former co-worker in a random hotel (I think the hotel was somewhere in Asia).  Not only was the sex very, very real and fairly nasty, but we had sex only after she told me that she a) has herpes and b) hasn’t had sex in 12 years (by the way, this co-worker was/is my age).  Whoops.

- Sitting by the bed of a buddy who is dying of cancer (in the dream, not in real life), reading him comic books.  He can’t speak or move, so I just sit there reading the comic books.  For a long time.  A really, really long time.  Not whoops, but yikes.

So by way of this explanation, I suppose I’m apologizing to all my friends, co-workers and anyone else in my life who I’ve been a dick to over the past few days or weeks or however long it’s been.  These spells always pass, but my god, do they give me fits when they hit.  The unfortunate thing is that they’re totally unrelated to anything that’s going on in my life right now - the biggest stress I have at the moment is that the Eagles are fucking terrible.  Otherwise, everything’s going great and I’m enjoying the arrival of fall in NYC.  So I don’t really know what to do other than carry on and hope it passes sooner rather than later.

In the meantime, maybe I should try to write something funny, or at least interesting.   

(God, I’m tired.)   

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

I used to make out with my female friends a lot in college and shortly thereafter.  I’m not sure why, except that we’d often be drunk together and in case you haven’t heard, making out is awesome.  So we’d be bombed and make out.  No funny stuff.  Just making out.  Fun. 

(Seriously, who doesn’t like to have a few beers and make out?) 

But this practice has stopped in recent years.  I don’t think it was a conscious decision, but right around when I turned 25, I apparently came to the conclusion that making out with my female friends was not a good idea.  Or maybe my female friends were no longer willing to make out with me.  Whatever.  Semantics. 

(God, I’m a terrible kisser.  Kissing me is only slightly better than getting hit in the face with a wet sponge thrown by the dishwasher boy at Denny’s.)

(The eight girls I’ve made out with reading this right now are thinking, "Yeah, sounds about right.")

But over the past few months, many of my friends have started hooking up with each other.  Like, really hooking up with each.  Not just making out, but, like, wowee.  And this applies to ALL of my friends - different groups of friends turning incestuous, almost as if they’re trying to establish little cults.  Meanwhile, there’s me - the guy who gets the call the next day, listens to the story, and says, "What the fuck?"  You are probably expecting me to be jealous that I’m not getting action, and if you are, you know me very well.  However, I’m not jealous.  I’m too confused to be jealous.  I really don’t know what to make of it.  It’s like a bad episode of

Melrose Place

, except we are much uglier and two of us have been through NA without success.  And I don’t think anyone on that show celebrated the fact that they have an STD.  But I didn’t really watch that show, so I’m not sure. 

Anyway, I can’t get into specifics for obvious reasons, but I will say this to my friends: I want you all to stop.  It’s freaking me out.  I wouldn’t normally have a problem with it, but I’m not very good at making new friends, so I’m stuck with you all.  So please, let’s knock it off and go back to normal.  We’ll never mention it again.  Now let’s just get drunk and try to unsuccessfully seduce strangers.  I like it much, much better this way.   

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

Last week I asked you all whether I should get an iPhone and the results are in.  The winner by a landslide: Wait for the next one.  I’d say that 75% of you said wait for the next generation, 20% said get one right now, and 5% said don’t get one at all. 

The biggest complaint about the current iPhone is that the phone sucks.  Yes, you all admitted it’s sexy and yes, you all admitted you feel cooler owning one, but homeses, I need a phone.  And if the majority of you are unhappy with the phone function, that’s a problem.  Some of you also mentioned that the internet, though sweet, can be slow and that the 8GB of space is really not that much.  Hopefully, all of these will be improved upon in the next generation iPhone.

But it was Kat in NYC who was the first to point out what I perceive to be the iPhone’s fatal flaw: it only allows you text one person at a time.  Como se dice, dagger?  The treo allows for text templates, meaning groups of phone numbers that I can text en masse.  For example, I have 8 or so people on my Boston text template, which I will employ to let those people know I’m coming to/am out and about in their city.  Same goes for my LA peeps.  This year, regrettably, I have created a Philly friends/Eagles fans text template, so that during football games I can send text messages like, "I can’t believe this is happening" and "I want to rip my penis off right now" and "Seriously, I’ve gotten most of it off, but it’s still hanging on - it’s much tougher than I thought."

So I’ll wait a little longer before the iPhone changes my life.  Thanks to all of you who wrote in with advice.   

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

Major, major props to Site Guy Brendan for completely resolving all my previous email issues.  Basically he arranged it so that all email from the jason_at_jasonmulgrew.com address is forwarded to my personal gmail account, which I can then respond from.  The gmail catches all the spam in its filter (of which there is a lot), is much more user-friendly than the jm.com email, and since it’s my personal email, I’m checking it all the time.  I know a couple of you techies will write in to say, "Well, duh - that’s not hard to figure out," but I’ve been having email problems for a long time, problems that I only told Site Guy Brendan about last week.  In two minutes, everything was fixed.  So he is a genius in my book. 

(One note: In the future when you email me, please try to remember to include your location.  If you write something that I use on the website, I’ll link to your blog or anything else you want to pimp.  Thank you for your cooperation.) 

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

Six Bets

Before I begin, I’d again like to thank the Phillies for giving the fans something to believe in this season.  That was nice.  Unexpected and nice.  As for the Rockies-Diamondbacks series, I don’t give a shit.  I’ll take the angle I usually take when a Philly team is eliminated from championship contention and say that no fan base deserves a championship more than Philly’s.  I don’t know any D-backs fans and I’ve never met a Rockies fan - and I’ve been to Denver six times.  So best of luck, Arizona and Denver "fans." 

(And go F yourselves.)

(God, I’m bitter.)

It’s a little early to be picking games for Sunday on a Wednesday, but here goes:

CHIEFS (+3) over Bengals
My weekly contrarian pick.  Peeps are loading up on the Bengals in this game, more than any NFL team for the week, so F it - I’m going with the Chiefs.  It works out, I look like a genius.  It doesn’t, well, shut up.

Texans (-6.5) over JAGUARS
Because it’s just like the Jags to blow a game like this.

Raiders (+10) over CHARGERS
My weekly no idea pick.  This game is evenly divided as far as who bettors are picking.  But I’m going with the Raiders, since every talking head is screaming about how SD is back after thumping Denver at home.  I still think the Chargers will probably win, but maybe not as handily as they did in Denver.   

CARDINALS (-4) over Panthers
I like this Cards team - and not just because I have Edge in my main fantasy league.  I’m still loyal to them for making me look like a god for saying they’d cover against Pittsburgh (they won outright) and prior to last week, they were 4-0 against the spread this season (last week they were favored by 3.5 and won by 3). 

COWBOYS (+5.5) over Patriots
Yesterday, this line was +3.  One day later, it’s +5.5.  That means there was an all out bonanza on the Pats, shifting the line 2.5 points in a day (!).  So as much as I hate to do this, I’ll take the ‘Boys and hope the lose by 4. 

FALCONS (+3.5) over Giants
Because it’s just like the Giants to blow a game like this.

Predictions on Predictions: I’m looking at a 3-3 week.

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

Six Songs

"My World Is…"  Blu & Exile
Awesome rap song that I put on my workout mix immediately.  The first time I heard this song, I punched a car and it exploded.  No lie. 

"November Blue"  Avett Brothers
Gorgeous country/bluegrass song that makes me more than a bit sad that I’ll never be in love with a girl from the South/Appalachia.  Actually, make that "be in love" or "make love."  Either one.  All the same to me, really. 

"Oh Lord I’m Browned Off"  The Faces
I know I just recommended a Faces song last time, but I got their box set, Five Guys Walk Into a Bar…, last week and it’s rocking my world.  It’s worth it for the live tracks alone - including their version of Hendrix’s "Angel" - but there are also several in-studio live recordings that are really something, including a quickie cover of John Lennon’s "Jealous Guy" which opens with over a minute of good-natured bickering between band members.  I don’t know if these guys are more than the greatest cover band in rock history, but I don’t care.

The only way I can explain it is that every song on this box set is at least a little awesome.  This instrumental gets the nod because it’s rocking even without Rod and it’s got a cool title; I was hoping "browned off" meant "fucked up", but I’ve seen it used alternatively for angry, bored, or depressed.  UK readers, help me out here.

At any rate, my old roommate Brian has been on a personal crusade for the past five years to make Rod Stewart a Knight of the British Realm.  After listening to this box set, I think I’m ready to join him in this pursuit, and I think that with your help, we can make him Sir Rod in no time. 

"A Kissed Out Red Floatboat"  Cocteau Twins
I mean, this is just gibberish - complete and total gibberish.  Still, it makes me feel safe.  More specifically, it makes me feel like smoking a joint in the tub.  Actually, that’s not very practical - it makes me feel like smoking a bowl in the tub. 

"Silver Lining"  Rilo Kiley
I’ve been thinking about this for a while, and I think this is my favorite song on the new Rilo Kiley album.  The whole thing is a little too dancey for me - when I first hear "Dejalo", I said "Huh?" aloud - but I’m warming to it.  My friend Brian thought I’d like "Dreamworld" since he thinks it sounds like Fleetwood Mac (a little bit) and my buddy Jeremy thought I’d like "Smoke Detector" since there’s clapping involved (I dig it), but this one, in my personal opinion, hits the spot. 

…

You know, I just realized that this first five songs all have the name of a color somewhere in them, so I’m scrapping the song I was going to recommend sixth and going with another "color" song:

"Perfect Blue Buildings"  Counting Crows
I was trying to think of a non-"blue" song, but this one gets the nod because it’s my favorite Counting Crows song (though I admit that’s like saying my right cheek is my favorite part of my face to be hit with a dart).  And so it goes.

[Have a good rest of the week/weekend.] 

iphone (?), email, sports, bets, music
Jason posted on October 5, 2007

It’s October 5.  That means I am 26 days away from a life-changing event - the purchase of an iPhone.

(Possibly.)

The stranglehold that Sprint has had on me for two years ends on Halloween, and at that point I think I might treat myself to an early Christmas present with the iPhone.  I’m not a tech nerd - I have a Treo now, but it’s purely for the purpose of impressing women and I have no idea how to do anything but call, text, play Monopoly, and take pictures of my penis in the shower with it.  So it’s a great machine.

But still, you just don’t get any sexier than the iPhone.  I mean, have you seen the son of a bitch?  Site Guy Brendan has one and is so obsessed with it that his fiancée Liz is seriously considering breaking their engagement so Brendan can live happily ever after with his iPhone.  If he could someone train the iPhone to be a Mets fan, I think Brendan might be ok with this. 

But I wanted to ask you all: Should I get one?  My buddies that already have the iPhone are such tech/Apple whores that I, just a plain ol’ regular Joe when it comes to technology, can’t trust their opinions.  Further, as much as I hate Sprint, I’m in no great rush to ditch my Treo, which has treated me well over the years.  Is it worth it to go month-to-month on my Sprint contract for a little while until Apple releases a new iPhone?  I should say that I’m especially sensitive to this; I recently bought a new iPod only to find out a week later that new iPods were released.  Fucking Apple assholes.

So I’m throwing it open to you guys - help me.  You’ve never steered me wrong before - except for that whole "S’ing one D does not make you gay" tactic (because apparently it does, Josh) - so if you have an opinion on whether to get the iPhone on 11/1, wait until the next one comes out, or not get one at all, drop me an email.

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

Speaking of emails, I have been having tremendous, tremendous email problems with the jasonmulgrew.com email address.  First, there’s the incessant spamming that’s been going on for a few months now.  Which is awesome.  Then, apparently my inbox has been filled to 99% capacity since the beginning of the summer.  This does not mean that I’m popular, but that you guys sometimes send me songs that fill up a lot of space and I forget to delete them (by the way, please do not send me songs - just their names, please).  So I don’t think I’ve been getting every email that’s been sent to me by you all (as evinced by "Hey, Did you get my last email or what?" emails, when I have no idea what the person is talking about) and I know that I’ve sent emails out that have not been received.  Just a total, total clusterfuck.

But the good news: I think that Site Guy Brendan and I have finally fixed the problem, involving a complex series of forwarding, third parties, and two murders.  Feel free to continue to email me at jason_at_jasonmulgrew.com and I should be better at both receiving your emails and replying to them.  My apologies for the confusion in the first place, but I can’t say it enough - do not use ipowerweb for your web hosting needs.  They are a bunch of stink asses.

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

Two quick sports notes:

1) Thank you for a memorable season, Phils.  No thank you for a forgettable playoffs.  Sheesh.

(Yeah, I know it’s only 2-0, but c’mon.  We’re done.  Thanks.)

2) Thank you for all the responses to my fantasy baseball/pride post.  The most frequent question that was asked: Which three are you keeping?

Well, I’m definitely keeping Utley.  I also think I’m keeping Ryan Braun - I expect a drop off next year, but he’s a guy who was drafted #5 overall (in the real baseball draft), crushed in the minors and majors, and will soon have dual position eligibility at 3B and OF - and he’s 23 years old.  I wouldn’t mind locking up David Wright-lite for the next 10+ years.   

After that, I’m not sure, because I feel like half of my team will be drafted in that first round of the draft (since we’re keeping three guys, it’d be the fourth round overall).  Berkman, Rios, Byrnes, Sabathia, Webb, Bedard and possibly even Upton and Carlos Guillen are all worthy fourth round picks in a keeper league.  Some I like more than others.  I could keep one of the pitchers, favoring in order Sabathia (really fat, on a good team and a lot of K’s), Webb (kinda boring numbers but consistently very good) and Bedard (love the K’s, but will he ever get more than 13 wins on the Orioles - and yes, I know he was on pace for more before getting hurt), but I don’t like to keep pitchers.  Maybe I’ll go with Upton, because I like his dual eligibility and 30-30 potential.  But we’ll see.  I have until March 1 to decide and may make some moves before then. 

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

Six Bets

No major line movements during the week and some downright ugly games that scare the hell out of me.  At least I don’t have to watch the latest Eagles’ disaster this weekend.  Christ. 

TEXANS (-5) over Miami
I really like Houston and Miami hurt me last Sunday - Uncle Jason’s ate a lot of doritos and bologna for dinner this week.  Not that that had anything to do with Miami costing me money, but I thought it was worth mentioning. 

Jets (+3) GIANTS
My weekly contrarian pick.  Believe it or not, more people are betting on the Giants than any other team in the NFL this week, so as per my usual, I’ll throw a couple of bones on the Jets.  I’ll also say that, aside from maybe Ravens-49ers, this is the game I’m least interested in watching this week, but of course I’ll have no choice but to do so. 

Browns (+16.5) over PATS
My weekly "No fucking idea" pick.  Of all the games this week, this has betters most divided - almost exactly half are taking the Browns and the points and the other half are taking the Pats.  Since about 51.5% are taking the Pats, I’ll take the Browns and the points.  Have I mentioned the Pats are cheaters?  It’s not good karma.  And that is a lot of f’ing points, even if the Pats have been beating people by an average score of 44 to -9. 

Chargers (+1.5) over BRONCOS
It just has to be this way.

(Note that this is the worst way to bet a game is by saying, "It just has to be this way."  That’s loser talk.  Bet the mortgage on the Broncos.)

Bears (+3) over PACKERS
I mean, Green Bay can’t get to 5-0, can they?  Really? 

(Note that this is the second worst logic to use when betting a game.  Total loser talk.  Bet the mortgage on the Packers.)

BILLS (+10) over Cowboys
No reasoning except that the Cowboys scare the hell out of me, I hate them, and the Bills could use any support they can get right now.  I may regret saying it, but they may not be a bad little team the rest of the season, those Bills. 

Prediction on Predictions: I’m feeling 2-4 this week.

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

Six Songs

"Aynotchesh Yererfu"  The Budos Band
FUNK, baby - this is what I’m talking about.  If this doesn’t get you groovin’, you are destined to be forever without groove.  I love these types of instrumental funk jams, so if you have any more suggestions like these guys, let me know. 

"Take Me With U"  Prince
I can’t disguise
The pounding of my heart
It beats so strong.
It’s in your eyes
What can I say
They turn me on.

Yes, this is really the opening line to this song, which is so incredibly bad it just may be one of my favorite 20 songs ever.  I think a lot of Prince from the "Purple Rain" era fits into this "so bad it’s awesome" category.  I wish I could say the same for my lovemaking, but no such luck.  That’s more like "so bad it’s ‘you know you’re actually hurting me, right?’"   

Yes, this is really the opening line to this song, which is so incredibly bad it just may be one of my favorite 20 songs ever.  I think a lot of Prince from the "Purple Rain" era fits into this "so bad it’s awesome" category.  I wish I could say the same for my lovemaking, but no such luck.  That’s more like "so bad it’s ‘you know you’re actually hurting me, right?’"   

"Jenny Don’t Be Hasty"  Paolo Nutini
You know, about a half dozen of you had recommended this guy to me, but I never checked him out, for one reason: his name is Italian, and me no like Italians.  Finally my buddy Matt encouraged me to give him a listen and wouldn’t you know - he’s pretty fucking awesome.  I’m still struggling with his Italianism, but he was born and raised in Scotland, which happens to be one of my favorite countries in the whole universe.  So it sort of evens out.  Anyway, a groovy, intense song highlighted by Nutini’s unique voice.  Highly recommended. 

"Spirit On The Water"  Bob Dylan
When you’re with me
I’m a thousand times happier than I could ever say
What does it matter
What price I pay

Bob’s pretty good at words. 

"Jail Break"  AC/DC
Dynamite, kick-ass old school AC/DC.  There are really few things better.  This song could inspire a playlist called, "Of Course I’m Drunk, Asshole!" 

("But he made it out - with a bullet in his back!")

"Angel"  The Faces
To get your weekend going, a great cover by one of the greatest rock bands ever.

[youtube]lxgFPa2-500[/youtube]

[Have a good weekend] 

on fantasy sports and the transient nature of pride
Jason posted on October 3, 2007

I would be doing myself and the world a major disservice if I didn’t take a moment to congratulate myself on my incredible performance in fantasy baseball this year.

[Did you guys hear that?  That's the sound of a few thousand people clicking away from this site at the first mention of sports - worse, fantasy sports.  Come back tomorrow, friends, when we'll talk about engagement rings, or you can just read the stuff under my little table below.  Something for everyone.  That's how I roll.]

[Ok, maybe sixteen people - that's the sound of sixteen people clicking away from this site.  I just said "thousands" to impress you.]

I know that there is nothing quite as boring as hearing about someone’s fantasy team, but please, indulge me for just a moment.  I have very little else going on and I haven’t had a solid night’s sleep in about three weeks, so I’m becoming a little unhinged (I think my tolerance for xanax is now too high and morphine is pretty hard to get a hold of).  Also, I can’t stop masturbating to redtube.com (NOT SAFE FOR WORK) and my body and health are rapidly declining because of all the wanton sexual punishment I am inflicting on myself.  This happens every goddamn fall.   

Iron Sheik is the name of the league that I have been involved with for seven years.  Not only am I a founding member, but I am also the commissioner of the league.  Yes, this is what I tell women that I meet at bars.  And no, it doesn’t ever work.  Like, ever.

Despite having the same 11 guys in the league for the past seven years, it was only this year that we started to do a keeper league.  A keeper league means that each “manager” (read: dork who bases a significant amount of his happiness on his fantasy team) keeps three players on his team from year to year.  That means instead of starting next year with a completely new roster of players, we’ll go into the draft with three guys already on our respective teams.  This changes player value slightly, favoring younger players over players who put up similar numbers but are older (the logic being that you can keep these younger players for years, while the older ones are closer to declining and ultimately retiring).  But keeper leagues also lead to a sense of identity, as we’re now establishing cornerstones for our franchises, drafting and acquiring players that may be on our teams for five, ten, even fifteen years.  Keeper leagues allow for a greater sense of “team” and a closeness to players in a way that standard fantasy baseball leagues, whose rosters are completely overhauled from year to year, do not.  For example, during the draft in March at the start of the baseball season, I had the 7th overall pick (out of 11 teams).  I chose Chase Utley, not just because he’s nasty and a 2B, but because he’s a Phillie and I can now root for him for years to come.  Also, he may be a little skinny, but he kinda gets me more than a bit riled up.

Our league is a roto league, using the following categories: for offense, runs, rbis, stolen bases, total bases, and on-base percentage; for pitching, wins, saves, strikeouts, ERA, and WHIP.  As our league has 11 teams, the team with the most runs, for example, gets 11 points in that category; the team with the fewest runs gets 1 point.  The team with the highest score at the end of the season - the total of points from each of the ten categories - wins.

Success in fantasy sports, particularly fantasy baseball, is not uncommon for me, but the dominance that I displayed this year was particularly awesome.  I finished with 103 points (out of a total of 110).  The second-place finisher had 74 points (third place had 73, fourth 67, two tied at fifth with 65.5).  I led by at least 25 points from June 15 through the rest of the season and finished with a perfect “11″ in eight of the ten categories (imperfect in only wins and saves).  Here is what my team looked like (the number next to the name is what round I drafted that player in; “W” means waiver wire pick up):
 

Position	Player	R	RBI	SB	TB	OBP
C	J. Posada (16)	91	90	2	275	.426
1B	L. Berkman (2)	95	102	7	286	.386
2B	C. Utley (1)	104	103	9	300	.410
3B	R. Braun (W)	91	97	15	286	.370
SS	C. Guillen (7)	86	102	13	283	.357
OF	E. Byrnes (20)	103	83	50	288	.353
OF	A. Rios (10)	114	85	17	320	.354
OF	B.J. Upton (W)	86	82	22	241	.386
Util	J. Bay (3)	78	84	4	225	.327
Util	C. Young (W)	85	68	27	266	.295
Position	Player	W	SV	K	ERA	WHIP
SP	B. Webb (4)	18	0	194	3.01	1.19
SP	C.C. Sabathia (8)	19	0	209	3.21	1.14
RP	T. Saito (11)	2	39	78	1.40	0.72
RP	J. Borowski (13)	4	45	58	5.07	1.43
P	E. Bedard (9)	13	0	221	3.16	1.09
P	T. Lilly (21)	15	0	174	3.83	1.14
P	A.J. Burnett (15)	10	0	176	3.75	1.19
P	M. Capps (W)	4	18	64	2.28	1.01

I listed only the starters, but I have to thank Chone Figgins (who I traded right before the deadline to Site Guy Brendan for his fourth round/seventh round overall pick next year), Troy Glaus, Willy Taveras, Jack Cust, James Loney, Ian Snell, and Alan Embree for their invaluable contributions.  They truly understood that there was no “i” in team.    

Why am I telling you this?  The short answer: because it makes me hard.  The long answer: because few things have made me more proud than my fantasy baseball team this season, and I want more people to know about this.  Is this sad?  Sure.  Does it make me sound pathetic?  Yes.  But does that make me any less thrilled with myself or make me feel ashamed to masturbate in front of the mirror holding a printout of my roster?  Nope.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve found there are less and less things that allow me to measure myself against others and thus feel a sense of pride. (Maybe it’s wrong that I derive pride from besting others, but I’m not a psychologist.) While I was never very athletic, I certainly don’t play sports anymore (the last time I threw a football, I gave myself dysentery).  And while I’m proud, for example, of the Phillies for making the playoffs, I didn’t do anything to make that happen.   

Primarily, I got my jollies off by doing well in school.  Getting good grades while doing very little for them was a great source of pride for me.  But I haven’t been in school in six years, so those days of sucking back Stacker 2’s so I can bang out a 15 page history paper in seven hours for my standard B+ are long gone. 

I’m an ok employee, I suppose, and take a little bit of pride in my work, but I don’t do anything I can particularly be proud of - I’m not saving lives or building houses or providing people with stolen cable.  Worse, I’ve hit my ceiling at work.  I’m currently a “Senior Analyst” at whatever the hell it is that I do, having been promoted to this position a tad earlier than I should have been, which was nice.  But the next step up is manager.  My manager is a guy in his mid-thirties who isn’t going anywhere, nor do I consider myself the management type.  Therefore, it’s conceivable that I will continue to be a “Senior Analyst” for the next 20 years (as I can never leave my firm, since a simple Google search will disqualify me from all future employment).    

Other than that, there’s not much going on.  I don’t have any children (that I know of) that I can be proud of, and even if I do have a few little scamps running around Boston or London or or Philly or here in NYC, they’re probably roaming the streets like wild dogs and stealing cigarettes to sell to their kindergarten classmates.  I don’t have any real hobbies, nor am I a member of any clubs or organizations, since that kinda stuff would probably get in the way of watching my tivoed episodes of Law & Order SVU.  I do have this site, which I like, and not just for the occasional booby pictures.

But what I definitely have is an uncanny ability to kick ass at fantasy sports.  I just can do it very well.  I realize it’s more about cold hard statistics, that a significant portion of excelling at fantasy sports involves both predicting the future performance of players and understanding the needs of other guys in the league, needs which can be manipulated through trades and oral sex to one’s advantage.  That I can succeed in this makes me happy.   

Not only that, I put more work into fantasy sports than almost anything else in my life.  Sad, but also true.  On average, I spend at least an hour a day checking my team’s stats, plotting moves, talking shit to other guys in the league via messageboard or email, etc.  My fantasy baseball team(s) is not something that I signed up for on a whim - it is a product, something that has been carefully devised through hours of research, deal-making, and deliberate and intensive thought.

(Also, winning this league awarded me enough money for a modest vacation, so there’s that.)

I know that people often knock fantasy sports for being a paradise for stat nerds and the unathletic, and while there is a great deal of truth to that statement, there’s certainly more to the culture of fantasy sports than that.  Fantasy sports combine two things that men who are growing into their twenties and thirties crave - sports-based competition and something to do.  From my limited experience, getting old consists of two things: being bored and remembering when you weren’t bored.  Fantasy sports provide an outlet for competition, an avenue for nostalgia, and, most of all, something to do, something that’s fun and easy and allows for camaraderie. 

I don’t think I’m telling you anything you haven’t heard before, but these things are worth remembering when passing judgment on fantasy sports and those who play them.  Haters, while we don’t ask for your support, we ask for your understanding.  We are a simple people.

(And for the record, I’d like to state that yes, I am single.  No girlfriend.  I know, it’s shocking.  I am fairly certain that the longest relationship of my life will be with Ryan Braun.  And I think I’m ok with that.)   

an open letter to the girl in the white dress from joseph arthur’s gallery opening in brooklyn on friday night who looked like jenny lewis
Jason posted on October 2, 2007

Dear Jenny,

First, I apologize.  I realize that your name is probably not Jenny, but I feel that "To Whom It May Concern" or "Foxy Lady" or "Giver of Handjobs to Jason Mulgrew for the Next Five to Sixty Years" is not an appropriate way to address you in such a letter.  So I will call you Jenny, because of your similarity in appearance to Jenny Lewis, the lead singer of the band Rilo Kiley.  I hope you realize that this is a compliment; I think that in addition to being very talented - even though "Under the Blacklight" is a little too dance-friendly for me - Jenny Lewis is a very beautiful woman.  And I actually prefer your hair color, which is more of a strawberry blonde, to Jenny’s red locks.  Either way, I’d totally love to do both of you.  Preferably at the same time.  Preferably under a waterfall.  At any rate, I hope you forgive me for calling you Jenny.

But to the point: I am writing to you today to discuss the simple fact that you and I, we are in love.  Also, my name is Jason.  So, hi.

Make no mistake, though it is your beauty that first drew me to you, it is not the only thing that I find appealing about you.  Sure, your white dress was quintessential hipster-classy, showing me you had an edge and interesting taste but at the same time making it clear that you would not blow the bass player of the latest Interpol-inspired LES band du jour for some coke in the bathroom of the Delancey.  This, I like.

But I am also compelled to you because we have so much in common, namely:

1) Our love of art.  Since I met you - or rather saw you, since we didn’t actually speak or even make eye contact - at Joseph Arthur’s art gallery opening, I can only assume that you like art.  Though Joseph’s was the first gallery opening I’ve ever been to, I do like art.  I found Joseph’s paintings to be, for lack of a better expression, frigging awesome.  I would only embarrass myself if I attempted to offer any further or serious criticism of his art, but I can say with honesty that I found his work colorful, and alternatively inspiring and frightening.  His artwork touched me, made me think, made me smile, made me shudder - moved me.  However, I must admit that I was on mushrooms while at the exhibit, so this may have something to do with how profoundly I was affected by the artwork.  Because even though I took said mushrooms several hours earlier while at work, I was still really, really fucked up at the opening.  I mean, really fucked up.

(Now that I think about it, it’s entirely possible that you were a figment of my imagination.  If this is true, my bad.  But I’m already into this letter, so I’m just gonna keep on going.)

2) Our love of the music of Joseph Arthur.  Joseph and his band, the Lonely Astronauts, gave a little impromptu performance during the opening, which I found lovely.  During this performance, I scanned the crowd and found you, over by the table with the free booze (don’t think that you didn’t score points for this, too) bobbing your head along to the music.  Music is one of the most important things in my life, and I require any potential life-partner to have tastes in music as good as mine.  Seeing how into the performance you were, mouthing the chorus to "Chicago" and even singing along to that new song that’s catchy as a mother fucker, well, it nearly melted my heart.  Also, have I mentioned that you look like Jenny Lewis?  With the boobs and everything?    

This may sound like a lame cliché, but I think that you and I could make some lovely music together.  Of course, it wouldn’t sound as good as Joseph’s Arthur’s - it would probably be mostly shrieking, the sound of a fat boy being hit with a wiffleball bat, and some wind chimes, all over the hum of a chintzy hotel’s generator - but it would be music nonetheless.  And we would be making it.  Without pants on.  

3) Our locale.  You were in Brooklyn for a gallery opening.  Therefore, there is a good chance that you live in Brooklyn.  Funny enough, I lived in Brooklyn.  So we could talk about that.  If you don’t live in Brooklyn, you probably live in the Lower East Side, another artsy area of town.  As fate would have it, I lived in the Lower East Side.  So we could also talk about that.  Couples have gotten married over less. 

4) Let’s just meet up and make out.  I mean, whatever.  We’re both adults.  And making out is fun.

As I close this letter, perhaps you’d like to know a little bit about me.  But I assure you that you do not need to know anything at all about me, since I’m am willing to change myself, my personality, and my wardrobe in whatever way you see fit in order to make you happy.  Want me to get one of those adorable hipster haircuts?  Done.  Would you like me to quit my job, renounce all my non-thrift store-bought possessions, and dedicate my life to reading Celine?  Not a problem.  Want me to embrace all peoples and cultures and maybe hit the gym once or twice a week?  Well, let’s start sleeping together first.

I hope this letter finds you well, flatters you, and is the first (possibly terrifying) step towards a new, better and exciting life for you.  And me.  The two of us.  Without pants on.

Yours,
For always and ever,
While the ceremony of innocence drowns,
And I fill with passionate intensity,
- Jason MJPAE Mulgrew

good - bad
Jason posted on October 1, 2007

Two quick sports-related notes before they become irrelevant/before my passion dies away:

- Holy f’ing crap, the Phils are in the playoffs.  I haven’t written about them on here - haven’t even talked about them to others, really - because I didn’t want to jinx them.  When I have talked about them, I was a doubter.  As recently as Thursday, I offered to bet a friend $10,000 that the Phillies would not make the playoffs, citing the two following undeniable facts: 1) In three of the last five years, the Phils were eliminated from the playoffs in the last weekend of the season; 2) They’re the Phillies.  They aren’t very good at making their fans happy.

But now I feel like the Randy Quaid character in "Major League" as the Phils are opening the division series at home on Wednesday.  Again, holy f’ing crap.

I’m not sure who I’d rather play: Would we prefer the hot Rockies, with their suspect pitching staff and bad road record, or do we want the Padres, with their anemic offense (and knowing Peavy wouldn’t pitch until game three)?  To be honest - and I know this is a bad attitude to take - but I’m just happy that the Phils are in the playoffs.  I’ll leave it up to the gods to decide who we have to play and focus my energies on sending good karma the Phillies’ way.  Because they - and the city of Philadelphia - need some good karma right now.

- I’m still too upset from last night’s Eagles game to really get into it, but I sent the following text message to 11 friends last night sometime in the fourth quarter:

"I don’t think that a professional football player has ever played worse in a game than the way that Winston Justice is playing right now."

As I write this on Monday morning, with a bit less rage, much less drunk and much less filled with shepard’s pie (near-legendary pre-shower bowel moment this morning), I still stand by that statement.  I don’t know what’s more galling - that a former first round pick looked so completely clueless on the football field that I could have gotten a 1.5 sacks against McNabb or that the coaching staff did not make a single adjustment when most canines could point that the Justice was being owned.  

(And you know I’m pissed off.  I don’t throw italics around like nothing.)   

This may sound like typical Doomsday Philly fan-speak, but it’s hard for me to see how this season can be redeemed.  The Eagles are now 1-3.  Our best player on offense and our best player on defense are already banged up.  Our offensive line was absolutely dominated in their last game.  Our quarterback moves slightly better than most North American mountain ranges.  Our receivers get about as much separation from cornerbacks as my penis gets from my hand during those beach volleyball tournaments on ESPN2.  This, my friends, is a 6-10 team.  

Here’s the good news:

1) Remember, the Phillies are in the playoffs.

2) At least we’re not Charger fans.