silver linings
Jason posted on January 30, 2008

Just when you’re feeling like you’re on the brink of a complete and total mental/emotional/psychological/physical/financial/genital breakdown…

- when your job is stressing you out so much that you’re contemplating changing careers into something more rewarding, like guy who gives people AIDS or someone who gets punched in the face for a living;

- when you’re too drained when you get home from work to do anything but lay on the couch, watch TV for an hour, masturbate to redtube during a commercial break, and then go to bed (also a pint of ice cream is usually involved in there somewhere, typically right before redtube);

- when you’re starting to realize that spending almost $50,000 in rent over two years because you want to tell everyone you live in a "two-bedroom apartment in Manhattan" was probably not the most financially sound decision;

- when you’re thinking of ways to commit some sort of insurance fraud because Uncle Sam is going to put such a hurting on you come tax time that the only way you’re going to be able to get out of it is a) fake your own death or b) become a full-time fugitive, working as a carpenter somewhere in the Dakotas;  

- when any creativity that you may have once had in your body has been replaced by something that has the texture of warm vanilla fudge but is a sickly gray color and smells like a cross between a garbage fire and post-run balls covered in hollandaise sauce;

- when you realize you may have finally gotten all you can out of the five main jokes you’ve been beating to death for 28 years (I’m fat; My bird is small; I like to drink and be dumb; Women don’t like me; Seriously, my bird is small);   

- when it’s clearer and clearer that NYC just may be beating you;

- when you wake up at 5am stressing about this things for the third consecutive morning and can’t fall back to sleep so you lay in bed choking on the stifling dry heat in your apartment until you decide to get up and do the one thing you’re still and will always be good at: pooping;

- when you’re late for work because it appears that your toilet may explode and spew Chinese people’s feces all over your bathroom and kitchen for the seventh time in five months and you must sit and watch and flush the toilet to "calm it down" so it doesn’t do this;

- when you walk to work and get caught in a rain and wind storm that comes seemingly out of nowhere, directly from God directly to you because He knows you’re miserable and still a good ten minute walk away from the office so hey, fuck you;  

- when the only thing you have to look forward to this weekend is one of your asshole groups of friends - the insufferable New Jersey morons or the can’t read/don’t care Massholes being heartbroken and possibly shutting the fuck up about their teams for four consecutive minutes, while you would honestly cut ten years off your life for an Eagles or Phillies championship, even though that means you would have died six years ago;

…

[deep breath]

…

you go and get an email like this

I had an adult-themed dream about you a few nights ago. 

Here’s what happened:  My friend links to your site. I started reading it a few weeks ago and was devouring it, it’s hilarious - I’ve been on "jasonmulgrew.com" overdrive. I was really hooked after the entry when you two’ed in your pants at a Christmas party.

The dream started out in a bar. I was getting drinks with another friend, he abruptly got up from the table and left. Then, this large-esque man fainted/collapsed onto my table and the table flipped over. The man was, in my mind, the visualization of your friend/former roommate Brian. 

You came running out of nowhere screaming "we have to help! we have to help!" I started performing CPR on Brian, while you called 911 from the bar.  We ended up in a hospital in Astoria, Queens. Turns out Brian’s appendix burst or something along those lines. 

As dreams do, out of nowhere, we were outside of your apartment building, and you were asking me upstairs. You said, "Lauren, under no circumstances are we to have sex." We made out, things got trampy, and we did it. So, thanks.  

I hope this doesn’t creep you out, but it’s a pretty PG recap of only the SECOND X-rated dream I’ve ever had.

and it totally makes your day.

(Thank you, Lauren in NYC, and thank you too, everyone else who emails.)

dreams, cheese in asia, echo, cash flow problems, la fever, music
Jason posted on January 25, 2008

A few nights ago, I had such an incredibly explicit sex dream about a girl I did it with a few years ago that when I got into work the next day, I had to fight to resist the urge to send her flowers.  The dream itself was awesome.  I won’t get into details, because any details that involve me navigating semi-nude through the musty realm of lovemaking should never be gotten into.  Although, oops.  I just re-read that sentence and it’s already too much detail.  Sorry. 

Back when I was having trouble sleeping, I used to have extremely vivid dreams all the time that would fall into one of two camps: totally pee-your-pants scary nightmares or totally bonerizing incredibly real sex dreams (sadly, they never overlapped; i.e. I never dreamed of fucking a werewolf).  This was at the peak of my hypochondria and when I was in therapy a few years back, and I suppose they derived from some sort of subconscious stress, but any way you cut it, these dreams have since subsided.  The nightmares, I could live without; I used to wake up yelling or fighting and several times woke up to find myself ready to swing a pipe (that I keep under my bed) at something I thought was standing in my bedroom.  So, not cool.  Not too cool at all.      

But the sex dreams…goodness gracious, do I miss them.  I would wake up after having had one, lying in bed in that semi-conscious state, and be convinced that I had just had sex. (Author’s Note: These were not wet dreams; I’ve unfortunately never had a wet dream, since I discovered masturbating before my testes were even fully developed and since then have kept them on overdrive producing sperm for me to shoot into dirty boxers and/or paper towels, so I’ve sadly never developed the necessary reservoir of semen for a wet dream.)  And the best part about these dreams was that more than half the time they would not involve former lovers, for which there was obvious precedent for fantasy fodder, but attractive women I had never even seen before.  You really can’t get any better than that.

(Well, I guess you can, namely real, undreamed sex with attractive women.  Unfortunately, that is not a viable option for me at the moment.  So I gotta work with what I got.)

If we were in the same city right now, I have no doubt the lady I dreamed about would be the recipient of several drunken text messages (which she may get this weekend anyway, regardless of distance).  Instead, it’s back to my new/old friend: redtube.  Man.  I can’t express what a tremendous asset to my life this site has been. It doesn’t get old.  It just doesn’t get old.    

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

A number of you chimed in on the “is there any cheese in Asia food or what?” issue.  Responses were divided into three parts:   

- I forgot to include the cream cheese in some sushi rolls.  Guilty.  I don’t eat much sushi, so there.  But like the cream cheese in crab rangoons, I’m not counting this. (Angie in San Antonio was first to point this out.)

- There is cheese in Indian food, specifically paneer.  Ok, this I may be willing to concede, because I’ve eaten paneer before and it’s definitely cheese.  However, India is the great sub-continent, so it’s not exactly the type of Asian country I was talking about; I was looking for China, Japan, Korea, Thailand, etc. (Lydia in Seattle called me out on the paneer before anyone else).

- Finally, while many pointed out that many Asians are lactose intolerant, Melissa from the Bay Area actually provided a reason for this, explaining that cows were not domesticated in Asia as they were in Europe, the Middle East and parts of Africa.  No domesticated cows, no milk, no cheese, and lactose intolerance.  There you go.

That argument holds some water, but the problem is that many foods make cross-cultural leaps, and cheese has not only been a part of but a staple in the European (and later American) diet for hundreds and hundreds of years.  As an American, I typically don’t go 40 minutes without eating something with cheese in it, and I know I’m not alone (Michael Moore, I’m looking in your direction).  So the question is almost how has cheese, which has been so prevalent in so many parts of the world for so long, not been introduced to the Asia?  I understand that because of the cows cheese is not indigenous to Asia, but is sushi indigenous to America?  Are French fries/chips/pommes frites indigenous to America/the UK/um, Belgium, I think?  And though I only went to med school for one year, I think that a slow introduction of cheese in small doses would reduce the number of lactose intolerant Asians.     

But the bottom line remains the same: except for the presence of cheese in Indian paneer and a schtikl of cream cheese in sushi and crab rangoons, there is no (significant) cheese to speak of in Asian food.

And my god, that sucks for them. 

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

This is just about the saddest commercial ever.

[youtube]_ODC5e3AEa8[/youtube]

Seriously, it’s just not even cool.  After seeing this, there’s a 50/50 chance that this weekend I’ll get drunk, adopt a dog and name him Echo.  Jesus.  I want to call the Pedigree people and donate just so they stop showing this damn commercial - I’ll get tired of getting misty-eyed during reruns of SVU.    

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

This writer’s strike is really fucking me up.  Big time.  I’m accustomed to a certain lifestyle and doing marketing/pr/advertising for a law firm is not enough to support this de-luxe lifestyle. 
And then there’s this.  And also this.  

I really picked a bad time to get into sitcom writing.  Whoops.

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

This week, Tuesday morning, 2:48am, my fever was 103.1.  Why is it that I get sick every time I come to LA?  Oh, that’s right – I wake up at 5:20am every morning, stuff myself with egregious amounts of caffeine to get through the day, eat only burgers and fried food for every meal, move only to and from my rental car, live out of a suitcase, and get more bombed than usual because I have nothing to say to people in bars because I’m too ugly/out of shape/much of a fan of reading and I have no idea what to talk to them about (“So…do you girls like crushing jagerbombs too, or is that just a guy thing?”).  Yeah.  That’s probably why I get sick every time I come out here.

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

Six Songs

“Angels of Destruction”  Marah
I can’t say enough about Marah – or even anything about Marah that hasn’t already been said.  They are treeeeeeemendous, arguably to some and easily to others the best rock and fucking roll band working today (I’m in the latter camp).  I admit, I can’t speak to the new album with too much authority, since I only downloaded it this week, but this song makes me alternatively boisterously happy and exuberantly proud that these guys are from Philly.  It’s catchy without losing its edge and its lyrics are rock f’ing poetry, especially little throw-away lines like “I love you so much, now let’s get something to eat” and “Go ‘round the corner/And get your pop a bottle of beer.”  This song is perfect.  That’s it.  It’s perfect.  And I’m thrilled that I now have a song to start off every “Let’s Drink” playlist that I’ve ever created or will create. 

I like a lot of modern music and a lot of things about modern music, but to me, there are two artists that are head and shoulders above the rest in terms of making music that matters: Marah and Joseph Arthur.  I know “making music that matters” is a nebulous or even hippyish catchphrase and I don’t even know if I can properly explain what I mean, but as I put down my bong I’ll tell you that these guys are making art; they take their music seriously, they know how to best apply their talents, and their end results are often, for lack of a better word, profound.  You would do yourself a great service to get very familiar with both Marah and JA if you aren’t already.  Word.     

“Made In the Dark”  Hot Chip
This week’s entrant to the “Sad As Fuck” playlist.  The only way I can describe it is that the whole thing sounds lonely, a piano chased by a slightly reverby guitar over the singer’s thin voice (it sounds like he either just finished crying before singing is about to start just after the song is over).  He honestly could have been singing either about how rainbows are awesome or about how my mom is a slut and the only thing I would have noticed is how sad the song sounds.    

(The album ain’t out yet, but you can find the song via Limewire.)       

“Grace Kelly”  Mika
My friend Nicole, bless her heart, is not exactly my go-to for new music.  It’s not that she has particularly bad taste in music, but to give you an idea, I think it’s fair to say that the Justin Timberlake concert was one of her top five highlights of 2007.  Nicole’s been telling me about Mika for months, about how I’d love his music because it’s “really gay and fun” and I’ve dismissed any and all Mika until about ten days ago.  And I have to hand it to Nicole – she’s totally right.  This is one of the gayest and most fun songs I’ve heard in a long time (I mean, it’s called “Grace Kelly” for Christ’s sake).  Everyone compares this guy to Freddie Mercury, but I’d have to see him in a wife beater and a ‘stache before I give my final ruling, but this song sounds like something Freddie would make if the rest of the guys in Queen were away on vacation.        

“Chicken Payback”  A Band of Bees
I have no idea if this was written in 1965 or 2008.  Absolutely no clue. 

“In Quintessence”  Squeeze
One of my top five favorite bands and I don’t pimp them out nearly enough on here.  The album “East Side Story” is chock full of British pop-rock three minute goodies, but this one gets the nod here, if only for the “you won’t catch it unless you listen to it and then it’s fairly obvious” masturbation reference  (“In the corner with his book and tissue/All he can do is pretend to miss you/Closes his eyes as he sees her body/Pulls funny faces and that’s his hobby”).  Sweet.  He’s talking about jerking off.  Hilarious, but sophisticated at the same time.

“Oxford Comma”  Vampire Weekend
This is, without a doubt, one of the worst band names I’ve ever heard.  Seriously.  I don’t even like to say it, because when I do, I feel like I should move back to the Lower East Side, start growing my beard out, become a graphic designer, wear sunglasses at night, shop at vintage stores, smoke long cigarettes, wear a top hat, and be a total pussy.  If I were to ask someone what band they’re into at the moment and they were to say, “Vampire Weekend,” I’d have to consider punching them in the head immediately.  “Vampire Weekend.”  Fucking terrible.  Christ.
But the good news: they don’t really look like hipsters, but rather just a bunch of nerds.  So that makes me feel better about their name.  More good news: their songs are wonderful, fun and perhaps even a little retarded.  I think this one is the most unique, but I grabbed a bunch of their stuff was there wasn’t a bad one in the bunch (“Walcott” is an interesting one about escaping Cape Cod).  I would add “dancey” into the description as well, so if you’re keeping score at home, that’s “dancey, wonderful, fun and perhaps even a little retarded,” which should be more than enough to warrant a listen.     

[Have a good weekend.] 

stuff learned while flying, pain, chinese cheese, unfun, bets, music
Jason posted on January 18, 2008

Last night, I flew from NYC to LA and I’m happy to report: no Hot Whopper.  The flight was uneventful and even enjoyable (exit row – jackpot!), but as the plane started descending, I got very anxious.  I had taken my Afrin, which I clutched in my right hand, along with some painkillers and a bottle of water, so I was ready.  But by sipping the water and breathing slowly and in a controlled fashioned, I was able to avoid the Whopper.  Hallelujah.   

(Also, during the flight on my laptop I watched “The Godfather” for the first time.  Um, pretty good movie.)

In a related story, while drinking cans of MGD on the plane for $5, and I realized something: MGD tastes like my childhood.  I don’t really know what that means.  I think it’s more appropriate to say that MGD smells like my childhood, since my dad and almost all of my adult relatives drank MGD when I was growing up (the exception being my Uncle Eddie, who drank Bud).  But from that first sip, I was struck with nostalgia.  What’s even more strange is that for one summer, the summer of 2000, my roommates and I went to Kinvara on Harvard Ave in Boston every week for $1.50 MGD’s and got absolutely shitcanned and every other visit would get in some sort of fight.  But when I had the first MGD I’d had in years last night, I thought not of these more recent times, but back to when I was six years old.  A lullaby, a birthday candle, the Peanuts Christmas special – these are things that may remind most people of their childhood.  Not me.  MGD.  Now you know why I have so much trouble [insert psychological/emotional/genital deficiency here].     

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

Work right now: Wow. Ouch. Woof. Yikes. Mercy. Lordy. Yowza.

[That’s all I have to say about that at this juncture.]  

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

Don’t mean to be Seinfeldian here, but I mentioned this the other day to a friend and his mind was so blown he had to leave town for a while: Have you noticed the complete lack of cheese of any kind in Asian food?  I mean, Chinese, Thai, Japanese, Korean, all other Asia countries – no cheese.  None of them.  I had further discussions with some buddies and the closest to “cheese” we could find in Asian food was the cream cheese in crab rangoons, but I’ve personally only had them in Boston, so I don’t feel comfortable saying they’re the exception.  If you’re aware of any Asian dishes with cheese in them, please let me know.  I don’t know if I’ll be able to sleep until I get to the bottom of this.    

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

Seriously, work.  Enough.  Not cool.    

[And that’s really all I have to say about that at this juncture.]  

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

Bets (Formerly Six, Then Four, Now Two)

After an impressive weekend last weekend in which I went 0-4, I had three different buddies call me and ask me for picks, so they could know how to bet (i.e. by going against me).  Whatever.  We all fall down sometimes.

San Diego (+14) over NEW ENGLAND
Look, the Pats have gone 2-7 against the spread in their last nine games (covering only against the Bills, who they beat 56-10 in mid-November, and the Steelers, who they beat 34-13 because that Pitt safety guaranteed a victory).  San Diego is ready to party and though I think the Pats will win, I’ll take the 14 points. 

GREEN BAY (-7) over New York Giants
Eli at Lambeau in negative degree weather just doesn’t sound good.  I still don’t think these Packers are great, but I think the Pack can cover the seven.  

Last week record: 0-4
Playoff record: 3-5

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

Six Songs

“Mystery Achievement”  The Pretenders
I’m warning you right now: If Jenny Lewis were to cover this song, I would never get an erection again.  Not ever.  It would simply be too much overstimulation for my penis and he’d say, “You know what? I’m done. That’s about all there is.”  I guess what I’m trying to say is that this is a very hot, driving rock song that also made me pick up my bass guitar for the first time in about a year and a half.  And again, if Jenny Lewis were to sing this, I would seriously flip the F out.   

(Seriously, think of her singing this song.  Wow.  Erectionless.  Rest of my life.  Word.)

“Where Did I Go Wrong With You”  Martin Sexton
This is a really sad song and was an immediate addition to the “Sad As Fuck” playlist, but it doesn’t really apply to my life, since I can pretty much pinpoint where I went wrong with every relationship I’ve had with a woman since puberty.  There are only five main choices, really:

- Smothered the Crap Out of Her Because I Was Bored or Rich or Women Like That, Right?
- Don’t Really Care About Anyone But Myself and/or Finding the Perfect Crab Cake 
- Completely Lost All Interest (also see: Got Tired and Needed a Nap)
- Seriously, At This Point I’m More Likely To Marry a Sausage Than a Woman
- All of the above

[Note: This only applies to situations in which I instigated the end of the relationship, not when girls dump me, which has only one explanation: “Oh My God, I’m Kinda Dating Jason Mulgrew. Wow.”]

Still, this mother fucker can sing.  And sadly, too.  I don’t really like to do this, because I don’t want to get your hopes up too much or make you disregard the rest of the song, but the thirty seconds from the three minute mark to about 3:30 just may be the smoothest section of a song that I’ve heard in a long time.  It’s not quite Jeff Buckley’s Nerudian soul-explosion/mind-cry in that section of “Lover You Should Have Come Over” (the “My kingdom for a kiss upon her shoulder” part), but it’s close.

[Sidetracking here, but ladies, if a guy wrote, “All my riches for her smile when I slept so soft against her” and “All my blood for the sweetness of her laughter” about you, you pretty much have to sleep with him, right?  I mean, even if he had nubs instead of arms?  I feel like I need to be a Big Brother to a kid so I can give him the heads up about this stuff.  Also, so that he could be my alibi:

Chris Hansen: “And what are you doing meeting a 13 year old girl, Jason?”

Me: “I’m a Big Brother, and my Son, Frances, is friends with the girl.”

Chris Hansen: “Ok, but can you explain why you’re naked except for a sandwich board that says ‘Free Snake Rides’ but the word ‘Penis’ is before ‘Snake’ and is crossed out?”

Me: “Um, I borrowed it from a friend who gives penis rides?”

Chris Hansen: “And is that a footnote that says, ‘If the snake falls asleep it’s because he is tired and you must dance to wake him up but please sway, like real slow-like?’”

Me: “Hey man, it happens to a lot of guys.”]

“Sitting”  Cat Stevens
When Cat’s angry, bro, you don’t want to fuck with him.  I have no idea what he’s so mad about in this song, but it’s probably me.  Whatever.  I’m over it.    

“In My Room”  Beach Boys
I always forget about this Beach Boys song, and then I’ll be driving around (in Philly or LA) and it will come on the oldies station and I’ll say to myself, “Man, I forgot how awesome this one is.”  That’s it.  That’s the whole point of the story.  Sorry.  

“California Girls”  Magnetic Fields
I just downloaded the new album last night, so I can’t speak to it with any great authority, but any song that features a line “They breathe coke/And they have affairs/With each passing rock star,” well, I’m buying.  I also like the line, “They come off like squares/Then get off like squirrels” because California girls really are multiply-orgasmic.  Not that I’d know personally; the closest I’ve come to a girl I’m with having multiple orgasms was when one of my ex-girlfriends thought she had an orgasm but wasn’t sure, and then eight months later she sneezed, but said it was a “really good one.”  So that’s kinda like multiple orgasms. 

“Hold On Tight”  ELO
The song from the car commercial.  I was pretty shocked this was ELO, since I thought for sure it was some hipster band.  Way off.  And kinda sad too, since I thought I was going to get all into the new band that did this song, since if I were in a band, we would write songs exactly like this one.  We’d also have both guys and girls in the band and we’d be compared to a cross between Fleetwood Mac, Sly and the Family Stone and, well, Electric Light Orchestra.  Interested parties should inquire within. 

[Have a good weekend]

diets, drinking and doors
Jason posted on January 16, 2008

Last week, I started a pretty strict diet.  Every day, save for the night I had steak with my dad, I ate the same thing: bowl of cereal for breakfast, bowl of cereal for lunch, chicken sausage and yogurt for dinner.  That’s it.  Well, and some vitamins and two liters of water per day.  Compare this to what I usually eat, which would be something like:

Breakfast: On a good day, a donut or bagel; on a bad day, half a baby

Lunch: On a good day, a salad - but even that’s filled with croutons, bacon bits and chick peas and slathered with Russian dressing.  A bad day would be something with meat, cheese, bread and either mayo or honey mustard.  And the other half of the baby. 

Dinner: Good day - two words: Burger King.  Bad day - one word: Baconator (which, by the way, is something that commands respect). 

So needless to say, it’s quite a shock to the body, going from 3500 calories per day to less than 1400.  Throw in daily visits to the gym - and not the easy kind, where I’m lounging around smoking cigarettes in the locker room, taking it all in - and it’s a small wonder that my body just doesn’t fail sometime in mid-week.  Maybe it will eventually.  Let’s keep our fingers crossed.  That it doesn’t happen, I mean. 

However, the diet doesn’t apply to drinking and restrictions are generally loosened on the weekends.  By that I mean I can drink as much as I want, and instead of getting two slices of pizza and a chicken roll late night, I’ll get one slice of pizza and a chicken roll late night.  That, I can handle. 

On Friday night, I had planned to have friends in town visiting me, a married couple from Philly, Jimmy and Danielle, but they decided to come up on Saturday morning instead.  I looked at this at the perfect opportunity to relax in my apartment, have a few drinks, and get things done.  Because that’s what I do: take care of business.  And drink.  And really, very little else.

I fixed myself a standard vodka red bull to start the night, which went down smooth.  Then I had a vodka cran for inspiration, to get things going, and for my kidneys.  Then I switched to the beer and soon it was a full-blown one man party.  It was about 10pm now and just as I was feeling an itch to get out (remember, the bars are open until 4am in NYC), the texts started coming and going.  I had some buddies on the Upper East, in Gramercy and in the East Village, and my buddy Pat had some friends visiting town from Chicago.  Ultimately, I decided to meet up with these guys in the West Village.

I was feeling pretty good and loose at this point, but it wasn’t until I arrived at the bar, the truly terrible Automatic Slims, that things started to slip.  I beat Pat and the guys there, so as I stood awkwardly at the crowded bar by myself, I ordered a Bud and a shot of Jameson.  For the record, I have never in my life ordered this combo.  I don’t drink Jameson.  I actually quite dislike it.  But I remember doing my guest bartending gig over Thanksgiving and watching two patrons - one a guy my age, the other an older guy - order a shot of Jameson with each beer and I thought it was pretty badass.  So set me up. 

Though the bar was douchy, the bartender, bless his heart, poured me a "shot" of Jameson in a glass the size of a fist with a shot that was easily 6oz, a solid two mouthfuls.  I like bourbon, but I prefer it on ice, and if I drink it warm, it’s usually in a Manhattan and usually being sipped.  Drinking a room temperature giant shot of whiskey pulled straight off the speedrack was something that I wasn’t particularly ready for.  I threw back the shot and the warm whiskey - which I did have to swallow in two gulps – nearly sent me into paroxysms of vomiting right there at the bar.  For a decent three minutes, I stood at the bar, trying to act casual but choking back puke, wiping my watery eyes, and rapidly taking repeated sips of my beer to get over that dreaded "something is rising from my belly into my throat and soon it’s going to cause a big scene" feeling. 

But Pat did eventually show up, along with some other friends.  And we drank.  More than a little.  And quietly, secretly, I was getting very, very drunk.  I often don’t really show my drunkenness.  I can’t tell you why this is, but I’m not the fall-down-type drunk; my only inclinations when bombed are to a) make out; b) eat; c) stand there quietly; and d) all of the above.  I’m much louder and boisterous on the journey to Intoxication than when I finally arrive; once I finally get there, I like to relax. 

But this night was different than most because I had thought that I didn’t really drink that much.  I mean, I drank a lot, but it wasn’t like I was doing jagerbombs all night or having some sort of pint drinking competition.  In short order, I was really f’ing bombed.  I’m not a doctor, but I think one has a higher tolerance with a fuller stomach.  Like I said, I’m used to eating a ton of food on Friday (and every day of the week, for that matter) before getting drunk on Friday night.  Instead, I had almost starved myself this week, so it was like every drink counted as two.  And before I realized any of this, I was already totally in the bag.  Whoops.    

We stayed out until the bars closed, and after last call I remember grabbing two slices of pizza with the guys (and paying Pat $200 he’d been hounding me for all night, money that I lost on a bet to him).  I remember going home, eating, and going to bed.  That’s about it.  Not much brain activity for ol’ Uncle Jason after about 2am.    

The next morning, my alarm woke me up - I had set it for 11am to welcome Jimmy and Danielle, who I learned had not left Philly yet - with a tremendously bad hangover.  Before I even left bed, I sent my obligatory "Wow" text message to the guys I was out with the previous night and set about determining when and whether I’d be able to get out of bed.  Wallowing in my hangover was tempting, but I soon had to get up to pee (and also take some much needed aspirin).  When I walked out of my bedroom, I saw it.

The door to my apartment was open. 

I’m not talking “open” as in “slightly ajar” or “unlocked,” but rather wide the fuck open, three or so feet of open space between the door jamb and where the door hung at a sixty degree angle inward inside my apartment.

As I said, I was dangerously hungover, so my wits weren’t quite as sharp as they normally are, though I could see there was no sign of forced entry.  I looked into my living room to assess the situation and saw that it looked very much like it had when I left it the previous night.  I took stock: my laptop was sitting in plain sight on the coffee table, my guitars were still hanging in my office room, my big screen plasma – which is maybe two feet from the apartment door – was still there.  So it didn’t appear that I was robbed.  I then went into the bathroom and checked my heinie and I hadn’t been R’ed.  Whew. 

But still, this…this was bad.  A few weeks ago, I passed out sitting on my bathroom floor with my shower running, which was not quite among the highlights of my life.  But passing out with my apartment door open is, in my opinion, much worse.  I’m actually a pretty bad mother fucker (in case I haven’t mentioned this before), so I wasn’t concerned with being physically harmed.  The door to my building is always closed and locked so no outsiders could have entered the building, and the only people that live in my building besides me is a girl my age who lives next door, a 80 year old Italian woman who lives with her 50 year old son upstairs, and about 1200 Chinese people in the other five apartments whose average weight is about 104 pounds (and that’s the men).    

However, I was stone drunk and passed out and my 42’ plasma TV was two feet away from my open apartment door for over five hours.  My laptop, which not only contains my life but about fifteen hours of porn scattered over 300 clips, was in plain view.  A few grand in instruments hung in a room, whose door was also open, eight feet from the open apartment door.  All of this could have been removed from my apartment in seconds and without a sound.  On top of that – this is going to sound terribly racist, probably because it is – my friends and I have a joke that anything left in the large landing outside my apartment door is immediately confiscated by (I presume) my Chinese neighbors and either used as is, fixed, or turned into devices for cooking fish, frogs, and vegetables that don’t look like normal vegetables but like things grown on strange planets and/or taken from coral reefs.  For example, my fridge broke, so I moved it to the landing.  The next day, it was gone.  Same with my couch (although that wasn’t broken; I had just gotten new furniture).  My old neighbor put broken speakers on this landing, and they were gone almost immediately.  I’m pretty sure I could put a crate filled with empty shampoo bottles and popsicle sticks on that landing, and it would be used to cook up this mother fucker in under three hours. 

But by the grace of God, and maybe because I’m the asshole and they’re actually good people, I was not robbed of my possessions by Chinese neighbors.  I had gotten very drunk, passed out with my door wide open and nothing had happened to me, my stuff or my butt.  Whew.    

Of course, I did not remember leaving the door open, but wondered how it could happen.  I wasn’t so drunk that I passed out with my shoes on and my contacts in; I came home and ate pizza and took my aspirin and got ready for bed, all activities that would have me walking past my apartment door.  Not only that, I had picked up laundry that day after work and somehow managed to put sheets on my bed when I came home drunk.  That’s right, I essentially made my bed while bombed but somehow forgot to close the door to my apartment, which, I must stress, is maybe sixteen inches from my bedroom door.  For this, I have no explanation.

(Also, who am I?  I’m almost 29 and I’m passing out with my door open?  This would be ok in college, but not at my age – every time I’ve told this story, I haven’t gotten any “Dude, that’s awesome!” comments, but rather, “Man, that’s not right.”  Jesus.)

But I do have blame: the lack of food in my belly.  Had I been properly caloried, I would not have gotten so drunk and not have left my apartment door open (not to mention wouldn’t have had as bad a hangover).  So therefore, in the interest of my health and personal safety, I must amend my diet: I need to consume at least 3000 calories on any day I go drinking.  Losing weight is important, but ensuring that my stuff isn’t robbed in my drunken slumber is much, much more important.  Bikini season be damned.   

‘nother res, afrin danger, vote, h is o, bets, music
Jason posted on January 11, 2008

One other small resolution that I forgot to mention earlier in the week, possibly because I was embarrassed: in 2008 I resolve to stop watching BBC World News at the gym in the hopes of impressing women nearby.  Though I like and even tivo BBC World News, I readily admit that I’d much rather be watching Sportscenter while at the gym but continue to put on the BBC News every time I run on the treadmill.  I don’t exactly know why I do this, but I think it has something to do with hoping that the girl running next to me or a girl walking by will be so impressed with how sophisticated and intelligent I am that she will, pardon my language, do me.  

But I am starting to realize that women at the gym are not so much impressed by what a the guy on the treadmill is watching.  In fact, I think women at the gym are more impressed with a guy who doesn’t start spitting up blood three minutes into "running" on the treadmill.  Thus the resolution: No more BBC World News at the gym.  Just stop with the spitting up of the blood.

(Again, luck needed, so please wish me it.)

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

I really want to put the whole Hot Whopper thing to bed, but I thought this email, which had the subject line "Afrin overuse = cancer," was worth posting:

Wouldn’t sing this shit’s phrases very much. My dad got addicted to the stuff to keep his nose open. Seems the more you use it, the more you need to use it because of the swelling it causes with overuse. He developed cancer in his nose as a result. Non malignant thank God.

So, um, use Afrin only as directed.  And remember, I am not a doctor.  Thank you.   

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

Do me a solid: check out and vote for my friend Bryan’s video (his name is Bryan Master and his song’s called "Moments Like This (Don’t Come Along For People Like Us)" - the one on the top right).  Good guy, good song, and good reason - a record contract at stake - to take fifteen seconds out of your day to vote.  Thank you in advance for your help (and if you pass it on to your friends, double thanks and a firm, clammy handshake from yours truly).

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

This article from the NY Times is about the music people listen to while working out, and how important music scientifically can be to working out.  It also has probably the most unintentionally (or intentionally, for that matter) funny lines I’ve ever read in the NY Times:

"For a high-intensity workout like a hard run, [Dr. Karageorghis, an associate professor of sport psychology who has studied the effects of music on physical performance for 20 years] suggested Glenn Frey’s "The Heat Is On.’" 

Yes, that’s right - the good doctor suggests "The H is O" to really get the heart pumping during a run.  Wow.  This guy has a PhD in sports psychology and recommends arguably the worst song of the 1980’s - and subject to one of the best SNL skits ever - in an article in one of top five most circulated papers on earth.  Good lord.  "The Heat Is On?"  Really?  This guy didn’t have any "hip" friends he could’ve run that choice by prior to the article being published?

I don’t even know if we need a Six Songs section.  "The H is O" is really all you need.     

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

Bets (Formerly Six, Now Four)

Seattle (+7.5) over GREEN BAY
I think Seattle stinks on the road.  I think Green Bay wins this game.  But I think Seattle covers.

NEW ENGLAND (-13.5) over Jacksonville
If I have to read one more story about how Jacksonville is the worst match up for the Patriots and about how tough they are, I might throw up.  David Garrad on the road vs. Tom Brady at home.  The Pats win and win big. 

INDIANAPOLIS (-9) over San Diego
Gamblers seem pretty split on this one, going slightly in favor of Indy (52% to 48%).  I watched the SD game last week (I actually watched all the games, missing only a quarter of NYG-TB) and I don’t really see it.  In the understatement of 2008 so far, Indy, at home, is tough. 

DALLAS (-7.5) over New York Giants
The homepage of si.com right now has a picture of Tony Romo being sacked by some Giants under the headline "Recipe For Disaster."  I mean, how could you not pick the Cowboys after that?

Playoff Record: 3-1
Regular Season Record: Go Fuck Yourself

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

Six Songs

"Live And Learn"  The Cardigans
I have little doubt that this song would be perfect for some sort of chick flick featuring a young girl in her early 20’s coming of age.  Just as she’s acing her studies at her prestigious New England college and preparing to apply to med school, her parents are suddenly killed in a tragic accident and she must leave school to care for her two younger siblings.  Leaving her boyfriend, friends and the intellectual community behind, she returns to the Midwest to be with her family and examines the fractious relationship she had with her mother, whom she only sought to please, and while caring for her brother and sister and reconnecting with her past - that same past she tried to escape my burying herself in her studies - she learns about what love and happiness is in the process.  We’ll call it "Brooksville," named after the girl’s small Midwestern hometown, and the tag line will be "Sometimes What You’re Looking For Is Right Where You Left It." 

There’s your movie.  I’ll take my $50,000 development fee in small bills and/or hoagies, thank you.   

"You’ve Been Loved"  Joseph Arthur
Beautiful, little, older Joseph Arthur song.  I always listened to this song and assumed it was a love song, since it’s so damn pretty and repeats "You’ve been loved" over and over again, but I looked at the lyrics online and…um…I don’t think it’s a love song ("It’s always hard to admit/Most days you feel like you don’t exist/Temptation sneaks past your fists/Until the devil won’t let you resist" - yikes). 

"Walk"  Pantera
Major gym song.  I actually get a little afraid when this song comes on my iPod at the gym, because it pushes me into overdrive and is over five minutes long, which is too long for me to maintain any sort of frenzied pace; two minutes, I could do, but not five.  If you read about me having a heart attack on the treadmill at the gym, this is the song that’ll do it.   

"Don’t Feel Right"  The Roots
Another major gym song.  Listening to that bass drum makes me want to by a drum set.  And also be a better dancer.  I should probably just focus on the drum set.     

"Underwater"  Tegan and Sara
I’ll tell you, I really have to be in the mood for Teagan and Sarah.  There are times when a song of theirs will randomly come on my iPod and I’ll immediately change it, possibly even with an utterance of disgust.  But when I’m in the mood for their special brand of girl pop-rock…I mean, look out.  This song came on my iPod yesterday and I actually started singing along in my office and listened to it about eight times in a row.  Right now, I think it’s a wonderful little song ("I would go to jail with only boys just to prove I was as tough as you"); two days from now, I might think it’s garbage. 

(Well, maybe not "garbage" - that’s a little strong.  But you get what I mean.)

"The Way You Make Me Feel"  Michael Jackson
Sometimes I think that if I got rich, I would spend all my time and energy making and starring in parodies of music videos.  This would be undoubtedly, unequivocally, be the first one on my list.

[youtube]gafREioIYn8[/youtube] 

I mean, the intro alone makes me pee my pants a little bit - I would look great in the purple shirt, white undershirt, and white belt - not to mention the whole "gang rape" feel of the first half of the video and the "breakdown" scene with the fireplug in the backdrop, punctuated by not-so-masculine screams…they should subtitle this video "Seven Minutes of Heaven." 

God, I miss Michael Jackson. 

[Have a good weekend]

steaks with dad
Jason posted on January 10, 2008

Last night, my dad came up to NYC from Philly and we ate dinner at the Strip House. 

My dad has been out of work hurt for several years now and spends most of his time with our dog Lucky, smoking Marlboro Reds in his chair and watching every show on the History, Discovery and National Geographic channels (he also likes some of the shows on A&E).  He’s not a shut-in - he leaves the house several times a day, mostly to go shooting - but I’m trying to make him see how ideal his situation is.  He’s 52, can’t work for the rest of his life, has some money (because he can’t work for the rest of his life) and his only expenses are cigarettes, some bills and food for the dog.

In part because I want to show him the light, and in part because I want free steaks regularly, I have suggested that his retirement plan should be to find the best steak in New York City.  My dad is a serious meat-eater, if we define this as someone who eats only filet mignon and always eats it well, well done (yuck).  But whatever his limitations or proclivities, he loves him some steak.  I love me some steak.  I’m his son, and I live in NYC.  So the NYC Great Steak Chase makes perfect sense for everyone involved. 

So far, we’ve only eaten at one place, Dylan Prime.  I wrote about this when I took my dad and my brother there for my dad’s birthday (I’d like to take this time to again thank my brother for getting the surf and turf - hey, $80 for an entree isn’t bad, right Dennis?).  The food was so good that I’m convinced that my dad cried in the shower after the dinner.  Oh wait, that was me.  My bad. 

Despite the delicious meal, it was tough to get my dad to come back up to NYC.  My family is from Philly, actually in the city, which is the sixth largest in the US.  Still, my mom and dad and other relatives view visiting NYC, which is a two hour drive from Philly, like going to the moon.  It’s is a BIG DEAL to come up to NYC, as evinced by my dad’s giant suitcase (which would have been suitable for a week’s stay and not one night’s) and wide-eyed look as we walked around my neighborhood.  Of all the things in the city, the thing he is most impressed with is how the lights on the avenues are timed, so that a car can drive for up to two dozen blocks without hitting a red light.  This totally blows his fucking mind.  I think he would be less impressed with me turning myself into a giant dragon that shits mansions than he is with those traffic lights.    

But for the most part, my dad was pretty composed and street savvy on this short visit.  He arrived about two hours before we had the reservation, and after "unloading" all his stuff, he determined that we needed to get a can of coffee.  I don’t drink coffee, but the only place to get a can of it within four blocks of my apartment I figured would be the Chinese grocery store two short blocks away from my place.  But I wasn’t sure, because when I say "Chinese grocery store," I mean straight-up, shit-ain’t- in-English, I-can-identify-only-23%-of-the-stuff-in-here Chinese grocery store.  I tried to explain this to my dad, but he was undaunted and walked into the store, still smoking a cigarette.  We found where the coffee was shelved, but their variety was limited and did not include his favorite brand (Folgers, I think).  Then he began pacing around the store saying, "They gotta have more coffee somewhere," me trailing behind him saying, "I think that’s where all the coffee was, dad, and you’re just gonna have to pick."  I could see him getting agitated, a 6′2", 250 pound man in a jeffcap and leather jacket with a large Celtic cross hanging from his neck in a store filled with tiny Chinese people.  Just when I thought he was gonna flip, he went up to a random Chinese girl about my age who was shopping and asked, "You know if they got Folgers in here?"  In unaccented and perfect English, she said, "I’m sorry, I don’t know" and could not have been more offended that this big white guy chose her as "Chinese person that will do even though she doesn’t work in the store" to ask about what the store sells.  I mean, she was completely disgusted and my dad couldn’t have been less aware of it.  This short exchange between my dad and this girl, who was more white than I am and probably speaks better English than I do, was priceless.  It’d kinda be like me going up to Nelson Mandela and saying, "Hey, is there a KFC around here or what?"        

Defeated, we returned to my apartment with Nescafe or something and sat down to watch TV.  We were watching "Jeopardy" and my dad told me about how he was watching "Who Wants to be a Millionaire?" (another of his favorites) and the question was something about how the band the Doors, another favorite, got its name.  I knew the answer and told him from the book The Doors of Perception by Aldous Huxley, telling him that Huxley was this really smart British dude who took acid or mescaline and wrote about it.  Then, the floodgates opened, and my dad went off about his psychotropic drug experiences.  In the next ten minutes I learned that my dad hated acid, but loved mescaline and THC and no, they didn’t have mushrooms back then.  My personal favorite was a story about how the second time he took acid he and his lab partner, a nerd, had to remove a chick’s eye from an embryo in biology class.  That experience, he said, turned him off from acid right then and there.  Makes sense.

Then it was off to dinner at the Strip House.  I wrote about this place before and got nearly the exact same thing - both of us got the lobster bisque, both got the 14 oz filet (his well, mine medium), and we shared the crisp goose fat potatoes, the creamed corn, and the creamed spinach - and it was as awesome as I remembered; honestly, it’s a top five or six steak, the best creamed spinach I’ve ever had, and the creamed corn is so unique it’d be on my list of the Top Ten Things I’ve Ever Tasted.  So yeah, that’s pretty good.

Strip House is moderately fancy, but it seems like most of the people who eat there are either bankers in the 50’s or salesmen/traders in their late 20’s/early 30’s from Long Island or New Jersey; in short, lotta assholes in the room.  This didn’t bother either me or my dad though, as we talked the night away (between stuffing our faces).  Also, I knew that none of the guys in the room were going to be assholes to us, since my dad took out the six-inch pocket knife he carries in a case on his belt and used it to cut the small rolls of bread, since at that point we only had a butter knives on the table.  Watching my father take a knife off his belt to cut rolls, with that trademark Celtic cross glimmering off his sweater, while the douchebags at the table next to us talked about how excited they were about getting to the Hamptons this summer…well, it made me feel like I wasn’t alone in the universe.

At the end of the meal, we got the cheesecake to take home and nearly had to be rolled out of the restaurant.  We had a late reservation so by the time we were back at my apartment it was almost 11:30pm.  We watched this week’s tivo’ed episode of "SVU" (wow) and then I went to bed, my dad deciding to stay up to watch TV and sleep on the couch (I offered him the bed, but he sleeps on the couch at home).

So the second steak dinner with my dad is in the books.  When I asked which he preferred, the Strip House or Dylan Prime, he said he’d need time to think about it but both were excellent.  Next up: I’m not sure.  I just hope the places has sharp knives (and make sure a can of Folgers is in my apartment).

2008 resolutions (booze, god, threesome)
Jason posted on January 9, 2008

I don’t want to look back on 2007.  This is not because it pains me or makes me nostalgic, but mostly because I’m tired right now. 

So instead, let’s focus on what 2008 holds.  I’m going to keep it very simple this year and go with only three resolutions, all of which (I think) are very attainable. 

1) Find a bar.  I am jealous of my friend Brendan, who lives in Hoboken.  Not because he lives in Hoboken - Lord, the idea of being jealous of someone because they live in Hoboken is laughable - but because he has a neighborhood bar.  Somewhere between once a day and once a week on his way home from work, Brendan will pop into his local bar, relax, chat with the bartender, have a beer or two (or several more), and then head home. 

This, to me, sounds like heaven.  To get home from a hard day of work, to alleviate stress by sitting alone at a bar, sipping a pint of good beer - I have an erection as I write this right now.  Well, now it’s gone.  Wait - it’s back.  (I don’t type fast enough to keep up with the mood swings of my penis.)

The problem is that I do not live in Hoboken, which has a bar seemingly every 20 feet, but rather in Chinatown/Little Italy, which, I would argue, has fewer bars per square block than any other neighborhood of Manhattan.  And what bars there are are either grossly Italianized dives that cater to tourists or strictly for local Chinamen.  So I’m out of luck.

However, there is hope.  Every day, I walk to and from work in the Financial District.  There are plenty of bars in the Financial District, but part of the point of a "neighborhood" bar is a place that I can drink at and then stumble home, without needing to take a cab or walk 25 minutes.  So I turn my sights to a new area: Tribeca.  There are a number of shitty dive-like bars in Tribeca on the west side of Broadway, an locale that I rarely venture into. 

Thus my #1 resolution: Find a bar in Tribeca near my apartment that I can hit after work, get a little soused alone, then walk home from.  Maybe it says something about my ambition or alcoholism or misanthropy that this is my main goal for 2008.  Or maybe it says I’m awesome.  I think we all know the correct answer.     

2) Get religious.  As many of you know, God and I have been trying to destroy each other since 1994.  To be honest, I don’t even remember what our initial feud was about - I think it started at a barbeque at my Uncle Mikey’s house in Jersey - but it’s been a back and forth battle throughout the years.  On the one hand, I’ve risen from a poor, chubby, possibly homosexual child and teen to an adult with a lovely apartment in the heart of New York City, furnished with books and nice things.  Me 1, God 0.  On the other hand, I just went three days with my cable shut off because I couldn’t pay the bill and shortly before writing this post googled "medical experiments in NYC" to see if I could get paid for ingesting pills or otherwise sacrificing my body.  God 1, Me 1/2.  Also, I’m pretty sure only one of my testicles works anymore.  God 2, Me 0.  

But something is happening in my heart - and I don’t mean physically or biologically (I think).  I’m starting to think about life and wondering if there’s more to it than drinking cans of Bud and watching "Jackass" and "Wildboyz" and using a blog as leverage to score naked pictures of readers of said blog (many of these pictures are not exactly tasteful, either).

And while I haven’t started attending Mass or anything, I - and I don’t even know how to write this without sounding weird - have been spending more time in churches.  There are a lot of open churches of all denominations around city, including the areas of my weekly walks.  Over the past few weeks, I’ve been stopping in these churches, checking them out, sitting down for a spell, just totally hanging out.  I don’t know why.  I think that it’s clear that I’m either approaching a mental breakdown or a newfound interest in religion.  Since I’d like to stave off the mental breakdown for as long as possible - only because hearing about it would cause about six of my ex-girlfriends to say, "Ah ha! I could’ve told you that was coming!" - I think I’m going to figure out religion and what I think about it.  I haven’t approached God yet about burying the hatchet and I don’t know exactly what I’m going to say to Him, but I hope He’s not a dick about it, which is really a 50-50 possibility (He can be kinda stubborn and vengeful).      

3) Have a threesome.  Every year, this is a resolution.  And so far, nada.

But c’mon - this has to happen for me eventually, and 2008 is as good a year as any.  The reason?  Previously, I’ve been sitting around, doing nothing, hoping a threesome would fall conveniently in lap, that one night I’d be out at a bar and two girls would be drunk (and poor) enough for me to convince them into it, or one day an email would pop up in my inbox from one of you saying that you live in NYC and your friend is visiting from California and the two of you would be interested in a night in a swanky hotel room filled with Cognac and expensive booze and plush robes and wildflowers from Asia and the finest pornography the hotel has to offer so yes, let’s get together from some fun, in the nude, drunk as mad monkeys, all three of us, because the physical manifestation of love is magic, and magic is wonderful, and what’s the big deal anyway because it’d be a good story, something you could say you did, and above all, in conclusion, to recapitulate, making out is fun. 

But this has yet to happen.  And as the days go by, the odds of it happening are only decreasing (unless I hit the lottery or otherwise become rich and famous - without committing a felony).  If I want to have a threesome, I’m going to have to actually work for it.  I haven’t quite figured out how I’m going to work for it, but I do have some ideas.  Of course, none of them are very good and most involve a secret "love elixir" that I have been unsuccessfully trying to develop over my lunch break for the past eight weeks, but the point is that I’m trying and not just wishing. 

I’m convinced of one thing - and tell me if I’m wrong here - if I had one willing participant, one girl willing to do it, I am pretty sure that I could get another girl fairly easily.  If we’ve learned anything from the "Girls Gone Wild" series, it’s that women, plied with enough booze to kill a donkey and with moderately-serious daddy issues, will do certain things that didn’t think they were capable of.  Also, humankind and history is filled with the examples of "I’ll do it if you do it" behavior:

[Plains of Africa, 150 million years ago]
Homonid One: "Look at Josh over there, walking upright. What a strange guy. He kinda creeps me out."

Homonid Two: "I don’t know, Ron…maybe Josh is on to something."

Homonid One: "What?"

Homonid Two: "I mean, my hands are getting pretty chipped up, using them as feet and all. And my back is fucking killing me. Maybe walking upright is not such a bad idea."

Homonid One: "Man - sorry, ‘Nid - I don’t even know who you are anymore, Steve. When did you get so freaky? And does Sarah know you want to try this?"

Homonid Two: "All I’m saying is, just try it. If you don’t like it, you can always go back to quadrupedal locomotion."

[Homonid Two (Steve) stands and walks a few feet. Homonid One (Ron) stands a walks a few feet next to him.]
Homonid One: "Yeah, this might work."

Homonid Two: "I think so."

******

[Town hall near Boston Harbor, 1773]
Sam Adams, Masshole Leader: "…And that’s the plan."

Masshole One: "Hold on - just hold on one fahking minute, duhd. Yaw saying that we’re going to dress up as Indians, board the ship, and drop all the fahking tea into the Hahbah. Right? Is that what yaw saying? Because if it is, it’s the dumbest fahking idear I ever heard."

Masshole Two: "Now wait a minute, Sully. Think about this for a second. What better way to say ‘Fahk You’ to the Tea Act then by dumping tea into the hahbah? And dressing up as Indians, in addition to being a generally fun idea, will give us not only a disguise but if people see us, they’ll blame in Indians. Lastly, go Sox."

All Massholes: "SOX!"

Masshole One: "I guess you’re right, Tom.  Fahk the Tea Act, fahk the British, and fahk the Yankees! Let’s get out those headdresses and hit the hahbah!  DUUUUUHHHHDDDD!!!!"

All Massholes: "DUUUUUHHHHDDDD!!!!"

******

[Germany, 1936]
Guy One: "Man, I don’t know about this whole ‘Nazism’ thing."

Guy Two: "Actually, I think it’s pretty good."

Guy One: "Really? Even the all that stuff about killing the Jews and Gypsies?"

Guy Two: "Well, the Jews, I got nothing against them - I mean, have you gotten a blowjob from a Jewish broad?"

Guy One: "Oh yeah."

Guy Two. "Yowza."

Guy One: "Barukh ata - hey yo!"

Guy Two: "So yeah, Jewish girls give good head - no doubt. And yes, the Nazis are anti-Jew. Fine. But let me ask you this: When was the last time you met a good Gypsy? Huh? And the Nazis have a lot of other very good pro-Germany policies. You talk about world domination built from a master race and I’m not only listening, I’m signing up."

Guy One: "You know what? You’re right - I’m gonna sign up too. I have a feeling this is going to work out real well. Besides, I bet some of the girls in the master race will give some pretty mean blowjobs."

Guy Two: "Totally."

******

Spot me just one woman who’s willing to have a threesome, and I’ll show you a Jason Mulgrew, locked in a bathroom in the penthouse room of the Union Square W Hotel, desperately tugging on his flaccid penis, screaming, "C’mon! It’s showtime! Don’t do this to me! You asshole! C’MON!" as two drunk women make out on the bed outside the bathroom.  I can promise you this.  

(That email address, once again ladies, is jason@jasonmulgrew.com.  Thank you for your consideration.) 

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

I feel that 2008 will be a year of great change.  I will move, since I can’t afford a third year of living by myself in a two-bedroom apartment in Manhattan.  And I’d like to say that, as this is my 30th year on the planet, I’d like to possibly get a girlfriend, but that not only sounds terribly pathetic but is also a pretty big goal; perhaps I should start smaller with a resolution, like to actually try when I kiss a girl and view it as an activity in and of itself, rather than something to do for a predetermined amount of time before putting my hand on her boob.  Baby steps.

Otherwise, booze, religion and sex.  That about covers my goals for 2008.  Wish me luck.

belt, hw, bets, music
Jason posted on January 4, 2008

First, you need to know that I forgot to wear a belt to work today.  No belt.  At all.  Not only do I look ridiculous, but I have a meeting this afternoon that will require me to stand in front of people and talk.  Without a belt on.  So that’s great. 

Second, before we get to football picks (so, you know, you can bet against them) and music, two quick emails about the Hot Whopper that I thought were worth sharing.  The first is from Steve and was sent immediately after the post was put up: 

I hate you. Before today, I was perfectly content getting on a plane, but now every time I fly I’m going to be paranoid as fuck the entire time. Not only have I never gotten a hot whopper (awesome name by the way), I’ve never heard of this happening to anyone before; ever. And as I’m taking practically the same route you did in two days (LAX to EWR… from Jersey, live in Los Angeles now), I’m doomed to get a HW. You see, I’m that guy things like that happen to. You know what I mean.

And if this doesn’t happen to me, I’m still fucked because I won’t be able to think about anything the entire time I fly for the rest of my living days. Way to ruin my life, punk.

God forbid what happens if I actually get one of these and then serendipitously run into you and recognize you in New York City over the next two weeks… that is not a threat, just me expressing how painful you made that experience sound. Good descriptive writing. But I still hate you.

Steve’s was a pretty common reaction - that I essentially ruined flying for everyone by putting the fear of the Hot Whopper in them.  I understand where Steve and the others are coming from, but hear me now: If my post prevented even one of you from having a Hot Whopper, then it was worth it.  As I learned since the last Hot Whopper, mostly from you guys and stuff I’m going to make up right now, some people are prone to HWs and others are not.  All you need to do to prevent the HW is a shot of Afrin in each nostril one hour before flying.  That’s it.  So while I understand Steve’s frustration, he and the others who felt the same way must understand that the pain of the Hot Whopper is excruciating, and our awareness of the HW needs to be raised so that we can prevent it. 

What, you think the guy who first told people cocaine was bad or there was such a thing as AIDS was well-received?  C’mon, people. 

This second email comes from Bob from Philly, which I got just yesterday:

I read your hot whopper story and after nearly two weeks of no posts - i was sure you had passed away.

you see, i had a hot whopper landing in Split, Croatia this past summer.  In the last minute of our descent it started - and i REALLY thought i was dying.  after all, how could i live 35 years without a similarly horrificly painful experience?  i figured this is what people must feel like right before a brain hemorrage.  it’s the kind of pain that makes you want to punch yourself in the eye - not knowing why.  plus, i was landing in a former Communist country on a former communist airline (Croatian Airlines) and the planes would have definitely dated back to fascism - and it wouldn’t be suprising if some communist mechanic made a mistake 20 years ago repairing the cabin that was finally killing me.  the piercing pain was so bad i could not speak and explain to my fiance what was going on.  it lasted about 5 minutes after we landed…residual pain lasting for another couple hours.  it was so bad i felt panicked.  luckily it slowly subsided.

then i thought - if you died and we both had hot whoppers - "am i a ticking timebomb?"  of course i’m kidding - but the thought did cross my mind.

glad you’re alive.

Bob was the other side of the coin: those who have gotten Hot Whoppers in the past.  Bob’s story was like many others, a descent in a plane leading to a head explosion.  And Bob makes a point that my buddy Dave, who had the original Hot Whopper, made after reading my post - he honestly thought he was dying.  I can vouch that the pain of the HW is far different and far more intense than any other pain I’ve experienced, and so it wouldn’t surprise me if I was having some sort of brain aneurysm or hemorrhage.  I was relatively "calm" after my first Hot Whopper in 2000 only because Dave had gotten one a week prior.  If I had no knowledge of the HW and was sitting on a plane and it landed, I surely would have cried and scrawled out some death letter between the tears, snot and drool, and perhaps would have even had a self-induced heart attack out of fear.

So while I’m sorry I had to scare many of you, I’m glad that I wrote the Hot Whopper post.  In the future, just try to be cautious and carry Afrin.  And if you do get a Hot Whopper, at least you know what it is and that you’re not actually dying - just in for a tremendous amount of pain and discomfort.  Godspeed.

(Happy New Year!)  

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

Here are some picks for this weekend’s games:

(6) Redskins (+3.5) over (3) SEAHAWKS
Though I think Seattle is a great city and I look forward to returning there in the spring to defend my West Coast Wine Drinking Competition title, I’ve been down on the Seahawks all season.  Also, I still feel kinda guilty for all the Sean Taylor jokes.  The Skins have had to play the Cowboys, Giants and Eagles six times, while the ‘Hawks played the Cardinals, Nashua Catholic High School, and a team comprised of six Japanese tourists, a couple of dead guys, and me and my brother six times.

(4) STEELERS (+2.5) over (5) Jaguars
Is there anyone that likes the Steelers in this game?  Seriously?  Anyone?  Everything that’s been written has been about how great Jacksonville is playing and how handily they’ve beaten the Steelers, whose defense has been atrocious recently and who’ve lost their star running back.  But what happens is the Steelers go up early? 

(5) Giants (+3) over (4) BUCS
The Bucs are another team I’ve been down on all season, and since I called him a "first round exit waiting to happen," I have to stick to my guns.  The Giants are 7-1 on the road this season, which may be meaningless, but playing in Tampa is not like playing in Lambeau to begin with.

(3) CHARGERS (-10) over (6) Titans
Everyone likes the Chargers here.  Easy to see why.

As for the rest of the postseason:

Divisional Playoffs
(1) COWBOYS over (6) Redskins
(2) PACKERS over (5) Giants

(1) PATRIOTS over (4) Steelers
(3) Chargers over (2) COLTS

Conference Championships
(2) Packers over (1) DALLAS
(1) PATRIOTS over (3) Chargers

Super Bowl
Patriots over Packers

Fucking Massholes.

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

Six Songs

"Too Many Teardrops"  Nick Lowe
Nick Lowe is rocking my world right now.  I’m in love with this song, which is about catchy, poppy number about crying over a girl, because it has this incredibly odd and oddly placed line: "I’m a tad turned on/In the long dark night."  Every other line is about sadness and crying over a chick, but this guy slips in about how he’s kinda turned on?  Huh?  If you can’t find this one, try "Marie Provost", "Half A Boy and Half A Man" and "I Love the Sound of Breaking Glass."  

"I Can Sing A Rainbow - Love Is Blue"  The Dells
It’s the mother fucking Captain Noah song!

"One Plus One Is One"  Badly Drawn Boy
I’m pretty sure there’s never going to be a "Behind the Music"-type show made about my life, but if there is, I would like this song to be playing as we trace my downward spiral into pot and porn addiction through a series of poignant black and white photos, depicting me smoking from a bong amidst a crowd of hangers on; a view from the back of me sitting at my desk masturbating to red tube; a close up of my face holding a joint and looking confused; a shot of me on top of a woman, making love to her, looking at an open spread from Oui magazine, since that’s the only way I can ejaculate; me naked in the tub with another joint with a glass of red wine and a revolver sitting on the ledge of the tub - you get the point.   

"Hotel Room"  Richard Hawley
British, baritoney, sad, 50’s sounding, cool. 

"Custard Pie"  Led Zeppelin
Probably the most perfect guitar solo I’ve ever heard.  Nasty and dirty and kinky and fucky. 

"Shine Sweet Freedom"  Michael McDonald
As we head into the weekend, please take the time to watch this video, one of my favorites.  All hell breaks loose just after the two minute mark.  Wow.  I wish I had buddies like these.

[youtube]VM14eXNONh0[/youtube]

[Have a good weekend]

part one: the iowa caucuses
Jason posted on January 4, 2008

Congrats to Mike Huckabee and Barack Obama and their supporters for winning the Iowa Caucuses last night.  While I plan to cover politics a lot more on this here blog this year with my sure to be award-winning series, "Decision 2008: A Black or A Woman," here’s one little note to get the ball rolling. 

Mitt Romney’s got a Harvard JD/MBA and founded Bain Capital, and so he’s made more money that your dad and all his friends combined.  Rudy went to NYU Law and recorded a record 4,152 convictions and 25 reversals as US Attorney for the Southern District of New York.  McCain went to the Naval Academy (I’m assuming his daddy had something to do with that, but the guy lived in a cage for five and a half years!).  Fred Thompson has a JD from Vanderbilt and was awesome in Law & Order. 

On the Democratic side, Hillary Clinton went to Wellesley and Yale Law and in addition to being pretty intellectually badass, emerged from a very difficult personal and professional scandal because of her husband’s lustiness - much respect for brains and balls.  Barack graduated from Columbia and Harvard Law, and, I don’t know, from what I’ve seen is a pretty charming black guy (though I’d like to see him pack on a few more pounds).  John Edwards has a JD from UNC and, let’s just say it, is dreamy. 

Last night’s Republican winner, Mike Huckabee, went to Ouachita Baptist University and has no advanced degrees.  I don’t mean to be a snob about this (even though that’s how it’s going to come off) and I wouldn’t vote Republican if my father was running as a Republican and/or the GOP platform suddenly changed from "Down With Gays and Reading, Up With Jesus and Ain’t Reading" to "Free Handjobs for All Mulgrews," so I guess it’s moot anyway.  But there’s no way I’m voting for a presidential candidate who went to a school that I could get into if I took every test in high school left-handed and after several major hits from a nitrous balloon.  Not that I’m particularly smart (because that ship sailed in about 7th grade) or that the college I went to (Boston College) is exactly Ivy-covered, but I feel a little more comfortable knowing that my president at least did better on his/her SATs than I did.  Call me crazy. 

There are major flaws in this argument, namely that perhaps Huckabee got a scholarship to Ouachita Baptist or wanted to stay close to family or loved Jesus too much (he was a minister, after all) to go anywhere else.  These are possibilities.  Also, our current president went to Yale and has an MBA from Harvard and, well, that hasn’t exactly worked out for us, or, you know, the world and the next few generations of inhabitants of the Middle East.  And sure, Mike Huckabee has accomplished much in his life and was governor of Arkansas for 11 years, even though being governor of Arkansas is like being a lifetime achievement award winner at the Special Olympics (and yes, I know Bill Clinton, who I’m a fan of, was governor of Arkansas, but he was also a Rhodes Scholar).  But there’s no way that I can in any way support an Arkansan who was a minister and went to Ouachita Baptist University as President of the United States.  I mean, wow.  I think I just blew my own mind.      

Disclaimer: I’m a liberal New York Jew.  And no, I’m not Jewish but rather Irish Catholic, but there’s very little difference anyway.  I measure success by things like wealth, educational background, and attractiveness of significant other.  My world revolves around the Northeast, and people from other parts of the country who do not have breasts scare me a little (actually, non-Northeasterners with breasts scare me a little, too).  But here’s the thing: I still only hope that there are enough people out there like me to prevent what happened in 2004 from happening in 2008.  Not like me in the sense that last night I drank four Sam Adams Cherry Wheats, beat off twice, and watched five tivo’ed episodes of "Family Guy," but like me in the "having reasonable and reasonably intelligent political ideals" sense.  Call me crazy.  And if this election unfurls like the one in 2004, I may just be driven mad.       

recaps
Jason posted on January 3, 2008

In the past twelve or so days, I

- said a final goodbye to my old roommate and friend Brian, who recently made the move to LA.   This goodbye consisted of going to dinner with a friend and then meeting Brian and some other friends at a bar, shitting at said bar, shitting again at the bar, then leaving the bar to go home so that I could poop and vomit and lay on my couch with a wastebasket next to me, as the pooping and vomiting zapped me of all strength and I needed to make sure I would make a mess on my couch.  When I apologized to Brian the next day for my lameness the previous night, he said my goodbye was "exactly like [he] envisioned it."  Pretty much.  

- celebrated Christmas in typical Mulgrew family style (read: gambling and drinking until 4am) and tried to break the record for most kielbasa sandwiches consumed in under two hours (I only got to four, which is kinda sad).  Best gift: cash, as always.  Second best gift: a delay pedal for my guitar from my brother that records and plays back up to sixteen minutes of music.  Goodbye productivity, hello tremendously bad guitar "compositions" with names like "Stars of My Heart" and "When I Sing, I Sing Songs Like These Love Songs (Which Stand Before You, Prostrate, Iridescent)" and "You Are Art/I Am You."        

- spent a night at a random Holiday Inn Express along I-95 in a whirlpool room eating an "Oreo Explosion" sundae I got to go from the local Friendly’s.  I don’t think this one requires additional explanation, but all three of these things – Holiday Inn Expresses, hotel rooms with whirlpools in them, and sundaes from Friendly’s – are vastly, vastly underrated.  Sitting in that whirlpool and eating that sundae while Beck’s "Scarecrow" was playing on my iPod speakers…I mean, that was pretty much the high point of my life.  Also, I think I just figured out why I’m single.    

- spent a day and night in Boston, tooled around the city, got a haircut, ate at Abe & Louie’s steakhouse (which, aside from the top ten crab cake and maybe the best dessert I ever had – the special blueberry pie with vanilla ice cream – should really change its name to "Abe & Fooey’s", since that’s what you’ll be saying when you walk out of there, due to the downright embarrassing sides and ok steak), and spent five hours drinking scorpion bowls and watching karaoke at Hong Kong bar in Faneuil Hall.  I miss those fucking scorpion bowls.   

- spent two nights at a country club on the Cape celebrating the love and wedding of my dear friends Molly and Nevin.  The wedding was awesome; perfect location on a sexy country club, good friends, good band, good food, good booze – really, that was how you throw a wedding.  And I learned something: Since my family has no money, unless my bride or bride’s family has money (which I pray every night is the case, as "Lots of Family Money" is inching closer to getting put above "Working Eyes" on my list of traits in an ideal mate), I am probably getting married in someone’s yard.  My mom is one of six kids, my dad is one of ten, and I have lots and lots of friends, so for me to even have a B- wedding, it’ll cost about $438,000.  So I’m just getting married in a yard somewhere.  Fuck it.   

- spent ten hours in a car in the rain returning from the Cape.  During this trip, I stopped at Friendly’s for a second Oreo Explosion sundae (this time I added marshmallow, which was arguably my best decision of 2007).  Except for nearly falling asleep at the wheel several times, I did not mind the drive one bit. 

- was so consumed by teeth pain for my entire vacation from the Hot Whopper I got almost three weeks ago, sleeping in two or three hours stretches at a time and being as zombie-like as I’ve ever been, that on New Year’s Eve I made an emergency visit to my former Philly dentist, the wonderful and talented Dr. Alten. I explained the Hot Whopper to him and how I’d been completely out of it since them, sucking down Orajel toothache powder like it was pixie sticks.  He checked out my teeth, took some x-rays, and confirmed the worst: I’m a pussy.  Actually, he didn’t say that, but rather that my teeth were fine and my pain was being caused by my sinuses.  So to recap, I spent over two weeks barely sleeping and in a great deal of tooth and sinus pain, all because I didn’t use Afrin before a flight.  I’m heading out to LA in a few weeks.  You can pretty much guarantee that I’m getting a bottle of Afrin surgically attached to both hands.     

- met my friends’ new baby, born 12/28, who officially has a cooler haircut than I do and could probably beat me up.  Seriously.  He’s got like a lil’ Euro mullet in the back, with a little bit of hair hanging over his ears, and these kind of Caesar-cut bangs.  It’s amazing.  And he laid there the whole time with his fists in the air, ready to fight (his father once nearly choked me to death, so the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree I guess).  I’m so amazed by the whole "friends having babies" phenomenon that I’m speechless - I honestly don’t know what to say.  It’s just…wow.  If I think about it too much, I kinda want to escape to the Holiday Inn Express with a sundae. 

- celebrated New Year’s Day with a lovely Mummers Parade.  I thought the parade this year was excellent, even though the three hour delay threw me off quite a bit.  And this was - by far - my most sober parade of recent memory, which I have no explanation for.  I will have to work harder next year to get drunker.     

- returned to New York City and came home to…(wait for it)…find my bathroom and kitchen covered in dried feces and dried toilet paper.  For the fourth time in six months, my toilet exploded.&