bets, music
Jason posted on November 30, 2007

[I was sick all week - even called out yesterday - as well as mad busy at work, so I apologize for the lack of posting.  Illness plus long hours does not exactly inspire many a dick joke.  I hope this holds you over for now and we'll pick up next week.]

Six Bets

Falcons (+3) over RAMS
My weekly contrarian pick: More action is going on the Rams than any other team this week, to the tune of 78% betting Rams.  Other lopsided games are Chargers (-6) over CHIEFS (76% on Chargers) and Broncos (-3.5) over RAIDERS (76% going with Broncos).  If you take the Rams, Chiefs and Raiders, you’ll go two for three.  Guaranteed.

EAGLES (-3) over Seahawks
Fuck it.  Why not? 

COLTS (-7) over Jaguars
C’mon Peyton, let’s see how much of a man you are.  Time for a statement game. 

Bills (+6) over REDSKINS
Look for Buffalo QB Trent Edwards to take advantage of a Redskins’ secondary that has been decimated by injury and murder.

(Yikes.)

(Seriously, even for me, yikes.)

SAINTS (-3) over Bucs
My weekly no idea pick: This game has gamblers almost evenly split, with a slight advantage going to New Orleans.  To be honest, I have no idea why more people aren’t picking the Saints here; I think the Bucs are frauds and a 24-3 first round playoff exit waiting to happen.  Of course, since I just said this, you know what’s going to happen: Bucs 49  Saints 7.  I’m sticking with the Saints.

Patriots (-20) over RAVENS
Yes, people are little wary of such a high line after the Eagles’ "scare", but here’s the thing: if possible, the Ravens offense will score negative points in this game.  They are truly a terrible offensive football team.  Alternatively, the Eagles’ "stopped" the Pats and they still scored 31 points.  Their lowest point total was against Indy, then the second-best team in the league, and they scored 24 points on them.  Aside from those two games, the Pats are averaging 43 points a game.  Do you really think the Ravens, a less than average team with one of the bottom three or four offenses in the league, will score 23 points on the Pats?  How about 13 points?  10 points?  I’ll take the Pats. 

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

Six Songs (bonus edition)

"The Ghost of Genova Heights"  Stars
Whoa - what is this?  I thought Stars was all strings and sadness?  I heard this on the indie station in Philly last week and had no idea it was Stars, as it seems too funky and smooth at the same time for them.  If I were gay and wanted to seduce a guy I brought home to my apartment, I’d put this song on and do a little dance for him as he sat on my couch, and we’d be doing it in no time.

(Not that I’ve thought a lot about this.  I swear - it just came to me right now.)

"I Want You"  Tom Waits
Um, welcome to the most beautiful love song ever.  If you have a make-out mix, put this on it.  If you are getting married, make this your wedding song.  If you have a beard, a blog and back hair, play this on repeat while sitting in a darkened room drinking whiskey and water until 4am. 

(God, I am going to be such a good divorcee.  I just know it.)   

"Strange"  Built To Spill
If I had discovered this band in high school, I would have lost my shit (I feel the same way about Muse, but for different reasons).  They were only just starting when I was in high school, and this song was released in 2001 (I think), but they have a sound that would have drove me wild back in those high school days: sort of lonely but also intelligent, kind of exclusive, definitely different.  Please feel free to insert your best "you sounded like a real winner in high school" joke here.

"You’ll Get Yours"  Dios Malos
I discovered this song on my iTunes recently when I was trying to rate those unrated (no star) songs.  I have no idea where it came from, but it’s fucking awesome.  It’s a perfect mix of catchiness, bitterness, and humor; kinda like me - only this song has less pizza.    

"Metarie"  Brendan Benson
There is so much shit going on in this song, it’s stunning; it’s like a fucking amusement park ride.  Particular kudos to the delicious (yes, delicious) solo and the "You got it bad" chorus.  I hated Brendan Benson for about two years because I read a review that compared him to all four Beatles rolled into one (um, not true), but I’m warming to him again. 

(I once read an interview with Alicia Keys before her debut album and she compared her sound to "Stevie Wonder meets Bach" or something like that.  Since then, I’ve wanted to meet her in person, just so I can call her a c-nt for saying that - and I even like her stuff.  What a totally ridiculous and asshole thing to say.)   

"Half Moon Rising"  Yonder Mountain String Band
Is it wrong that every time I listen to bluegrass, the first thing I think of is how I’m never go to have sex with a real Southern* girl?  Is it bad that I simply can’t enjoy the music without my thoughts turning to sex?  I hear this song and I want to be sitting on the porch of a cabin in the Smokey Mountains or the Rockies, playing my banjo next to my baby, sipping whiskey and looking at trees and grass and stuff.  Then she’ll sit up in her rocking chair in her little sundress, put her whiskey down, lean over to me, place her hand on my bird, look deep into my eyes and say, "I think I’m drunk enough to let you have your way with me now, even with this lil’ lightswitch you have in your pants."  Without saying a word (I’m too drunk to speak), I will stand up and we will make love, right there on the porch - and I won’t stop playing the banjo the whole time.

This is how I want to live.    

[*I use "Southern" but that's not exactly what I mean.  I'm looking more for more Kentucky-Tennessee-Colorado-Carolinas than Alabama-Texas-Florida.  Huge difference.  But I don't know what to say instead: Country? Mountain?  No idea.  Please help.]

"So Far Away"  Dire Straits
Pretty much the long-distance relationship anthem and a very underrated classic rock radio song.  That’s all.  I just really like this song.   

"Nothing Stays The Same"  Elastica
I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything quite like this song.  Sparse, with a droning two-part harmony, electric drumbeat and a finely distorted electric guitar, it sounds like something a cool robot, one who parties but also reads Foucault, would write.  I can’t stop listening to it. 

"Working Man"  Rush
I was in a band in college.  We were terrible, but it was fun.  We played poor imitations of hard rock songs by bands like Tool, Rage Against the Machine, Helmet, Led Zeppelin, Pearl Jam, Black Sabbath, and the like.  We had a steady gig every third Thursday at Great Scott, which I hear is now a respectable (used loosely) music venue in Boston, and played a number of bars in the Allston-Brighton area, which meant free booze.  Also, one time after a show in Middlebury College in Vermont I got a blowjob in the woods.  Which was totally awesome.  Then I got so fucked up I slept in the front seat of a stranger’s truck.  In Vermont.  In November (I think).  Waking up the next day: not totally awesome.   

Anyway, I played bass in the band.  My training in bass guitar consisted of having a brother who played bass and a willingness to play bass in any band for free drinks (I’ve always played guitar).  This was enough to get me an "audition" for the band, which was just then forming.  My buddy and college roommate G-Wop played drums, and he was my in.  I knew the singer, Pat, from mutual friends, and he scared the hell out of me.  The guitarist, Greg, I had only seen around campus.

They (and later, we) practiced in the soundproof basement of Pat’s parents’ house in the suburbs just outside of Boston, and this is where I was brought for my audition.  After saying hello and tuning up, I stood and waited to hear what song we were going to "jam" to.  I knew this guys liked hard music, stuff that inmates and angry Midwestern townies listen to, while I leaned toward the Elvis Costello-Jeff Buckley "let’s make songs out of poems" camp.  Either way, it’s always been my experience when playing with a new band or group of guys the first time, you just sort of dick around and come up with some basic stuff: the bass lays down a riff, the drums come in, the guitar plays over it - just to feel each other out (and hopefully later, up).

As I stood there, Pat turned to the guys and said nonchalantly, "Ok, so ‘Working Man?’"  Greg and G-Wop nodded and Greg started on the intro riff.

I was flabbergasted.  I had heard the song once or twice before, but honestly would have been less surprised if they had said, "Let’s start with ‘Like A Virgin.’"  Rush?  Really?  Fucking Rush, the band I only knew because of making fun of them?  And "Working Man" no less, a semi-obscure song of theirs?  I could see "Closer to the Heart" maybe, but "Working Man?"  Even knowing their penchant for hard rock, I was stunned. 

I had to stop Greg mid-riff to say, "Wait wait wait - I don’t know that one."  From their reactions, it looked like I said, "I keep my penis in a jar on my dresser."  I’d never felt more awkward, more uncomfortable or less cool than I did when I told them I didn’t know how to play "Working Man."  Everything worked out in the end: Greg taught me the basics of the song (which is actually pretty easy), we jammed, I was in, and the rest was history.  The band broke up when I went to study abroad and London and they couldn’t find anyone to replace me.  That they fell apart without me made me happy.

My old roommate Brian, who I also lived with in college but only for a summer (he went to James Madison, I went to BC), knows the story and all the guys involved in it, and it’s become a running joke for us for years.  Whenever we’re out and about in NYC and we walk into an uncomfortable bar or party, we’ll stop, awkwardly survey the surroundings, and:

Brian: "So, uh, ’Working Man?’"
Me: "Yeah.  Yeah, let’s do that one." 

Now every time this song comes on my iPod, I can’t help but smile as I think of those first awkward moments in the incipient stages of my rock "stardom" and how "Working Man" will be associated with any uncomfortable entrance or situation, probably for the rest of my life.

Fucking Rush. 

[Have a good weekend]

pain in the iggles
Jason posted on November 26, 2007

Here’s a look into my thoughts on Sunday night, November 25, 2007:

11:18:04pm: "OK, so it’s 2nd-and-4.  We’re down 31-28 with over 4 minutes left.  We’re at their 29 now, so worst case, we’re walking out of this drive tied 31-31.  I can’t believe we’re playing so well - this may be the greatest day of my life!"

11:18:13pm: "I wish I was dead."

11:19pm: [blankness]

11:20pm: [pain]

11:21pm: "Seriously, I wish I was dead. I don’t want to be alive right now."

11:22pm: [vomiting; not physically, but in my soul]

11:23pm - present: [numbness, occasional boner because of unrelated stimuli]

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

I did not take a single call nor answer any text messages during for the first 56 minutes of last night’s Eagles-Pats game, though they were pouring in from friends, both Eagles fans and non-Eagles fans alike.  I wanted a beer, but since I wasn’t drinking from the start of the game, I didn’t dare get one.  I moved from my spot on the couch only when I had to go to the bathroom - and did that only when it became abundantly clear that that pint of Ben & Jerry’s "S’mores" I ate before the game was going to reappear, either on the toilet or on my couch.

What I did, however, was forget for a moment that I am a Philly sports fan, and therefore should be intimately familiar with what "worst case" means.  What I wrote above was not a thought I had in hindsight; right before Feeley threw that drive-killing interception, I actually thought in my head that the worst thing that could happen - after karma had been on the Eagles’ side all night, after how well they were moving the ball on that drive - was that the drive would stall there on the 29, hopefully after some time had passed on the clock, and Akers would come on to kick the 46 yard field goal.  Not a chip shot to be sure, but it just felt like things were finally - finally - working for the Birds, a feeling that is so fleeting for any Philly sports fan that when moments like these present themselves, we grab them, hold onto them for dear life, and, in the process, usually smother them to death.

So I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised when Feeley threw the ball five yards over Kevin Curtis’ head and into the arms of Asante Samuel, effectively ending the game.  Hope, meet Philadelphia Sports.  To paraphrase the Man in Black, "Now Hope’s gon’ die."   

After the game, I took a xanax, grabbed the book I’m currently reading, and headed into the shower to sit there, balls naked, showerhead aiming at my feet and tub draining so that I didn’t get wet, to read, to reflect, and to come up with some sort of plan to make my life better.  And while this is typically how I end every night, last night’s fantasy shower was particularly gloomy because, well, the Eagles had just lost a winnable game that easily would have made the season (not just for the Birds, but for the increasing number of NE/Boston-haters around America).

[I won't beat this point to death because I'm complained about it endlessly on here, but why does God torture Philly sports fans?  More specifically, why does God torture me?  Can I just get one championship, one stinking championship?  Really?  I mean, look at Boston - formerly championship-starved, now with an embarrassment of riches.  Just...come on.

But do you know what the ultimate joke is?  I've been begging my whole life for a Philly championship and I'm going on record right now and saying that this year, the Philadelphia Flyers are going to win the Stanley Cup.  Do you know why the Flyers will win the Cup this year?  Because right now, I know less about hockey than I did when I was an infant and was not even aware of the sport's existence.  The only way I could name three current Flyers is if I was speaking gibberish French and accidentally spewed out something that sounds similar to some of their last names (brierevoogagnetoilupul).  This is how God treats people who live/grew up in Philly and like their sports teams.]

After having some time to think about it, and in no small part because of all the aforementioned boners, I’m not as devastated by the game as I was when it was over.  Personally, I think the plan when the Eagles got under the Pats’ 30 should have been Westbrook-Westbrook-Westbrook-Westbrook-Westbrook until the drive either stalled or they reached the end zone.  But Andy Reid said they took a shot at that point because they had been playing aggressively all game long, and playing aggressively got them to that point.  I think this makes sense.  Also, he’s the coach and I ate a pint of ice cream during the pre-game show.  Actually, Andy Reid probably ate a pint of ice cream during the pre-game show, but whatever - he’s still the coach.

And you can’t fault AJ Feeley for his picks.  He played well and, without sounding too sappy, bravely.  The offensive line was unfuckingreal.  J.R. Reed made some big hits and seemed to be all over the ball; he and Lito kept Randy Moss in check.  Jim Johnson and the front seven kept the pressure on Brady, which was nice (I can’t recall rooting for someone to get hurt quite like I was rooting for Brady to get hurt last night; part of this is because he’s just so damn smug, part of it was my own self-loathing for being so helplessly attracted to him). 

Ultimately, it’s another loss in what looks like an increasingly lost season.  But for once, I’m going to betray my Philly roots and try to focus on the positive.  I expected a blowout and to be masturbating to RedTube halfway through the second quarter, and instead I got the most entertaining and compelling football game I’ve seen since last year’s playoffs.  So that makes me…happy.

(At least until next Sunday.) 

guest bartending in south philly saturday
Jason posted on November 20, 2007

Reminder: I’ll be guest bartending with my buddy Dave, co-founder of the massively successful "Drink Until You Shit" tour, this Saturday night, November 24, in South Philly.  We’ll be tending bar at Mick-Daniel’s Saloon on

2nd Street

and

Snyder Avenue

from 8pm until 11pm.  If you’re in the area, stop by, say hello, have a drink - and tip well (please).  But please - if you ask for something difficult to make, I will seriously flip the fuck out.  I just can’t take that kind of stress behind the bar. 

And if I don’t get anything else on here before then, have a happy and safe Thanksgiving. 

glorious sunday
Jason posted on November 20, 2007

One of the most crushing developments for me this fall was not the the Phillies quick demise in the playoffs, the death of Norman Mailer, the writers’ strike, or the passing of another summer without being shirtless at the beach (we’re at 22 and counting), but the loss of our Philadelphia Eagles bar.

[Quick note on the strike: I'm not a member of the Guild so I'm not on strike, but I still can't pitch or work because then I'd be considered a scab.  I fully support the writers, obviously, and I hope the strike is resolved soon.  Because I'm going to need some sort of advance to pay off the ginormous amount of money I'm going to owe the federal government in taxes in April.  Here's a little lesson: TV money is taxed, and taxed very much.  So if you get, say, a $10,000 deal for a show, you take home maybe $5000 and the rest goes to Uncle Sam.  So I'm fine there.  Book money, however, is not taxed.  So if you get a $10,000 book advance, you get a $10,000 check and are expected to put aside a chunk for taxes.  I misheard my accountant friends when they said, "Be sure to put some of that book money away for taxes"; I thought they said, "Spend money like you are addicted to angeldust and love rubies and sapphires."  Whoops.  So writers and producers, let's work this out soon so Jason can sell one of his crappy ideas.  Otherwise, I have until April 15 to come up with some sort of get rich quick scheme.  I don't have any ideas yet, but if I had to guess, I'm thinking it's going to involve some sort of forgery and me dressing as a woman.  Just a hunch.  But good lord - this is gonna get ugly.  By mid-March, you'll be seeing posts with titles like, "Who wants to jerk off on my feet for $12?"  So be sure to tune in.]         

Last year (and for two years before that), my friends and I watched Eagles games at a bar called Red Sky.  On Friday and Saturday nights, it’s a douchebag bar filled with NJ-LI types looking to crush pussy and pound Jagerbombs.  But this is part of the reason it worked so well for us on those Sunday afternoons - it’s strictly a nighttime bar, so no one was in the bar except us during the day.  A friend of mine was friends with a guy who worked there, and they opened the place on Sundays especially for us.  So instead of cramming into the recognized NYC Eagles bar (Town Tavern) with 100+ other fans, me and twenty or so of my friends, mostly guys I went to high school with and their girlfriends and other friends, would have an entire bar to ourselves to drink, eat and watch the Birds.  After the 1pm game we’d stick around for the 4pm game and by the time that was over, we’d be nice and soused and head to the Upper East Side to Doc Watson’s for some live Irish music, spilling Guinness as we danced until midnight.  These football Sundays last fall were magical.

But this year, we lost our bar.  The day before the first Sunday of the NFL season, we learned that Red Sky had been taken over by Redskins fans.  Ugh.  I talked about this before, about our disappointment, about our resentment, about our pain.  Not only was the rug pulled out from under us, but we were beaten by Redskins fans.  Again, ugh.

And we never recovered.  We scrambled that first weekend and picked a random bar to watch the Eagles lose in embarrassing fashion to the Packers because they couldn’t field punts, and that was the last time my friends and I watched an Eagles game together.  There were other reasons besides the loss of the bar - many of us have been out of town on the weekends (including yours truly) - but either way, Week One was our only get together.  Those Sundays in which we drank, we cheered, and we danced were relegated to memory.

[Quick note about the Eagles 2007 season: The Eagles are 5-5 and a bad football team.  We all know this.  But do you realize that if they had players who could catch punts, a skill learned and honed in high school football, they'd be 6-4?  And do you realize that if they didn't allow Brian Fucking Griese to turn into John Fucking Elway and drive his team 91 yards in under two minutes for a touchdown, playing basic D+ defense instead of F- defense, they'd be 7-3?  No need for "what if's", but these are facts.  Terrible, brutal facts.]

However, this Sunday presented the perfect opportunity to get together.  Six core members of our crew from last year - me, Pat, Mike, Terrence, Brian and Fran - were all in town, and Mike had the foresight to secure us a table at Ship of Fools, a sports bar on the UES.  While not ideal - it’s a crowded bar with many different sports fans - it was still a nice spot: we had our own table, four TVs showing the game, good food, and waitresses who were both hot and attentive.  All things considered, not a bad setup.

And it was vintage Eagles-watching.  Not vintage in the sense of the Eagles playing well - they barely beat a team (the Dolphins) filled with guys I could probably beat up if I had one month’s advance notice to start working out - but in the sense of a bunch of dudes getting very drunk, stuffing themselves with fried/bad food (including but not limited to: wings, fries, mini-tacos, and this delicious chicken ranch "burger" I had), and cheering on their favorite team.  There was also, since we all went to high school together, a copious amount of sharing stories and real "man" time - none of us are handy or own a car, but there were plenty of stories of pooping, intoxicated accidents, and f’ing broads.  And by "f’ing broads" I mean "drinking too much to maintain an erection and/or come even close to pleasing a woman."  Seriously, between the six of us, we’ve probably been present and responsible for a total of – max – four female orgasms in our lives (and two of them occurred during a showing of Pirates of the Caribbean - hubba hubba - so they don’t really count).  Just six dudes who really have no idea what’s going on under a woman’s jeans.    

Our party of six grew to a party of ten, then fourteen, then twenty.  The 1pm games ended and we celebrated an Eagles victory, and decided to stay to "watch" the 4pm games (at that point, it was getting a little blurry).  After those, when things were really blurry, we walked over to Doc Watson’s for some Irish music (a sampling of last names of people I was with - Heenan, Nolan, O’Neill, Tracy, McCartan, Grogan, Daniels).  I left around midnight, having easily broken my non-St. Patrick’s Day record for pints of Guinness consumed.  Monday…Monday was not my best day.

There is no ridiculous story here; no one hurt themselves, there were no scandalous hook-ups, and aside from my buddy leaving his ATM card in a machine somewhere near the bars, Sunday was story-less.  But it was one of those rare, glorious days that does not happen frequently enough: good friends, sports, lots of beer and food, and music (actually, the only thing missing that would have made this perfect would be some sort of sexual activity, but I honestly would have ejaculated Guinness; it really took over everything in my body).  There are times when I get down on NYC, because it’s so expensive and my family is mostly in Philly and my friends are mostly in Boston, but then a day like Sunday comes along and really puts things in perspective.  I’m tempted to close this by tying in Thanksgiving, saying something about how I realize how lucky I am and how thankful I should be and all that jazz, but my pseudo-homosexuality/maudlin sentimentality has a limit.  I will only say that I hope that before the end of the season, I hope my friends and I can get together for another Sunday like that one.

(Although I’m not going to hold my breath for another Eagles’ win.  Too bad we can’t play the worst team in the NFL every week.)

reunited (high school edition)
Jason posted on November 16, 2007

Last month, I went home to Philly for the weekend for my ten year high school reunion.  On Friday night, there was a school-sponsored happy hour at a bar in Center City.  On Saturday night, there was an event at the school itself. 

It got a little messy.

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

I went to a high school in Philly called St. Joe’s Prep.  It’s an all boys, Jesuit-run prep school in the middle of the ghetto of North Philly.  Despite the complete lack of sexual contact with any sort of female mammal, high school was a pretty f’ing awesome time in my life.    

So I was very much looking forward to the reunion.  I still keep in touch with a lot of guys from high school - some of them remain my closest friends - but there were a number of guys I lost touch with over the years, because of moving away or getting hitched early or turning into a gay.  Alternatively, there were some guys I wished were seriously injured either during or after high school.  The reunion was a perfect opportunity to bring us all back together; for the former group, it’s a chance to share stories and memories; for the latter, a chance to point out how much better I am then they are now.

(My disdain for some guys wasn’t because I was picked on in high school.  I was actually both fairly large - I was maybe an inch shorter and thirty pounds heavier as a high school junior than I am now - and considered "cool."  But some guys were simply unconscionable dickheads.  I’ll spoil the surprise and tell you that it was too bad that most of these dickheads weren’t at the reunion, so I’ll just have to continue wishing them ill will from afar.)   

On Friday night I was late getting to the happy hour, which was winding down just as I arrived, fresh off the train from NYC with my buddies Joe and Pat.  However, just because the school-sponsored happy hour was over (at 8pm) didn’t mean the bar was closing.  So me and thirty guys stayed at the bar until closing.

I won’t even attempt to get into all the private jokes that were being resurrected and bandied about between my friends and I ("me and my friends"?).  You’re just gonna have to trust me that I can’t recall a time when I laughed so hard and so frequently, unless you want a 2000 word dissection on why Mr. Nilewski’s revelation that he once had shigelosis was one of the formative moments in my life and in the development of my sense of humor (short explanation: shigelosis is transferred through the fecaloral route - draw your own conclusions).  All I’ll say is that very little has changed maturity-wise since our high school days.  I haven’t seen more scrotums since, well, probably my birthday.  But before that, it had been awhile.  Like, months.

What has changed is our drinking ability, or at least my drinking ability.  Little known fact about me: I didn’t start drinking until I was 19.  Seriously.  I’ll get into the reasons for this another time, but though I went to the standard high school parties, I never drank.  Also, as mentioned, I never sexually touched a female at these high school parties.  I have no doubt that the two are related.  My clear braces, weight problem, round John Lennon glasses, and long hair that naturally curled up just above my shoulders probably also contributed, but I’m certain if I drank a little bit I would have been able to make out at least with a chubby girl here and there.   

(By the way, if you were to put $1 on the odds of the high school me one day becoming one of People’s "50 Hottest Bachelors", well, you’d have to buy me a beer or a boat, because you’d be a trillionaire right now.) 

While catching up, I got drunk, stone stinking drunk, at this Friday night happy "hour."  We all did.  My buddy Kyle was so drunk after all the shots and beers and mixed drinks that he actually took himself home just after midnight, walking two miles through downtown Philly (which, as you may have heard, is not the safest place these days) at 1am.  After leaving the bar, my friend Pat was detained by the Philadelphia Police for four hours after a brush-up with a cabbie.  My buddy PJ, having missed the 1:15am train back to his home in suburban Ardmore and too drunk/cheap to take a cab, slept in an unlocked Hertz rental car at

30th Street

Station.  These men are each 28 years old, and successful psychologists, traders, and salesmen, respectively.  I told you, very little has changed.

I had my own moment as well, after my buddy Joe, who was staying with me at my mom’s house for the weekend, and I got home after a drunken meal at the 24 hour Oregon Diner.  I passed out in bed, but not before sending a record 34 (!) text messages to a girl I recently made out with (I actually filled her mailbox, so she had to erase messages the next day to get them all) (and no, unfortunately, "filled her mailbox" is not a sexual euphemism).  Though I passed out in bed, I woke up the next morning on floor with the light on.  I was confused.  And hungover.  Very, very hungover.

One thing I often do when drunk and in a strange place is sleepwalk.  Usually when I’m in Philly, I stay at my dad’s place.  However, since Joe was crashing with me for the weekend and my mom’s house has two spare bedrooms to my dad’s one, I slept at my mom’s for the first time in years (my mom and dad live around the corner from each other, so this isn’t as big a deal).      

At some point during the night, I allegedly got up and sleptwalked into my mom’s bedroom, the front room (fully clothed, thankfully).  When she asked me what I was doing, I chided her, saying, "I know what I’m doing! I know what I’m doing!"  She then watched me walk down the hall and try to get into the back room where Joe was sleeping.  But his door was locked.  So I went back into my room (the middle room) and laid down to sleep on the floor - with no pillow or blanket, two feet away from an empty and perfectly comfortable bed.  This is how I woke up.

So there’s that.

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

On Saturday night, a more formal event (read: jacket and tie, buffet dinner, and open bar) was held at the school itself.  Spouses were invited to come, but many, wisely, stayed away.  The event was for all reunion classes ending in 2 or 7, so there were five- and ten-year guys drinking and eating along with 35- and 50-year guys.  Strange.

But it was a nice night and opportunity to (try to) appear classy, have some fancier drinks and talk to old teachers and classmates.  Many more of my former classmates were at this function as opposed to the previous’ nights happy hour, but that didn’t stop those who were at the happy hour from dominating the conversations about how drunk we got and what sort of trouble we got in the night before.  Again, not much has changed. 

At one point during the night, my friend G (initial-only for reasons to become apparent) asked me if I wanted to step outside to smoke a joint with our buddy P.  I don’t think I’ve ever turned down such an invitation before and wasn’t about to then.  So G, P and I started walking out, toward a side entrance/exit of the school, for a nice evening doobie.

Our buddy T joined us and when we got outside, we realized that between the four of us…no one had a lighter (did I mention that our alma mater is one of the most academically rigorous high schools in the nation?).  Worst stoners ever.  T ran back inside to get a lighter while P kept on rolling the joint; I was the lookout, keeping an eye on the window in the door into the school, to make sure no one was going to walk out.

While I watched T jog back into the school, I also watched him get intercepted by Mr. Z.  Mr. Z is (or was when I was there) the head of admissions at the high school and he also plays an important role in alumni relations, going to all the events and such.  In many ways, he’s the face of the school; an affable, good-natured guy, perpetually smiling but not a pushover, who looks younger than he is.  Everybody likes Mr. Z and he likes everyone.

But boy, could Mr. Z walk fast.  He said something briefly to T and then continued at cheetah-like pace toward our exit.  I felt like I was 14 again and telling P to quickly finish up the circle jerk because his mom had just pulled into the driveway when I stammered, "Dude, stop - he’s coming. Z’s coming!"  P was putting the unfinished joint into his pocket when Mr. Z stuck his head out the door.

"Guys…you gotta know there are security cameras everywhere. [motions to cameras above us] You can’t be rolling the, uh, rolling the J’s [mimes puff-puff motion of smoking a joint] out here.  Just finish it up and come back inside.  Cool?"

Surprised and embarrassed, not only because Mr. Z had just caught us, at 28, trying to smoke a joint outside our old high school, but also flabbergasted by his puff-puff motion and belabored/awkward use of the phrase "rolling the J’s", we did not protest and walked back into the school with Mr. Z.  P broke any tension there might have been by saying as we walked inside, "Man, it’s a good thing I don’t go here anymore."  We all laughed.  But I couldn’t help thinking it would have been funnier if we were high.   

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

These are good snapshots of the reunion weekend.  Again, I dare not get into the private jokes, but I think you get the idea.  If you don’t, I’ll tell you that the function at the school ended with about thirty guys in my class sitting around a table stacked with bottles of beer that we hoarded before the bar closed, long after everyone else had left, betting on who could throw my buddy Pat’s jacket, which had been stolen during the night by our friend PJ and taped into a ball, into a trash can.  We left only when the valets came in tell us they were going home and were going to leave our car keys outside in the North Philly neighborhood.

The thirty of us then went to a bar and drank and smoked some more.  When the bar closed, fifteen of us got carry-out beers and sat in the middle of a courtyard in front of an office building on the Parkway, drinking until the beer ran out (shortly after 5am).  When that ended, we were planning on going to our friend J’s apartment, which he shares with his fiancée.  At the last minute this idea was abandoned; J had gotten so drunk the night before at the happy hour that his fiancée said to our buddy Ryan that if he were that drunk again, he shouldn’t come home.  Thus ended the night. 

The next day, I had another belly full of booze and diner food and a massive hangover.  But the runs and a monster headache were a small price to pay for the ultimate boys’ weekend.  I can deal with those consequences once every five or ten years.

vh at msg
Jason posted on November 14, 2007

I moved to NYC in July of 2001 and lived for a year in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn.  I typically consider this my "lost year" - I was way out in Brooklyn and didn’t know my way around Manhattan, was dating a girl who lived in Colorado and Australia (long story), and regularly worked 60-70 hours a week.  I still had some fun times, but this wasn’t my best year in NYC.  Not by a long shot.

After our lease was up, my roommates and I parted ways and I decided to live with my buddy Brian, who was looking to move into Manhattan like I was.  I found an apartment in the Lower East Side on Ludlow Street and Brian and I moved in, soon joined by a random roommate we picked up on Craigslist, a British girl named Clair (in a year, she’d be gone and replaced by my buddy Ben).  I had no idea that the LES was a "cool" area; I only knew the apartment was $1800 for three bedrooms in Manhattan.  Score. 

Moving changed my life dramatically - I learned a lot about the city; the girl and I soon parted ways and I was free to be lusty as I wanna be; and even though I still worked a lot, I could now walk home from work, as opposed to taking a rarely-running R train 45 minutes back to Bay Ridge.  Again, score.

Once Brian and I started living together in this LES apartment, we established a routine that has lasted to this day.  Every weekend, Brian and I spend at least five hours drinking together in (then) our or (now) my living room, pregaming and watching the most wonderful channel on cable television, VH1 Classic.  VH1 Classic is the perfect pregaming diversion: music that rocks and get you pumped up in videos that range from "hilarious" to "jaw-dropping" to "how did this ever seem cool?"

Though the beverages of choice (bud bombers, vodka crans, whiskey, PBRs, etc), the cast of characters joining us (Ben, Brendan, Jeremy, Nevin, Will, Rob, Chris, etc), and the locations (LES, UES, Chilita) have changed over the years, it’s always been Brian and I, and always VH1 Classic.  So it was only fitting that last night, as Brian’s time in NYC may soon be coming to a close, he and I, as well as our friends Brendan and Corinne, went to Madison Square Garden to see the closest thing to VH1 Classic live: a Van Halen concert.

And, wow.

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

We had been pumped for this concert for months.  The chance to see Van Halen with David Lee Roth, really the main characters on VH1 Classic, was enough to bonerize us for weeks (for yours truly, it was about seven weeks).  Though the show sold out very quickly, my wonderful, wonderful friend Jackie out in LA was able to procure four very good seats.  All that was left to do was make the necessary arrangements to make sure we had everything we needed to get nice and fucked up, and soon the concert was upon us.

Speaking of, before I go any further and describe the concert, a confession: I was very, very high.  Now at age 28, I’ve pretty much retired from all drugs except for pot and (my legally prescribed) xanax, and it seems like forever since I last got messed up on pot (aside from my high school reunion last month, of course).  My friends had made pot brownies and one of them had so much pot on him that night that we joked that if he were to get grabbed by the cops, he’d be hit with an intent to distribute charge.  All you need to know about my state at the concert is that by the end of the night, my friend no longer had any pot left on him - and all the brownies were gone.  I personally ate so many brownies that there was/is a lump of fudge in my colon no smaller than three pounds and I still had the urge to go to Rosario’s for pizza after the show, so bad were my munchies.  So, um, yeah. 

We found our seats at MSG and as you might expect, I had left and was walking back to them with a hot dog in one hand and a beer in the other when I heard Eddie start ripping into "You Really Got Me."  I started running back to my seat and actually dropped the hot dog - easily one of the five or ten saddest things to ever happen to me - but made it back before I missed much of the song.

I won’t get into a song by song analysis of the show, but I will say that I expected not so much from Van Halen.  We’re talking about three 50 year old men - one of whom relies on his voice, acrobatic movies, and sex appeal to win crowds over - and a chubby sixteen year old on bass and backing vocals.  I figured it’d be a fun and entertaining concert, but more in the "Look at that 40 year old mom showing her tits" kinda way, as opposed to "I’m rocking so hard my brain is coming out of my nose" way.

Further, something that must be addressed is that of all the posts I’ve written on this site, there are very few I’ve taken more flack for than the one in which I said I preferred Sammy Hagar to David Lee Roth.  This post, like many, was sarcastic and stemmed from a discussion the previous weekend about how Sammy’s my guy because we both are in love with love.  I don’t mean to backtrack here; I think Sammy has the distinct advantage in terms of songs, but nothing tops the anthems of David Lee Roth-era Van Halen.

And it took me about two minutes into the first song to realize that the music of DLR Van Halen (henceforth, Van Halen) is music made to be heard live.  This seems like an obvious conclusion to reach, but it must be stated.  After years of listening to Eddie’s screeching guitars on my headphones or on VH1 Classic, hearing him live was truly a revelation.  Not only is this band extremely loud (extremely, extremely loud), but what they perform is not so much music as it is force or energy or any of those physics-related terms.  I have never been to a concert in which the disparity between the band’s recordings and the band’s live music is so great; you can listen to every VH bootleg in the world (and my old roommate Brian nearly has), but there is no substitute for standing in an arena, being made nearly deaf by the volume of the music, being rocked so hard that you’re worried one of your testes is going to fall off and roll down your leg.

And rock they did.  I can’t believe I’m going to write this, but David Lee Roth was really impressive.  He’s rocking a new short hair look (which is much, much better than his combover days) and his moves are more than a little toned down, but I thought he sounded and moved great.  He was working both the crowd and the band, messing with Eddie and Wolfgang, telling the younger VH that if he keeps playing so well he’s definitely going to get some "New York City poontang."  To his credit, Wolfie played bass very well and some of the most entertaining (or at least, endearing) moments of the show came when Wolfie and his dad were playing facing each other; not only was it obvious that Eddie was thrilled to have his son in the band, but at one time during one of Eddie’s solos he reached over and smacked the strings on Wolfie’s bass and Wolfie reciprocated - lots of smiles and hugs between these two.  Alex was a rock and played an impressive drum solo that nearly had me hypnotized (thank you, pot brownies).   

Admittedly, Eddie Van Halen was not up there on my list of favorite guitarists - I’ve always preferred those in the Hendrix and Yardbirds/Bluebreakers schools, bluesy types who combine virtuosity with booze-fueled emotion.  EVH always struck me as at best, emotionless, and at worst, a guitar tech nerd (a genius guitar tech nerd, but a guitar tech nerd nonetheless).  But again, seeing him live…I’m at a loss for words.  I have never seen or heard anything like it.  Again, it could have been the drugs, but Eddie’s guitar playing was so beyond great, so beyond amazing, I can only describe it as incredible in the most literal sense of the word, as in "not believable."  I play guitar, and though I’m not great, I at least know about guitars, since I’ve spent a good portion of the past fifteen years learning about them.  And what Eddie was playing, and the sounds he was making, I mean, I’m not sure he was even playing guitar; it was more like a guitar crossed with a super computer crossed with the magic wand of Merlin.  One of the songs I wanted to hear was a guitar solo called "Cathedral" from the album "Diver Down," a minute and a half of sounds so foreign that they seem not of this earth.  Eddie did an extended guitar solo near the end of the concert and as part of it played "Cathedral" and the experience was so moving, so mystical, that I swear to God I started seeing ghosts; during "Cathedral" I turned to my left and there was Martin Luther King, Jr. sitting next to me, and he said, "There you go, brother. There you go."       

Another song I really wanted to hear was "Little Guitars," which, despite its lack of sweeping/crashing Van Halen chorus, is one of my favorites.  They played this and played it well, much to my delight.  Two other highlights were not as well known songs "Somebody Get Me A Doctor" and "So This Is Love"; the former I don’t think I’ve ever heard before but really got into and Wolfie’s bass playing on the latter was especially terrific.  

And then there were the hits: "Running With The Devil", "Beautiful Girls", "Dance The Night Away", "Everybody Wants Some", "Pretty Woman", "Unchained", "And The Cradle Will Rock…", "Hot For Teacher", "Jamie’s Crying", etc.  During these songs, the crowd, which was not quite the best, would rise to the occasion and the stadium would shake, middle-aged former Strip hangers, college-aged kids guzzling beers, and my friends and I, rocking in unison to the thunder riffs of Eddie Van Halen, following David Lee Roth as he paraded around the stage, shirt open, a showman in full glory, inciting the crowd to rock harder. 

During "Panama," the song I prefer to have playing while I make love, I looked at my friends and I was afraid - I actually thought their heads were going to explode, right then and there, right in the middle of Madison Square Garden, shooting brains everywhere.  Corinne was doing some form of the twist and Brendan had his devil horns in the air.  Brian had a look on his face of such contentment that it took me a moment before I realized when I had seen it before - March 3, 2004.  On that day, Brian won a bet with me and as a condition of the bet I had to buy him a pack of cigarettes.  He later told me it was the greatest day of his life. 

Score.

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

But the time the band ended with "Jump", we all were exhausted, feeling like we’d been beaten up or had just finished having sex.  Also, we were deaf; we went to a bar after the show for some beers and though music was playing at a very low level in the bar, we were basically shouting at each other while conversing.  After a short stop at Rosario’s with the gang I was home, soon in bed, hoping the room would stop spinning and the drugs would wear off, since I was pretty sure there’s no such thing as goblins.

The night and the concert was a great success: a group of friends rocking out, doing something they love.  Above all, it was memorable, a rare and unforgettable chance to see, live and in person, the characters that we’ve watched dance across the screen on VH1 Classic for so many years (we even ran into Eddie Trunk at the concert!).  Someday soon, Brian may leave NYC, and I may no longer feel the urge to watch VH1 Classic.  If these things happen they would be nearly catastrophic, but at least I’d be able to say we went out on a high note.

(Double pun entirely intended, possibly even supremely witty.)

 

the engagement ring dossier
Jason posted on November 9, 2007

Since I graduated high school ten years ago, I’ve noticed how the dilemmas, issues and questions in my life have changed over time.

High School
- I really need to get laid.
- Girls. Wow, are they uninterested in me. 
- I guess I should apply to some colleges. Or something. Whatever.
- So is my penis going to stay this size forever? How does that work? Is this all there is?
- God, I need to touch some boobies.

College
- This whole "not living with my family" thing could really work out. 
- So let me get this straight: If I’m drunk and a girl’s drunk, there is a greater chance we’re going to make out. This is big. 
- These Stacker 2’s make writing papers much, much easier. 
- I guess I should probably apply for some jobs. Or something. Whatever.
- Everyone experiments in college. And no one’s gonna deny John is a good-looking guy. Let it go. Not a big deal.

Post-College (The First Three Years, Ages 23-26) 
- This whole "having money and living in NYC and buying all the recreational drugs I want" thing could really work out. 
- My job sucks.  My roommates are pigs.
- Condoms. Wow, are they overrated.
- Should I really be spending $7 for a bottle of Bud Light, times 30, every weekend?
- Everyone experiments in their early 20’s. And no one’s gonna deny Mike, Steve and Bill are good-looking guys. Let it go. Not a big deal.
- Ted, however, is not very good-looking.
- Neither is Tom. 
- Or the other Steve.

Early Adulthood (The Pre-Thirty Years, Ages 27-29) 
- This whole "spending tens of thousands of dollars a year on rent" thing is really not working out. 
- While we’re at it, $500 a month on booze is unacceptable.
- Is my current job really where I want to be? Long-term, do I see myself at my company? 
- Seriously, I guess my penis is done growing, right? Can someone at least confirm this for me?
- I guess I should probably start trying to save money for a house. Or something. Whatever.
- Bro, you’re gay. Or at least bi. Just roll with it. Or just get engaged to the next girl you date and be done with it. 

It is that last issue that has most occupied my mind recently: engagement.

My friends are now getting engaged on at least a monthly basis, if not more frequently.  This is a typical feature of late-twenties life, and inherently, there is nothing wrong with it.  Love is magic and wonder, and it is only natural for two people in love to spend their lives together, because, you know, that’s what people do.  So I guess that’s kinda the opposite of "natural."  But as long as I get an open bar out of the deal, we cool.

And while I’m pretty far from getting engaged, seeing as my most intense and rewarding relationship was with a sausage and that ended eight years ago, I’m not bitter about all the engagement announcements that I’ve been receiving.  But there is one thing that particularly piques my interest in all these engagement stories: the purchase of the ring.

I’ve gone on record to say that I find no fault with the engagement ring as a tradition.  Yes, it’s a shame that poor people in Africa and South America work in horrible conditions and regularly die mining for those diamonds, but man, are they shiny. (The diamonds, not the people.) I’ve also gone on record to say that I have no problem paying or with other people paying a lot of money for an engagement ring.  There are few things in life that one should really splurge on, and an engagement ring is perfectly splurge-worthy.  It’s a symbol of love, it shows that your woman is now yours, it’s something that she’s going to show all her catty friends and family, and something she’ll wear every day for the rest of her life (or in my case, for about three and a half years).  I don’t think one should take out a second mortgage to buy the thing, but guys, don’t be afraid to spend a little.

(And yes, girls, I’m only saying to get in your pants.  While if you get engaged to me, your engagement party could double as a "farewell to orgasms" party, at least you’ll have a nice rock on your finger.) 

But what piques my interest in all the engagement stories is this: How does the man physically, actually go about buying an engagement ring for his (potential) bride to be? 

Historically, there have been two options:

1) He can purchase the ring with his lady.  This ranges from the guy and girl actually hitting up jewelry stores, looking at rings, and perhaps even buying one together, to the guy unslyly prying information from his lady about her ring size and such, asking questions like, "Hypothetically, would you prefer a princess cut or an emerald cut?"

2) He can purchase the ring without his lady.  The ranges from the guy asking his lady’s friends for hints and help about his lady’s tastes, to him boldly walking into a store, saying "Fuck it - I’ll take this one", and walking out with the ring.

Neither of these options are ideal.  While the first is good because it allows for the fiancée’s input - she should have some input, since she’s gonna be the one wearing it - it takes all of the surprise about being engaged.  Really, there are very few surprises in life (when your baby is born and you learn if it’s a girl or a boy or a halfie, when you get proposed to, when you girl/boy/halfie kid tells you it’s gay, etc), so why would you want to forsake one?   And how lame is it for a girl to know what her ring is going to look like, or for her to answer questions about rings from her man on a daily basis for two weeks only to be promised to a month later?  This is no fun.  No fun at all.

By contrast, the second option allows for the element of surprise, no doubt.  There’s nothing like you and your girlfriend, slogging along in your seemingly decades-old relationship, until one day she comes out of the shower and instead of finding you napping with a whiskey in your hand as she normally does, she finds your fat ass on bended knee with an engagement ring in your hand.  Wowza.  However, since you didn’t get any input from her about the ring, her surprise may give way to disgust when her rings looks like something you found on a beach somewhere or made with some broken glass and Elmer’s glue.     

So what gives?  Is it possible to combine both the element of surprise while still making an informed choice while purchasing a ring, guided by input from your fiancée?

There is.  Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you a third option, far superior to the other two: the Engagement Ring Dossier. 

The Engagement Ring Dossier (the ERD) is literally a dossier, created by your lady, filled with all the relevant information that a man needs to know when purchasing an engagement ring.  It can include all manner of materials; in addition to basics like ring size and preferred diamond cut, it can include pictures, diagrams, drawings, locations of preferred jewelers, do’s and don’ts, top ten lists, etc.  Nothing must be considered understood, and every last detail should be covered (for example, do not assume, ladies, that your man is not going to somehow sneak a Philadelphia Eagles logo on the underside of the ring band).  The ERD is supposed to be a self-contained unit, something a man with an IQ of 80 and the refinement of a bag of rusted springs can receive, digest, and take into a jewelry store to sit down with the jeweler to figure out the ideal ring.

You’re probably thinking, "Well, that doesn’t sound like there’s any surprise in that at all."  My response to that is: Well, if you shut the fuck up for like fifteen seconds, I’ll get to that part.

Just as important as the content of the ERD is the manner in which it is created and handled.  Obviously, if one were to ask for the ERD from his girlfriend and then propose two weeks later, all surprise is lost.  Instead, the ERD should be approached thusly:

- Figure out if you love the girl you’re dating.  If so, congrats.

- Figure out if you’re 80% or more sure you want to marry her.  If so, congrats again.  Two for two, bro.

- Pick a milestone: the next Valentine’s Day, her birthday, your anniversary, Christmas, the date you’re moving in together, etc.

- Six to eight weeks prior this milestone, say something like: "Honey, I love you.  And someday - not someday soon, but someday - I want to marry you.  Probably.  Anyway, I want it to be a surprise, so here’s what I think we should do.  In [six to eight] weeks, it’ll be [milestone].  Between now and then, I want you to collect some information for me about what kind of engagement ring you’d like.  Include everything and anything, the more thorough - while still being readable - the better.  Then, on [milestone], give me this dossier.  That way, when we think we’re ready for marriage and I’m ready to propose - which may be months or years, several years - I’ll know exactly what kind of ring you’d like without having to ask you about it and spoil the surprise."

- On the date of the milestone, receive the dossier from your lady.  Do it with her. 

- Upon receipt of the dossier, explain that you will spend two weeks reviewing the information alone, making sure everything is understood. 

- At the end of the two weeks, you and your lady should have a Q&A session, hammering out any unclear details.

- When this Q&A session is over, do it.

- Nice.

- Never mention the ERD again.  Hide it someplace safe and only bring it out when you’re going to buy a ring.

This is all pretty simple stuff, but I urge you to make one thing abundantly clear: make sure it is understood that you will not be proposing any time immediately after receiving the ERD.  Be sure to stress that a) you love her very much, but b) you’re not ready right now, and c) you want it to be a surprise, so d) this is the best solution, since you don’t want to be one of those couples that go shopping for rings, nor do you trust yourself with making such an important decision, especially regarding something that she’ll be wearing for the rest of her life.  As long as this is understood, things should go smoothly with the ERD.  Or she’ll bring up how much time you’ve spent on cumonmyglasses.com.  If she does, you should probably end all talk of engagement.  A good wife would never make you choose between her and women wearing glasses getting ejaculated upon.  I mean, for real.

************ 

While my experience in getting engaged is limited to getting high, eating ice cream, watching "Love Actually" and then spending two hours looking on the Tiffany’s website, I think the Engagement Ring Dossier represents the ideal solution to the dilemma of ring buying.  It maintains a high degree of surprise while allowing for maximum input from the future fiancée.  I’ve kicked this idea around to a few friends, men and women, and they all seem to think it’s a good idea too.  Of course, many of them also seem to think it’s a good idea to loan me money, but that’s neither here nor there.  When I’m ready to get engaged, I’m going with the ERD approach.  And I encourage you to do the same.

(Now, if I could only find a woman.  Preferably one who wears glasses and isn’t afraid of a little spooge.)

beej: an analysis of the psychology and physicality of the blowjob
Jason posted on November 7, 2007

[Below is the monthly email, which went out today.  Normally I won't post the monthly emails on here, but since this one was a long time coming, well, here we are.  If you want to get the monthly emails in the future, sign up on the right.  If you didn't get it, check your spam account (I mean, the whole thing is about blowjobs, for Christ's sake) or use a non-work email address.  If you like it, pass it on and convince others to sign up.  We're going to start an army.]

[And yes, I know the email is long, even by my standards.  But I stand by it.  Print it out and read it while you poop.  And don't pretend like you're too busy to read it at work anyway.]

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

Jean-Paul Sartre, famed French choreographer and bigot, once wrote that the purpose of gift-giving is to enslave the recipient. That is, to give a gift is to imbue the recipient with a sense of obligation to someday return the favor or otherwise respond in kind. In this way, there is no true sense of generosity; every perceived act of generosity is merely a ruse, an unconscious act of self-interest. We give gifts to others in order, ultimately, to get what we want.

Eight hundred years after Sartre wrote these words, the modern woman has applied this exact sentiment to the act of giving blowjobs.

*******

My father, before he stopped speaking with me over a disputed case of fireworks, taught me three things:

1) Life is short and difficult; cigarettes, they help.

2) Never get a tattoo from a Mexican man, no matter how well he sings (and he will sing well).

3) There is no such thing as a free blowjob.

At the time, I didn’t know what he was talking about. This is probably because I was five years old and didn’t know what a blowjob was. Also, growing up in a segregated Irish-Catholic neighborhood in South Philly, Mexicans were about as real to me as vampires. But as I grew older, I grew to understand and appreciate his advice. And nowhere did it ring as true as in his dire warning about blowjobs.

Subsequently, I have made it my life’s work to study both the psychology and the physiology (or better, physical nature or physicality) of fellatio. I knew from the first that this is the reason that I was put on earth. I will never forget the day I got my first blowjob. It was a Sunday – October 21, 2007. The story of my first is a long and involved one, but basically my buddy Site Guy Brendan and I were hanging around my apartment, each with a terrible hangover. Brendan looked at me and said, “Hey, what do you think about me giving you a beejer?” I said, “Sure, let’s do it.” I was then fellated. So I guess it’s not really that long of a story. Funny, it sounded much longer in my head. Whatever.

Since that fateful day, I have spent a substantial amount of time and effort – not to mention over $300 – researching blowjobs. In sooth, I did not know what I aimed to find when I started my research. But over the days and weeks, I allowed my findings to take me in different directions, to explore new angles, and to cause me to become addicted to masturbating with my knuckle in my ass. To say it has been a roller coaster would be an understatement of the grossest variety.

But now, because my funds are running low and my testes are no longer able to produce semen (instead emitting a shot of hot air from my urethra in lieu of ejaculate), I have decided that my research has come to an end and I am ready to share my findings with the world.

*******

Though it came as a surprise to me, I found quickly that it is common knowledge that a woman will only provide oral sex in offer to profit directly. This profit can take various forms, whether it is a general goal like bettering her position in the relationship, or something more tangible, like getting a new pair of earrings or a new doll or, I don’t know, whatever it is women want.

In the course of my research I interviewed numerous women, men and a half-man, half-horse. Though they came from various backgrounds, were of different ages, and had dissimilar occupations, the answer to this question – for females, "Why do you give oral sex?"; for males, "Why do you think women give oral sex?" – was nearly universally the same: to either manipulate or placate.

Because of this, I am able to surmise that, psychologically, blowjobs exist as a tool for advancement, a contrivance to level or otherwise alter the power dynamic in the relationship between the person giving the beejer and the person receiving it. Philosophically, each blowjob represents another deposit in the bank of karma that will be withdrawn at a later time. Pragmatically, it’s more akin to “Well, I’m drunk enough and if I suck him off now, I can probably go shopping with Linda tomorrow – so here goes nothing.”

Thus having dispensed with the psychology behind blowjobs, it is time to turn our attention to the physical aspect of beejers.

*******

Before I begin, please note that my findings do not take into account homosexual men who give blowjobs or the occasional straight guy who had a little too much to drink and wound up with his buddy’s penis in his mouth (even though we’ve all been there). My intention was to include these groups, but because of an unfortunate event involving a bisexual uncle and something I later learned is called a “gloryhole,” that idea was quickly abandoned.

I have divided women who give blowjobs into five groups based on their approach and execution of fellatio. I would be remiss if I didn’t first mention that there is a sixth group that differs so much from the other five that it must be treated and examined in an almost entirely separate discourse.

In my research I discovered, again to my surprise, that there are very few women who enjoy putting a man’s penis in their mouth, lolling it around, and bringing it to climax. However, such women do exist – though they may be more difficult to find than a black man who has read The Aeneid in the original. I have named this category of women, for classification purposes, Keepers. Keepers enjoy providing oral sex and will often do so at only the slightest suggestion (i.e. after two glasses of pinot grigio at your cousin’s high school graduation barbeque). While Keepers still may provide oral sex only to gain an advantage, the sheer frequency, volume and intensity of the blowjobs make any attempt at manipulation forgivable. Simply put, she works hard for her money. So you’d better treat her right.

And now, the five approaches of women who give blowjobs, with famous examples of each to help further understanding.

Category One: The Penisphobe
For you non-Classicists, phobos is the Greek word for "phobia" and penis is the English word for "penis." Literally, as the name implies, the Penisphobe is afraid of the penis.

The good news is that this fear is not so great that the Penisphobe will not give blowjobs. Rather - and this is the bad news - the fear of the Penisphobe manifests itself in inadequate oral sex sessions which eventually become so much trouble that it’s not even worth it; a whole evening at a John Mayer concert for a fifteen second hummer is hardly a fair trade. The blowjobs of the Penisphobe are often short and lack thoroughness and rarely result in the recipient’s climax, unless said recipient has spent all day getting riled up watching women’s volleyball.

The worst part of the penisphobia affliction is that the Penisphobe is often aware of and even celebrates her condition, constantly complaining to her friends and lovers how much she dislikes giving head for myriad reasons ranging from “You pee out of that thing” to “It’s just gross.” But again, this does not stop her from giving blowjobs completely. Thus, the Penisphobe approaches oral sex as one might approach paying taxes; unfortunately, she must do it, and do it with some frequency, lest her assets be seized.

There is no single, root cause for penisphobia, but studies suggest that there is a single cure. Fear is an innate emotion that is a direct response to a particular stimulus. The only way to conquer fear is repeated exposure to this stimulus. Therefore, if your partner suffers from penisphobia, you must encourage her to fellate you as often as possible. I have found that bribery often works (i.e. fellatio in exchange for watching “Grey’s Anatomy” as opposed to college basketball) as does verbal encouragement (i.e. “Man, you really know how to handle a bird” or “Holy crap – this feels better than Christmas” and the like). The Penisphobe can, with hard work, be cured.

Famous Examples of Penisphobes: Jennifer Lopez, Renee Zellweger, Jenna Bush, one of the two chicks in Abba

Category Two: The One Who Has Tunnel Vision in Matters of the Penis and Surrounding Area
What many women fail to realize is that there is so much more to the male genital region than just the penis. While the penis is undoubtedly the main attraction, in the act of fellatio the woman should also take into consideration the scrotum, the testes, and the grundle (called by numerous names – taint, chode/choda, gooch – this is the space between the scrotum and the heinie hole). Approaching a blowjob by focusing exclusively on the penis and neglecting these areas is like lighting fireworks with your toes. And yes, I realize that doesn’t make much sense, but I couldn’t come up with anything else.

What many women also fail to realize is that like lovemaking, oral sex requires foreplay. When giving blowjobs, women routinely forsake romance and maximizing pleasure of their man for the sake of efficiency. They adopt a “You’re lucky you’re even getting one in the first place” mentality, put the penis in their mouth, and try to wrap up the deed as quickly as possible. This is equal parts selfish and sad.

(Author’s Note: There is no need to point out the irony of this criticism coming from someone whose art of seduction goes: 1) Start kissing; 2) Count to 100; 3) Stick it in.)

This group (for our purposes, Tunnel Visioners) is the largest of the five groups. One of the reasons why so many women are Tunnel Visioners is that, like their cousins the Starlets (discussed below), they have no idea that they are giving an improper blowjob. In practice, the Tunnel Visioner can often bring a man to climax with frequency. Therefore, they consider themselves good at giving head. But there is a difference between “good” and “good enough”; the Tunnel Visioner is content with the latter while misbelieving she is the former.

A common and easily curable cause for Tunnel Vision is that the woman simply doesn’t know any better. That is, perhaps she was previously involved with a lover of less refined tastes whom she routinely brought to climax, and so she therefore never bothered to explore the Mysteries and Crevasses of the Male Genital Region. If this is the case, a simple suggestion may be all it takes to right the ship and steer a course to happy and successful blowjobs. Many women who suffer from Tunnel Vision go on to have successful blowjob careers and blow lots and lots of dudes – my ex-girlfriend Cheryl comes to mind. Maybe even three dudes in one night in Cancun (Cheryl, I’m looking in your direction). Maybe even two dudes on the plane ride back from Cancun (Cheryl, again…I’ll stop now).

On the other hand, another cause of Tunnel Vision is either laziness or disgust with the other parts of the male genital area. To combat this, I would suggest adopting a strategy similar to dealing with the Penisphobe: encouragement, encouragement, encouragement. Generally speaking, the best recourse to address problems in the bedroom with your partner is open dialogue. Therefore, saying something to the effect of, “You know, I really like the way you give blowjobs, but I’m wondering what it would feel like if you put both my balls in your mouth while wearing a ski mask” might work wonders for someone who is involved with a Tunnel Visioner. And if your partner resists such gentle suggestions because she finds the other areas of the male genital region disgusting, you can always point out to her that since she recently stopped going to the gym, having sex with her doggystyle is getting uncomfortably similar to fucking a peanut butter and jelly sandwich crushed between two watermelons.

Famous Examples of Tunnel Visioners: My ex-girlfriend Cheryl (whore), Salt, Michelle Pfeiffer, Paul Stanley of the rock group Kiss

Category Three: The Semenphobe
Semen, like the Amazon rainforest, MySpace, and Brooklyn Decker, is truly one of greatest miracles of God’s creation. In this sticky, faintly bleachy-smelling goo, we have the source of all life on earth. Yes, that glop that you stomp down the drain after a quick jerk when you’re showering at your parents’ house is responsible for nearly everything on the planet (give or take).

Unfortunately, there are a number of women who view semen not as the magic potion that it is, but rather as the scourge of existence – or at least, the scourge of sex. In part, I can understand this; the fear of pregnancy is on the minds of many women, including many of the women in my study (and the half-man, half-horse). But this fear is unfounded in terms of oral sex. Though I only went to medical school for one year, I do remember something about not being able to get pregnant by swallowing sperm. So as an expert on the subject, I can tell you, ladies, with 100% certainty that you have zero chance of getting pregnant by consuming ejaculate at the conclusion of a blowjob. So, cheers (or slainte or skol or salude or whatever you feel comfortable with).

The other reason for semenphobia is the “nastiness” of the semen. I admit, just as many of the man in the study admitted, that there is some truth to the view that semen is gross and a hassle. It doesn’t smell very nice, it’s gooey and clumpy, it stings when it gets in your eyes, and sometimes it gets stuck in your beard and you go to work and your co-worker’s like, “Mulgrew, what’s all over your beard, dude?” and you’re all like, “Um, uh, it’s, um, glaze…yeah, I had a donut this morning” and then he walks away and says “Jesus fucking Christ” under his breath. It can be a real pain to deal with.

But used and manipulated properly, semen can be a wonderful diversion in the bedroom. The cure for semenphobia, like the other fear-based techniques we’ve discussed, is exposure to the source of the fear. But note: this exposure should be taken slowly and in small increments, lest the damage to the Semenphobe be irreparable. It is not advisable to treat the Semenphobe with a “sink-or-swim” approach. Too much semen too quickly may result in you spending the rest of your relationship spooging on your sheets and/or floor. Treat the Semenphobe as you would someone who dislikes hot foods but are trying to turn on to Tabasco sauce – a little bit at first, for the thrill; a little bit more later, for the taste; and then finally a whole crapload, because it’s badass and it makes your eyes water.

(But of course we’re talking about semen, not hot sauce. Just wanted to make that clear.)

Famous Examples: Amy Winehouse, Francois Metterand, George Michael, Pepa

Category Four: The Starlet
Undoubtedly, drama is inherent in sex. This drama arises from the shared vulnerability at the very core of sex; two people, stripping themselves of both their clothes and their inhibitions, navigating together through the musty realm of lovemaking, towing the line between intimacy and vulgarity. Even the most seemingly meaningless sexual encounters are ripe with drama (i.e. “What’s his name again?” or “I hope she’s on the pill” or “This one time doesn’t make me gay, but the second one in the morning might”, etc.).

But this drama, based as it is in vulnerability, must be handled delicately. This is where the Starlet errs.

The Starlet approaches each blowjob as if she were starring in her very own pornographic movie. At face value this sounds wonderful (really, really wonderful), but the Starlet lacks the talent and tools to live up to the hype she’s creating while fellating.

The Starlet is about style, not substance. She doesn’t understand that all the moans, dirty talk, and other flashy elements do not a good blowjob make. Her frequent and unabashed use of words like “cock” and “cum” and, in my case, “I don’t know why I feel so drunk and tired,” are often employed to mask a mediocre blowjob.

The best blowjob I received in the course of my research came from a girl who didn’t say a word. She was a like a ninja of fellatio, stunning me with a rapid succession of moves and maneuvers, making me feel alternatively euphoric and frightened. And before I could even get my bearings, it was all over. I remember it starting, I remember feeling like I was dying, and then I remember laying in my bed, a tear in my eye and a bag of potato chips in my hand. At the other end of the spectrum, I received a blowjob from a woman who, immediately prior to commencing her penile assault, said, “Jason Mulgrew, get ready for the best blowjob of your life!” While it was not nearly the best blowjob of my life, it was certainly unforgettable; she treated my penis like a piece of chum. I will carry those teeth marks with me for some time. (In these examples, the former was a Keeper, the latter, a Starlet.)

Starlets are difficult to cure. Because they invest so much and take such pride in their drama, they are often highly sensitive to suggestions on how to improve their performance. There is nothing worse than a starlet with a shattered sense of self-confidence; say the wrong thing and you will be punished with a lifetime of reassuring her that yes, she’s doing a great job and yes, of course you like it when she starts speaking in that made up language that you guess is supposed to sound like French or turn you on or something.

The best way to cure a Starlet is to rise to the occasion and become a Starlet yourself. Suggest that you dabble in role-playing; you play the part of the guy getting head and she the part of the girl who just shuts up for two goddamn minutes and gives a decent blowjob for once. If you need something a little more subtle, maybe she can be the deaf-mute girl and you her sign language teacher. Or perhaps she can be a mime and you, I don’t know, a guy who likes to get blowjobs from mimes. The possibilities are only limited by your imagination.

Famous Examples: Jessica Alba, Sarah Silverman, Representative Barney Frank (D-MA), that girl who nearly bit my penis off.

Category Five: The Abstainer
This is the most confounding group of all. These women simply do not give blowjobs. They are not to be trifled with and, if the laws of your state allow, should be thrown into the nearest river or body of water.

This is all there is to say about Abstainers.

Famous Examples: Jennifer Love Hewitt. What a cold, cold bitch. That’s the last time I take her to a wedding.

*******

Sex, as in vaginal intercourse, is undoubtedly pleasurable, but its primary purpose is procreation. We have intercourse, basically speaking, to create. However, oral sex, because it cannot result in procreation, in its nascent and purest form is strictly about the giving and receiving of pleasure. Unfortunately, throughout the course of the centuries, due to the rise of the diamond trade, the existence of Prada bags, and the release of Complete Series of “Sex in the City” on DVD, the blowjob has degenerated from its venerable position as fun and fundamental part of sex to instrument for manipulation and advancement.

But all is not hopeless. The Prophet sayeth, “It is well to give when asked, but it is better to give when unasked.” Through positive reinforcement, sensitivity, and not a small amount of white wine and/or cosmopolitans, it is possible to affect a fundamental shift in the nature of the blowjob, both psychologically and physically. But this change will not come without action, a proactive approach to fellatio. And so I ask you, brothers and sisters, to act. There is no reason that men and women can not work together to maximize the pleasure of the blowjob for both parties, to get the blowjob back to its roots: something that is bestowed by a woman (or man) onto a man for the sake of pleasure, pure and simple.

dylan prime for dad’s birthday (foie gras butter as grundle button)
Jason posted on November 6, 2007

On Saturday night, my dad and brother came up from Philly to visit me here in NYC and the three of us had dinner at Dylan Prime. 

And – my god.  Holy crap.  Zoot alor.  However you want to say it, this place is fucking legit.  The food was so incredibly good it was almost uncomfortable, an experience bordering on "sensual" – three grown men, moaning after bites of food, throwing their heads back and smacking their hands on the table in stifled awe – an experience that should probably not be shared between a father and his two sons.  It was the culinary equivalent of getting a handjob in the same champagne room in which your dad is getting a lap dance in one corner and your brother has his wallet halfway into the dancer to your left.

The occasion for this dinner was my dad’s birthday.  In October, my dad turned 52.  My brother and sister and I asked him what he wanted for his birthday and he said new seat covers for his truck.  I could have probably guessed that one; every present I’ve gotten for my father since I was old enough to understand gift-giving has involved his car or truck, tools, or cigarettes (and recently, guns).  However, at 52, after all the cartons of Marlboro Reds, circular saws, and luxury car washes, he’s probably running out of ideas for gifts that represent manliness.  Next year, I’ll have to get him a picture of a man punching another man or a lion in the face, smoking a cigarette, and building a shelving unit.  Because I’m seriously running out of ideas too. 

Despite the new seat covers, I wanted to buy him a nice steak.  Once a month, my friend Nicole and I, rich young sexy well-read New Yorkers (one of us, at least), go out to a fancy dinner and drop $250 on steak and whiskey (for me) and non-steak and martinis (for her).  I was raving about one of these dinners when my dad, who grew up as one of ten kids in a po’ Irish Catholic family in a three bedroom rowhome in South Philly, said the first time he had filet mignon was on his honeymoon - and it blew his mind.  I may have cried a little after I heard that.  I also may have ripped up some $20 bills, just because I can.  Either way, since that conversation I’ve been trying to get my dad to come up to NYC for a nice steak, and his birthday provided a good excuse.

My brother tagged along as well, because I wanted to treat him to a celebratory dinner.  My brother Dennis is infuriatingly smart and was recently accepted to his first law school, a school so good it would probably have me shot if I came within one hundred yards of its campus (and I’m pretty fucking smart).  The good news is that in about five years I’m going to have a really sweet vacation home to crash at, so I’d better start being nice to him now.  The bad news is that ten years from now I’m going to have conversations like:

My kid: "Daddy, why does Uncle Dennis wake up before noon, shave every day, and not cry after dinner?"
Me: "YOU KEEP YOUR GODDAMN NOSE OUT OF MY BUSINESS!  Now go fix Daddy his bloody mary - his stories are coming on."

My dad and brother arrived from Philly around 4pm on Saturday and I started drinking right away.  My dad no longer drinks - let’s not ask about this, thanks - and my brother immediately took a nap on the couch.  But that didn’t stop me from having four calming pints of Dead Guy Ale, a delightful beer from Portland, Oregon with a nice kick (seriously, the Beer Room at the Whole Foods on the Bowery is changing the way I live my life).  We watched "Bad Santa" and by the time it was over, it was time to start primping and preening for the night.  And I was already feeling pretty drunk.  Off to Dylan Prime we went.

One of Dylan Prime’s advantages as a steakhouse threatened to be an obstacle for the dinner with my dad.  So far as I can tell, my father eats only four things: red meat, pizza, potatoes, and cheerios.  This is in no way an exaggeration and is a complete list of my dad’s diet; I have never seen him eat seafood, vegetables or even chicken (who the F doesn’t eat chicken?).  But what I like about Dylan Prime is its non-traditional sides.  For example, every steakhouse has potatoes, creamed spinach, etc.  While Dylan Prime has those items, it also has several unique sides like prosciutto and parmesan bread pudding; sweet corn, lump crab and avocado risotto; and lobster and white truffle mac and cheese.  While these sides are delicious - the corn, crab and avocado risotto might be one of three best things I’ve ever tasted in my life - I have a better chance of getting my dad to eat a baby arm than an avocado (at least the former is red meat). 

But much to my surprise and delight, my dad was rather flexible with his tastes on this particular evening, in large part because of the encouragement of me an