Articles Archive for May 2008
It’s very hard to take this moving thing seriously. The fact that I’m moving out of NYC, I mean. On the one hand, I’d like to use a word like “epic” to describe it (if I may contemplate being so bold) . I moved here when I was 21 and now, about eight weeks shy of my 29th birthday, I’m leaving. That’s nearly eight years of living in this wonderful city, sucking it dry and using it up, while it sucked me dry and used me up, the two of us running on a co-dependence that may have been for the most part unhealthy, but at times, many times, bordered on rapture.
But it’s not like I’ll never be back. I tried, through work, to get a full bicoastal arrangement – I’d be based in LA, but would do two work weeks there and two work weeks in NYC every month – but that was nixed. As a consolation prize, I was told I could otherwise work out of the NY office whenever I want “within reason.” So yeah, I’ll be back. Hell, I’ll be back in July, spending two nights in NYC before heading down the Jersey shore for the annual Drink Until You Shit Tour (July 12, baby). And then again to catch an Eagles game with my buddies at Ship of Fools in September. And then again for Site Guy Brendan’s wedding in November, and over the holidays in December and January. So I’ll be back. Lots.
And this could also be the softest, easiest move that a human being has ever made. I’m moving to LA, a city I’ve spent 10 days a month in since September, where I have a ton of friends (including my former NYC roommate of four years) and where I’m even able to keep my same job (though I finally get an office with a window!). Yeah, the people in LA are very different than the people in NYC and I’m probably going to have to use product in my hair to fit in, and the environs are certainly different – no longer will I be able to walk to and from work or wear all my cute winter outfits – but at least I know what I’m getting into.
Not to mention that this LA move is temporary. I cannot see myself out there for longer than a year, a year which I will treat as a year of retirement or a long stint of rehab. I’m going to LA to get well physically, emotionally, mentally, professionally and financially – no more nights out until 5am, no more women smarter than me, no more watching twenty hours of murder/monster shows a week, no more performing the same exact job functions I’ve performed every day for the past five years, no more spending $2000 a month on rent. Then, once I’m better across the board, I’m returning to NYC to burn the mother fucking house down all over again.
But right now, I’m still moving out of New York City. It’s one thing to leave, even for long stretches at a time, but I’ve always come back. And this, I think, is when it will finally hit me. I’ve always gone through phases when I thought I wanted to move out of NYC. Boston was a main target; I’d go for a long time without visiting Boston and all my friends up there and I’d think, “All your buddies are there and it’s so much cheaper and you’ve been in New York for so long. Why don’t you just move up there?” Then I’d get to Boston and, with all due respect to that fair city, know instantly why I really, actually didn’t want to move there – because it’s not New York City. After a fun weekend, I’d take the Acela from Back Bay or South Station and arrive at New York-Penn Station, step out to take the great mess that is 32nd Street and 7th Avenue, hail a cab home, and sit back, awestruck by the personality, the life of the city, in the same way that I have been since the very first day I moved here.
That’s the thing I’ll miss most, when I miss it – the life of New York City. And it always gets me when I come back. There’s the trip from JFK, in a cab, into the city, a route that takes the BQE, which runs parallel to the island of Manhattan on the other side of the East River, giving you the postcard view: the skyline, lit up, burning brightly, and in there, two million human beings, two million people on an island of twenty-two square miles (!). In there, they are living, they are eating, they are drinking, sleeping, doing it – and in there too, somewhere, my bars, my restaurants, my walks, my friends, my life.
And even if I am going away for a little while – for just a little while, a year or so, in order to get well – that’s how I’ll still think of NYC. Life will go on, and the city won’t so much as shrug when it learns of my departure, but those streets and those buildings and those people will still be my life – my bars, my restaurants, my walks, my friends, my life.
And I’ll be back. It is only under this condition that I’m moving in the first place. Until then, wish me luck on my rehab. Lord knows, after almost eight years in this city, I’ve earned it.
(And I’ll have some pretty good stories to tell, too.)
I am completely in over my head right now with this impending move and work, which has just simply been out of control lately ("simply" because what’s keeping me busy is an abundance of tasks which could probably be completed by a dolphin of moderate intelligence). While ideally I would have liked to have chronicled each of my last days in NYC, maybe from my couch, maybe while smoking some sort of pipe and gently rubbing my beard, giving proper thought to both what has been my seven glorious years in NYC and the events and insanity of the past few weeks, well, I just can’t – I just got too much shit to do. So instead you’re getting a list. Such is life.
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If you’re ever feeling down or unappreciated, here’s what you do: tell all your friends you’re moving in a few week’s time. If you have friends that are worth a damn in the first place, they’ll band together, keep getting you drunk night after night, and make you wonder why you’re ever moving in the first place.
(But the female friends won’t sleep with you. No matter how much you beg and plead and say "It’ll be the perfect end to my NYC experience!" or "C’mon – there’s always been a little something between us!" or "Do you realize the only way I’m getting laid in LA is if pay for it? Help me out, why don’t you?")
I shit you not when I say I can’t recall as fun a time as I’ve had over the past few weeks (and this despite long hours and a very strong anti-job sentiment). I’ve gone out, I’d guess, 13 of the past 15 or so nights, both with friends that I’ve been hanging out with regularly for years and with people I haven’t hung out with in months. Everything is a haze and I think different parts of my body are either dead or dying, but what a tremendous stretch it’s been – getting home at 3am on a Tuesday; spending an hour in a friend’s office "resting" because of a tremendous hangover; randomly running into that motherfucker Iha on a Wednesday night at the Tile Bar at immediately calling my old roommate Brian in California, screaming into the phone "It’s been 15 years since ‘Cherub Rock’, Iha – might be time to get a real job. I hear the Parks Department is hiring"; hitting Rosario’s at every possible opportunity and unleashing such vengeance on their beef patties that if you didn’t know any better you’d think a gang of them murdered my family; etc. An incredible few weeks, really, which makes me realize how lucky I am to have such wonderful friends and such a voracious appetite for food, booze and sex.
(Why again am I leaving?)
************
My dad and uncle are coming up Thursday night to move me out. Friday, I leave NYC and head to Philly and on Saturday morning we’re on the road for our Mulgrew Men Conquer America trip. We’re stopping in Nashville, probably on Sunday night, and in Sun City, Arizona, sometime later in the week (the former to get drunk and the latter to visit relatives). I am nervous about this, but good nervous, like when you’re pretty sure you’re going to lose your virginity; anxious and looking forward to it just to get it out of the way, and excited to see what life will be like when it’s over. That’s really the best way I can describe it. Wish us luck.
************
If a man’s sex life is measured by the amount of left-behind women’s jewelry he finds in his apartment when he’s packing up to move, then I’m just below Wilt Chamberlain but slightly above Mick Jagger. Good lord. Here I am thinking that I haven’t really been getting laid, but the evidence in the form of these artifacts disproves this nearly universally held theory. It’s not quite the discovery of Tut’s tomb, but it’s pretty remarkable nonetheless. According to these findings, I have actually been getting laid or am keeping trinkets from my murder victims, many of whom have a penchant for hoop earrings and cheap brightly colored rings (apparently, I target only gypsies). With the earrings, rings and necklaces I’ve found in various places in my apartment, I could easily open a stand somewhere in Soho. But first, I feel like I should send an email out so these items could be claimed by their rightful owners:
Ladies and that Puerto Rican guy who dressed up as a sailor on Halloween in 2006,
I’m moving out of my apartment and have discovered a lot of jewelry that does not belong to me. If you think any of these items belong to you, please contact me. If you think I’m going to use this as leverage for us to make out again, you are absolutely correct.
Thinking of you,
Jason
PS – I am so lonely.
PPS – Seriously, if we could just talk, even for 15 minutes or so, it would really help me out.
Provided, most of the time when a girl spends the night with me at my place, she’s so anxious to get out of there the next morning before I wake up that she’s liable to leave behind her arm if it’s not attached, so losing an earring is a small price to pay for freedom from a captor who smells like cinnastix. And hey, it worked out for me – I got an ego boost and lots of free jewelry. Sweet.
************
As part of the process of moving, I called my doctor to get refills of my two prescriptions: Nexium and Xanax. The former I don’t use much anymore; since I lost the weight, my heartburn has all but ceased (still it’s a good prescription to have handy and honestly, I’ve probably gained 20 pounds in the past two months, gorging on some of NYC’s finest cuisines under the auspices of “I’ll never get [NYC food] again!”). The latter I still use, but mostly to sleep – I can’t comprehend how anyone can take Xanax and drink, since it just makes me sleepy and decreases significantly my ability to get an erection. However, in the middle of a stressful week, nothing beats a nice dinner, three good beers, a long fantasy shower, and a Xanax to take the edge off and send you gently off to sleep.
My previous prescription was for 100+ pills of .25 mg, a relatively small dosage. So I called the good ol’ doc for that and the Nexium to be re-upped and wouldn’t you know, the magnificent son of a bitch, God bless him, still prescribed 100+ pills but doubled the dosage to .5 mg. Looks like those morning drives in LA are going to be a bit foggy for Uncle Jason as the alprazolam wears off. I should probably start drinking coffee.
************
While we’re handing out blessings from God, a big one goes to my cleaning lady, Zoila. One of the most emotional moments I’ve had during the move came when I wrote her a thank you and goodbye letter, telling her I was moving and, well, thanking her for all her help. I cannot quantify the positive emotional and mental impact that she, in the form of her cleaning services, has had on my life. Every other Monday morning before going to work I’d look at my apartment, covered with empty beer cans, pizza crusts, full ash trays, and other remnants of the weekend, and feel terrible about myself and my station in life. Then I’d come home that evening from a hard day at the office (read: fantasy sports and personal phone calls) and find my place immaculately clean, immediately improving my mood, confidence and self-esteem. She was like my own like Mexican-type life coach, and I will miss her dearly.
(But seriously – if you live in NYC and need a cleaning lady, I can’t recommend her highly enough. Being a cleaning lady and cutting your teeth by cleaning my place is like being that 14 year old who f’ed his super-hot teacher – you’re pretty much considered an expert immediately and infinitely from that point forward.)
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Six Songs (special Nine Songs edition)
A twist in this edition of Six Songs: thanks to a lovely site called muxtape, you can hear each of the Six Songs selections below in their entirety – along with a few other songs I added on there that I’ve been listening to lately, since you can have up to 12 songs on your mixtape. I love this site, but I’m sure it’s going to be sued into oblivion any moment (and sometimes it takes a while to load, so you have to be patient).
"Time To Pretend" Mgmt
If there’s an anthem for the past few weeks, it’s gotta be this song. Let’s have a listen to the first verse, shall we?
I’m feeling rough, I’m feeling raw, I’m in the prime of my life
Let’s make some music, make some money, find some models for wives
I’ll move to Paris, shoot some heroin and fuck with the stars
You man the island and the cocaine and the elegant cars
Um, where do I sign up – because that’s exactly what I pretend too. I’m not one to guarantee things often, but I guarantee that if you listen to this song at least once a day, every day for two weeks, your penis will get bigger and you will actually become bulletproof. Trust me. My favorite line is actually toward the end:
Our models will have children, we’ll get a divorce
We’ll find some more models, everything must run its course
I don’t know if my liking this line means I’m misogynistic and view women strictly as pretty things and vessels for procreation, or I like it because it rock and I rock. Probably a bit of both. I’m just saying – you want to be bulletproof, check the song out. That’s all.
"Two Headed Boy" Neutral Milk Hotel
Hands down (HD?) my single favorite song to play when in front of people messing around with an acoustic guitar and someone says, "Oh – play us something!" The pure amount of screaming and heavy strumming in this song is breathtaking; if properly and with enough vigor, I’m pretty sure you can get someone to punch you in the face to stop before you get to the two minute mark. Just tremendous.
"Alternative to Love" Brendan Benson
I’ve recommended this song before, but with the discovery of muxtape, I had to recommend it again. Simply: there is no way that anyone cannot not like this song. I mean, when that chorus kicks in ("Maybe I’m just damaged goods…"), some part of your body has to be moving (that is, if you have feeling in all parts of your body). I could listen to this song ten times in a row and be more than ok with that.
"Right Down the Line" Gerry Rafferty
This is the song that’s on when it’s 1977 and my girl and I are getting ready in our house in the Hollywood Hills to go out to meet some friends for drinks and cocaine at some hot new club at Hollywood and La Brea. Our life is wonderful.
"Outfit" Drive-By Truckers
Nice. Good song to listen to while moving.
"This Time Tomorrow" The Kinks
Also nice. Also a good song to listen to while moving.
"Fans" Kings of Leon
Y’all know I’m a sucker for anything about kings or queens (“A King and A Queen” by Okkervil River practically makes me weep every time I hear it), and this one’s got a doozy of a line: “Those rainy days, they ain’t so bad when you’re the king.”)
"Seems to Me" Joe Walsh and the James Gang
This is the musical equivalent of opening a can of PBR while not wearing a shirt. To hell with you, woman.
"I Thought I Saw Your Face Today" She and Him
You know, I made fun of this group – the hipster dream-team combo of M. Ward and Zooey Deschanel – both on here and so mercifully to my friends that it bordered on obsession. Then, I go and download a bunch of their songs and I’m so impressed by this one in particular that I am seriously willing to pay someone (a woman, hopefully) upwards of $200 to slow dance with me while it plays. So if you’re interested – or just hard up for cash – shoot me an email.
************
If you’re ever feeling down or unappreciated, here’s what you do: tell all your friends you’re moving in a few week’s time. If you have friends that are worth a damn in the first place, they’ll band together, keep getting you drunk night after night, and make you wonder why you’re ever moving in the first place.
(But the female friends won’t sleep with you. No matter how much you beg and plead and say "It’ll be the perfect end to my NYC experience!" or "C’mon – there’s always been a little something between us!" or "Do you realize the only way I’m getting laid in LA is if pay for it? Help me out, why don’t you?")
I shit you not when I say I can’t recall as fun a time as I’ve had over the past few weeks (and this despite long hours and a very strong anti-job sentiment). I’ve gone out, I’d guess, 13 of the past 15 or so nights, both with friends that I’ve been hanging out with regularly for years and with people I haven’t hung out with in months. Everything is a haze and I think different parts of my body are either dead or dying, but what a tremendous stretch it’s been – getting home at 3am on a Tuesday; spending an hour in a friend’s office "resting" because of a tremendous hangover; randomly running into that motherfucker Iha on a Wednesday night at the Tile Bar at immediately calling my old roommate Brian in California, screaming into the phone "It’s been 15 years since ‘Cherub Rock’, Iha – might be time to get a real job. I hear the Parks Department is hiring"; hitting Rosario’s at every possible opportunity and unleashing such vengeance on their beef patties that if you didn’t know any better you’d think a gang of them murdered my family; etc. An incredible few weeks, really, which makes me realize how lucky I am to have such wonderful friends and such a voracious appetite for food, booze and sex.
(Why again am I leaving?)
************
My dad and uncle are coming up Thursday night to move me out. Friday, I leave NYC and head to Philly and on Saturday morning we’re on the road for our Mulgrew Men Conquer America trip. We’re stopping in Nashville, probably on Sunday night, and in Sun City, Arizona, sometime later in the week (the former to get drunk and the latter to visit relatives). I am nervous about this, but good nervous, like when you’re pretty sure you’re going to lose your virginity; anxious and looking forward to it just to get it out of the way, and excited to see what life will be like when it’s over. That’s really the best way I can describe it. Wish us luck.
************
If a man’s sex life is measured by the amount of left-behind women’s jewelry he finds in his apartment when he’s packing up to move, then I’m just below Wilt Chamberlain but slightly above Mick Jagger. Good lord. Here I am thinking that I haven’t really been getting laid, but the evidence in the form of these artifacts disproves this nearly universally held theory. It’s not quite the discovery of Tut’s tomb, but it’s pretty remarkable nonetheless. According to these findings, I have actually been getting laid or am keeping trinkets from my murder victims, many of whom have a penchant for hoop earrings and cheap brightly colored rings (apparently, I target only gypsies). With the earrings, rings and necklaces I’ve found in various places in my apartment, I could easily open a stand somewhere in Soho. But first, I feel like I should send an email out so these items could be claimed by their rightful owners:
Ladies and that Puerto Rican guy who dressed up as a sailor on Halloween in 2006,
I’m moving out of my apartment and have discovered a lot of jewelry that does not belong to me. If you think any of these items belong to you, please contact me. If you think I’m going to use this as leverage for us to make out again, you are absolutely correct.
Thinking of you,
Jason
PS – I am so lonely.
PPS – Seriously, if we could just talk, even for 15 minutes or so, it would really help me out.
Provided, most of the time when a girl spends the night with me at my place, she’s so anxious to get out of there the next morning before I wake up that she’s liable to leave behind her arm if it’s not attached, so losing an earring is a small price to pay for freedom from a captor who smells like cinnastix. And hey, it worked out for me – I got an ego boost and lots of free jewelry. Sweet.
************
As part of the process of moving, I called my doctor to get refills of my two prescriptions: Nexium and Xanax. The former I don’t use much anymore; since I lost the weight, my heartburn has all but ceased (still it’s a good prescription to have handy and honestly, I’ve probably gained 20 pounds in the past two months, gorging on some of NYC’s finest cuisines under the auspices of “I’ll never get [NYC food] again!”). The latter I still use, but mostly to sleep – I can’t comprehend how anyone can take Xanax and drink, since it just makes me sleepy and decreases significantly my ability to get an erection. However, in the middle of a stressful week, nothing beats a nice dinner, three good beers, a long fantasy shower, and a Xanax to take the edge off and send you gently off to sleep.
My previous prescription was for 100+ pills of .25 mg, a relatively small dosage. So I called the good ol’ doc for that and the Nexium to be re-upped and wouldn’t you know, the magnificent son of a bitch, God bless him, still prescribed 100+ pills but doubled the dosage to .5 mg. Looks like those morning drives in LA are going to be a bit foggy for Uncle Jason as the alprazolam wears off. I should probably start drinking coffee.
************
While we’re handing out blessings from God, a big one goes to my cleaning lady, Zoila. One of the most emotional moments I’ve had during the move came when I wrote her a thank you and goodbye letter, telling her I was moving and, well, thanking her for all her help. I cannot quantify the positive emotional and mental impact that she, in the form of her cleaning services, has had on my life. Every other Monday morning before going to work I’d look at my apartment, covered with empty beer cans, pizza crusts, full ash trays, and other remnants of the weekend, and feel terrible about myself and my station in life. Then I’d come home that evening from a hard day at the office (read: fantasy sports and personal phone calls) and find my place immaculately clean, immediately improving my mood, confidence and self-esteem. She was like my own like Mexican-type life coach, and I will miss her dearly.
(But seriously – if you live in NYC and need a cleaning lady, I can’t recommend her highly enough. Being a cleaning lady and cutting your teeth by cleaning my place is like being that 14 year old who f’ed his super-hot teacher – you’re pretty much considered an expert immediately and infinitely from that point forward.)
************
Six Songs (special Nine Songs edition)
A twist in this edition of Six Songs: thanks to a lovely site called muxtape, you can hear each of the Six Songs selections below in their entirety – along with a few other songs I added on there that I’ve been listening to lately, since you can have up to 12 songs on your mixtape. I love this site, but I’m sure it’s going to be sued into oblivion any moment (and sometimes it takes a while to load, so you have to be patient).
"Time To Pretend" Mgmt
If there’s an anthem for the past few weeks, it’s gotta be this song. Let’s have a listen to the first verse, shall we?
I’m feeling rough, I’m feeling raw, I’m in the prime of my life
Let’s make some music, make some money, find some models for wives
I’ll move to Paris, shoot some heroin and fuck with the stars
You man the island and the cocaine and the elegant cars
Um, where do I sign up – because that’s exactly what I pretend too. I’m not one to guarantee things often, but I guarantee that if you listen to this song at least once a day, every day for two weeks, your penis will get bigger and you will actually become bulletproof. Trust me. My favorite line is actually toward the end:
Our models will have children, we’ll get a divorce
We’ll find some more models, everything must run its course
I don’t know if my liking this line means I’m misogynistic and view women strictly as pretty things and vessels for procreation, or I like it because it rock and I rock. Probably a bit of both. I’m just saying – you want to be bulletproof, check the song out. That’s all.
"Two Headed Boy" Neutral Milk Hotel
Hands down (HD?) my single favorite song to play when in front of people messing around with an acoustic guitar and someone says, "Oh – play us something!" The pure amount of screaming and heavy strumming in this song is breathtaking; if properly and with enough vigor, I’m pretty sure you can get someone to punch you in the face to stop before you get to the two minute mark. Just tremendous.
"Alternative to Love" Brendan Benson
I’ve recommended this song before, but with the discovery of muxtape, I had to recommend it again. Simply: there is no way that anyone cannot not like this song. I mean, when that chorus kicks in ("Maybe I’m just damaged goods…"), some part of your body has to be moving (that is, if you have feeling in all parts of your body). I could listen to this song ten times in a row and be more than ok with that.
"Right Down the Line" Gerry Rafferty
This is the song that’s on when it’s 1977 and my girl and I are getting ready in our house in the Hollywood Hills to go out to meet some friends for drinks and cocaine at some hot new club at Hollywood and La Brea. Our life is wonderful.
"Outfit" Drive-By Truckers
Nice. Good song to listen to while moving.
"This Time Tomorrow" The Kinks
Also nice. Also a good song to listen to while moving.
"Fans" Kings of Leon
Y’all know I’m a sucker for anything about kings or queens (“A King and A Queen” by Okkervil River practically makes me weep every time I hear it), and this one’s got a doozy of a line: “Those rainy days, they ain’t so bad when you’re the king.”)
"Seems to Me" Joe Walsh and the James Gang
This is the musical equivalent of opening a can of PBR while not wearing a shirt. To hell with you, woman.
"I Thought I Saw Your Face Today" She and Him
You know, I made fun of this group – the hipster dream-team combo of M. Ward and Zooey Deschanel – both on here and so mercifully to my friends that it bordered on obsession. Then, I go and download a bunch of their songs and I’m so impressed by this one in particular that I am seriously willing to pay someone (a woman, hopefully) upwards of $200 to slow dance with me while it plays. So if you’re interested – or just hard up for cash – shoot me an email.
My office has no real windows. My whole department is in an inner office, which occupies half a floor, in a skyscraper, deep in Lower Manhattan. I have my own office in this larger inner office, and a glass "window" behind me. I say "window" because the only view I have is to the cubicles outside my office and the people walking around in this bullpen area. As this window is behind me, if you were to walk by my office, you’d see my computer screen and my back would be turned to you. I would not see you.
I pick my nose all day at work. In this regard, I’m like a 70 year old man and simply do not give a fuck. It’s been especially bad as of late, both because I am a slave to my allergies and because with this upcoming LA move, I’ve effectively doubled my responsibilities at work and thus have adapted a "Hey, if I’m going to work this hard for you, you gotta take me, nose-pickin’ and all." I really don’t give a fuck. I’m going to pick my nose whenever I want. Because I take care of shit.
About an hour ago, I was sitting at my desk, reading SI.com and really digging in – I must have had my right hand about halfway up my nose before I found what I was looking for. Nugget properly excavated, I transferred my treasure from my right pointer finger to my left, in order to flick my find into the garbage can on my left. Transfer complete, I moved my body sixty degrees to the left, still mostly facing away from the window but moving in its direction, allowing me to flick away into the trash can below my desk.
It took a couple of tries – this was a true goober, a real clinger with the consistency and density of the inside of a grape - but after a few fingertip rolls to dry it out, I finally flicked the boogie into my trash can. It was then that I angled my body even more to the left, toward the window, just to take a peak "outside." And there, maybe six feet outside my window, stood a co-worker, a co-worker who from the look on his face had seen everything, from the initial decision to excavate to the ground-breaking ceremony to the Great Exhumation to the repeated unsuccessful launch attempts. His expression said "I don’t know if I’m more disgusted or sad or did I really just watch him pick his nose?" Our eyes locked for a moment, then I looked away. Unsure of what to do next, I stood up from my chair, shuffled some papers on my desk, and walked over to my file cabinet.
Since then, I have been laughing so hard that I’ve cried on two separate occasions. Seriously. I actually started choking on my laughter at one point, so loudly that I thought someone was going to call the paramedics. What makes this especially funny is that I know this guy – we talk, we get along, we like each other. If I didn’t know him at all or we never spoke, I wouldn’t care. But I know him, not in a "let’s have beers after work"-type way but in a "we exchanges a little more than the standard pleasantries at the water cooler" way. And he just watched me pick my nose – and I mean seriously, in a borderline mentally-ill person type-way, pick my nose – for a solid three minutes. Count to 180 in your head right now – it’s a long-ass time. I’m 28 years old, have my own office, and am the perfect employee (at least lately), and yet at 3:28pm on a Thursday afternoon I’m leaning back in my chair, reading SI.com, and picking my nose like I don’t have a care in the world. Give me a raise already.
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I guess this is my way of telling you that I’m alive. I have excuses, as usual: as mentioned, I’ve been doubled up at work; I’ve been trying to pack; I’ve been saying "goodbye" to various NYC friends; I’ve been traveling a bit (last weekend was my last in Philly; this weekend is, incredibly, my last in NYC). But I’m alive and reasonably well and trying to figure out the best way to deal with such a jarring transition. Wish me luck.
(More to come.)
(And if any of you guys want to help me pack, let me know. Please bring beer.)
I pick my nose all day at work. In this regard, I’m like a 70 year old man and simply do not give a fuck. It’s been especially bad as of late, both because I am a slave to my allergies and because with this upcoming LA move, I’ve effectively doubled my responsibilities at work and thus have adapted a "Hey, if I’m going to work this hard for you, you gotta take me, nose-pickin’ and all." I really don’t give a fuck. I’m going to pick my nose whenever I want. Because I take care of shit.
About an hour ago, I was sitting at my desk, reading SI.com and really digging in – I must have had my right hand about halfway up my nose before I found what I was looking for. Nugget properly excavated, I transferred my treasure from my right pointer finger to my left, in order to flick my find into the garbage can on my left. Transfer complete, I moved my body sixty degrees to the left, still mostly facing away from the window but moving in its direction, allowing me to flick away into the trash can below my desk.
It took a couple of tries – this was a true goober, a real clinger with the consistency and density of the inside of a grape - but after a few fingertip rolls to dry it out, I finally flicked the boogie into my trash can. It was then that I angled my body even more to the left, toward the window, just to take a peak "outside." And there, maybe six feet outside my window, stood a co-worker, a co-worker who from the look on his face had seen everything, from the initial decision to excavate to the ground-breaking ceremony to the Great Exhumation to the repeated unsuccessful launch attempts. His expression said "I don’t know if I’m more disgusted or sad or did I really just watch him pick his nose?" Our eyes locked for a moment, then I looked away. Unsure of what to do next, I stood up from my chair, shuffled some papers on my desk, and walked over to my file cabinet.
Since then, I have been laughing so hard that I’ve cried on two separate occasions. Seriously. I actually started choking on my laughter at one point, so loudly that I thought someone was going to call the paramedics. What makes this especially funny is that I know this guy – we talk, we get along, we like each other. If I didn’t know him at all or we never spoke, I wouldn’t care. But I know him, not in a "let’s have beers after work"-type way but in a "we exchanges a little more than the standard pleasantries at the water cooler" way. And he just watched me pick my nose – and I mean seriously, in a borderline mentally-ill person type-way, pick my nose – for a solid three minutes. Count to 180 in your head right now – it’s a long-ass time. I’m 28 years old, have my own office, and am the perfect employee (at least lately), and yet at 3:28pm on a Thursday afternoon I’m leaning back in my chair, reading SI.com, and picking my nose like I don’t have a care in the world. Give me a raise already.
************
I guess this is my way of telling you that I’m alive. I have excuses, as usual: as mentioned, I’ve been doubled up at work; I’ve been trying to pack; I’ve been saying "goodbye" to various NYC friends; I’ve been traveling a bit (last weekend was my last in Philly; this weekend is, incredibly, my last in NYC). But I’m alive and reasonably well and trying to figure out the best way to deal with such a jarring transition. Wish me luck.
(More to come.)
(And if any of you guys want to help me pack, let me know. Please bring beer.)
I lot of stuff happened a lot of quickly last week, and here’s the basic gist: I’m moving to LA.
In three weeks.
Sure, I had some idea that I wanted to get out of NYC for a while, but this was something I wanted to do sometime in 2008, not in three weeks. But certain opportunities have prevented themselves (boring opportunities that you wouldn’t be interested in), and so after seven glorious years, I’m moving out of NYC to Los Angeles.
(Yikes.)
(Also, just for a little while, maybe a year. Then I’ll be back.)
(But still, yikes.)
The reasons for this move I’ll get into another time, but let’s talk about specifics, since they are first and foremost on my mind (since, you know, I’ve got three weeks to take care of business). First, I have to be out in LA on June 2. I’m keeping my current job and working out of our LA office and that’s the day I start there full-time. Consequently, the Mulgrew Men Conquer America Road Trip, a cross-country drive that my dad, brother and I were planning for July, will now happen the last week of May; we’ll leave Philly on Saturday morning, May 24, drive the southern route stopping in Nashville and Phoenix and some other places along the way, and aim to be in LA by Friday night. So bring on the red bulls, lunchables and gatorade bottle to pee in!
In the meantime, I have three weeks to sell everything I own. I’m going to store my books, clothes, and all but two of my guitars, my Strat and my Martin acoustic, which will be coming with me. I’m not concerned about selling everything, I don’t think, because I’m sure I’ll be able to get rid of it or donate the rest. What bothers me is that I bought a furniture set for $1300 last year, which I will now have to sell for what, $400? I’m getting a little sentimental about selling my desk and desk chair, which, silly as this sounds, I’ve written most of the blog and the book at and on, and which I will sell to a stranger for $50. Sweet. Also, I have a 42" in high def TV that I bought last year for $1800. I can’t bear to sell this, so instead, I’m giving it to my dad to use as collateral because he’s giving me a car. "What?" you ask, "You always claim to be poor, but your dad’s giving you a car? You rich fuck." Hold on. My dad is a mechanic and lover of cars. He recently purchased a – wait for it – 1996 black Lincoln Town Car ("Presidential Series," naturally). He loves this car as an "antique" and because it has only 22,000 miles on it. His plan was to hold on to it as an "investment" but we’ve worked out a deal: he’ll rent me the car for the year to drive while I’m in LA. He wouldn’t take any money, so instead I’m giving him my TV. It is this Town Car that we will also drive across the country ("It’s perfect," my dad says, "because it’s built for touring"). So in the most car-conscious city in America, where what you drive says much about who you are, and in an environment in which gas will be over $5 a gallon by year-end, I’m going to drive a bulking behemoth of a car, a gas-guzzling monster older than my second wife, normally the purview only of old men and car service employees. I don’t even have a joke here.
So there you go. I don’t know where I’m going to live, but I’ve been staying with friends since I’ve been going out there and will probably do so again, in order to look for a place while I’m on the ground. I guess I will have to post some "EVERYTHING SALE" craigslist ad soon, which I will link on here. And then, I don’t know…I think I have to go out as much as possible and eat as much as possible and touch as many boobies as possible until I leave (in 18 days).
(Yikes.)
************
Since this all happened, I haven’t been sleeping very well and also have been hitting it pretty hard, raging against the dying of the light, not going gently into that good night. I mean this kinda literally; I’ve been sleeping about four hours a night, falling asleep after hours in bed, waking up intermittently and checking fantasy sports and doing the dishes and ironing, and then going back to bed and waking up hours before my alarm goes off. Not good.
On Saturday, my friends and I planned to have a barbeque in Hoboken. This was canceled at the last minute, leaving me crushed, because these barbeques generally degenerate into all-day drinking sessions filled with talk of sports, music and girls we’ve done (or would like to do). However, my friends Jeremy and Meredith, roommates, called me to come over their apartment. I’d gone to bed at 5am Friday night and woke up at 9am Saturday morning, so if I wasn’t going to barbeque I wanted to nap. But they were insistent, so over to their place I went.
On the way there, I picked up a little something – six pounds and $70 worth of Italian meats and cheeses from a shop in Little Italy. If we couldn’t grill outside, maybe we could dine on fresh mozzarella, prosciutto and other delicacies indoors. I called Meredith and Jeremy and told them of my plan and they (well, Meredith) immediately ran out and grabbed wine and bread and olive oil and Campari.
So all afternoon, we ate our salted meats and fine cheeses and drank our Campari and wine. We talked, we laughed, we actually had intelligent conversation (I put this squarely on Meredith’s shoulders; had she not been there, Jeremy and I would probably have sat in silence staring at the TV and would only talk in order to alert each other of nice boobies outside). I was exhausted, all the salt and meat and wine really doing a number on me, so at 6:30pm I left their apartment – after I watched the horse I bet on die, right there on the racetrack (I should have known this was an omen for the night). My plan was to go home and nap, because, since at that point I already knew my weekends in NYC were limited and I intended staying out until last call at 4am. To do this, I’d need to recharge my batteries.
But when I got home, I couldn’t nap. I had a nice buzz and a full belly, but all I could think about was all the packing and moving I have to do, and I just laid there on my couch wide-awake. So instead of sleeping, I did what came naturally: I made myself a drink. Then another. Then I made and ate another (half) Italian meat and cheese sandwich. Then had another drink.
Jeremy and some friends, Lisa and Carly, came over to my place and we drank some more and watched VH1 Classic, which was lovely. By the time we left, I had had three vodka red bulls, a couple vodka crans and a number of Bud bombers. I felt like $40,000, completely better than I had when I first got home when I was tired and miserable and full. If I had two Saturday nights left in NYC, I was going to take advantage of them. That’s just how I roll. Tell your friends.
We went to Lorely, one of my old stand-bys, to meet a bunch of other friends. I talked to my friend Susie, who I hadn’t seen in years, and after she took off talked to my buddy Pat and his brother, who was in town for the weekend, and his buddy. It was a lot of fun, and long story short, Uncle Jason was getting a little tipsy – even for Uncle Jason standards.
I kept my promise to myself, however, and was there until close with Jeremy, Lisa and Carly. There was an argument with the bartender, who kicked us out even though we had half-full beers (he was right though, since it was well after 4am and we were the last people in the bar). There was talk of pizza and we left the bar. This is where the wheels came off.
Pizzaless, I walked home from the bar, which is only a few blocks from my apartment in Little Italy. I really had to piss. I have no idea why I didn’t just pee on the street; the area was deserted and I’m not above letting my bird get some fresh air. But for whatever reason, despite my increasingly angry bladder, I was intent on making it home to pee. And truth be told, I was doing ok with this – until I got into my apartment. As soon as my key twisted in my doorknob, my bladder and urethra, which had been working in concert to stem the tide of urine raging and raging inside me, simply gave up, exhausted. I was struck by that rare yet familiar feeling: I am going to piss myself.
I ran across my apartment toward the bathroom, throwing my keys on my coffee table and beginning the process of freeing my bird. Unfortunately, I had button-fly jeans on, so this added a layer of difficulty when a layer of difficulty was most unwelcome. Opening my jeans with my left hand and gripping my dick in my right, I kicked in my bathroom door like marshals executing a search warrant. As soon as I entered the bathroom, before I got to the toilet, I couldn’t hold it any longer and it all fell apart - urine streamed out of my bird, my thimble-like penis expelling a surprisingly forceful stream of urine on (at first) my curtain and my walls then (eventually) my toilet and the bowl of my toilet. Exhausted, relieved, I put my left hand on the wall ahead of me and let out a wail of ecstasy, shuddering, overcome with a feeling of pleasure, comparable to an orgasm achieved via threesome with Elisha Cuthbert and Christ. Joy; sweet relief. Sweet, sweet relief.
Having peed on myself and my bathroom, I did what an reasonable drunk guy would do at 4:30am – ate the rest of the sandwich I had made for dinner (after washing my hands, of course) (I think). Provolone, fresh mozzarella, prosciutto, genoa salami, pepperoni, hot and sweet soppressata, and sweet cappocola, piled high, filling me with enough nitrates and sodium to kill a four-hundred pound man twice. Once that was polished off, it was approaching 5am, so I did what an reasonable drunk guy would do at 5am - stripped down, grabbed a book, turned the water on and laid down in the shower to read. I read in the shower usually, sitting in the tub as though I were having a bath, but with the showerhead pointing at my feet and the water draining, so only my body below my knees gets rest. However, I don’t usually do this after such heavy drinking. On this night, I’m not sure how many pages or words I got through, but I fell asleep, there, in the shower, water running, book on my chest.
I wasn’t out long, but I was definitely unconscious. I woke up, drunker than ever, feeling sick – the steam and the meats and the booze…not a favorable combination. So I put on my clothes and as I was dressing, bent over the toilet to puke. After a vomiting session that left me feeling slightly better, I cleaned myself up and fell into bed, asleep before my head hit the pillow.
I woke up hours later on my couch. Completely, 100%, balls-ass naked.
I went back into bed.
************
My name is Jason Mulgrew. I am 28 years old. On Saturday night, I drank all day, consumed 6000 calories, peed myself and all over my bathroom, fell asleep in my tub with the water running, then vomited, then passed out, and then woke up in a different room than the one I fell asleep in, wearing no clothes. On Sunday, I was so hungover that I remained naked for most of the day, walking around my apartment hunched over in pain, dividing my time between the couch and the restorative powers of the shower, the water running, listening to it, breathing in its steam, reciting my incantation of "Oh god…oh god…oh man…please" over and over and over again, praying for relief. I did not leave my apartment, ate only Bayer and some reheated pasta, and was in bed by 9pm.
You want a reason why I’m moving to Los Angeles? Maybe I’m moving there to retire. Maybe I’m moving there because I can’t stay out until 4am every Friday and Saturday night, because I can’t afford $7 beers (or $2000 a month in rent), because I’m getting old enough where nights like Saturday result not in a funny story but a trip to the emergency room after my heart explodes from the cumulative effect and abuse from years of vodka, of red bull, of Bud bombers and PBRs, of whiskey served in fancy glasses, of steak, of cheese, of prosciutto, genoa salami, pepperoni, hot soppressata, sweet soppressata, and sweet cappocola.
But you know what? Fuck no. I’m not moving to LA for those reasons. Because I’m going to Philly next weekend, I have one more weekend in New York City, and a total of 16 more nights in the city that I have called home for seven years, the city that has made me.
Drinking too much, overeating, peeing, passing out in the shower, puking, waking up in a strange place. A better way to say goodbye to NYC, I can think of none.
One night down, 16 more to go.
In three weeks.
Sure, I had some idea that I wanted to get out of NYC for a while, but this was something I wanted to do sometime in 2008, not in three weeks. But certain opportunities have prevented themselves (boring opportunities that you wouldn’t be interested in), and so after seven glorious years, I’m moving out of NYC to Los Angeles.
(Yikes.)
(Also, just for a little while, maybe a year. Then I’ll be back.)
(But still, yikes.)
The reasons for this move I’ll get into another time, but let’s talk about specifics, since they are first and foremost on my mind (since, you know, I’ve got three weeks to take care of business). First, I have to be out in LA on June 2. I’m keeping my current job and working out of our LA office and that’s the day I start there full-time. Consequently, the Mulgrew Men Conquer America Road Trip, a cross-country drive that my dad, brother and I were planning for July, will now happen the last week of May; we’ll leave Philly on Saturday morning, May 24, drive the southern route stopping in Nashville and Phoenix and some other places along the way, and aim to be in LA by Friday night. So bring on the red bulls, lunchables and gatorade bottle to pee in!
In the meantime, I have three weeks to sell everything I own. I’m going to store my books, clothes, and all but two of my guitars, my Strat and my Martin acoustic, which will be coming with me. I’m not concerned about selling everything, I don’t think, because I’m sure I’ll be able to get rid of it or donate the rest. What bothers me is that I bought a furniture set for $1300 last year, which I will now have to sell for what, $400? I’m getting a little sentimental about selling my desk and desk chair, which, silly as this sounds, I’ve written most of the blog and the book at and on, and which I will sell to a stranger for $50. Sweet. Also, I have a 42" in high def TV that I bought last year for $1800. I can’t bear to sell this, so instead, I’m giving it to my dad to use as collateral because he’s giving me a car. "What?" you ask, "You always claim to be poor, but your dad’s giving you a car? You rich fuck." Hold on. My dad is a mechanic and lover of cars. He recently purchased a – wait for it – 1996 black Lincoln Town Car ("Presidential Series," naturally). He loves this car as an "antique" and because it has only 22,000 miles on it. His plan was to hold on to it as an "investment" but we’ve worked out a deal: he’ll rent me the car for the year to drive while I’m in LA. He wouldn’t take any money, so instead I’m giving him my TV. It is this Town Car that we will also drive across the country ("It’s perfect," my dad says, "because it’s built for touring"). So in the most car-conscious city in America, where what you drive says much about who you are, and in an environment in which gas will be over $5 a gallon by year-end, I’m going to drive a bulking behemoth of a car, a gas-guzzling monster older than my second wife, normally the purview only of old men and car service employees. I don’t even have a joke here.
So there you go. I don’t know where I’m going to live, but I’ve been staying with friends since I’ve been going out there and will probably do so again, in order to look for a place while I’m on the ground. I guess I will have to post some "EVERYTHING SALE" craigslist ad soon, which I will link on here. And then, I don’t know…I think I have to go out as much as possible and eat as much as possible and touch as many boobies as possible until I leave (in 18 days).
(Yikes.)
************
Since this all happened, I haven’t been sleeping very well and also have been hitting it pretty hard, raging against the dying of the light, not going gently into that good night. I mean this kinda literally; I’ve been sleeping about four hours a night, falling asleep after hours in bed, waking up intermittently and checking fantasy sports and doing the dishes and ironing, and then going back to bed and waking up hours before my alarm goes off. Not good.
On Saturday, my friends and I planned to have a barbeque in Hoboken. This was canceled at the last minute, leaving me crushed, because these barbeques generally degenerate into all-day drinking sessions filled with talk of sports, music and girls we’ve done (or would like to do). However, my friends Jeremy and Meredith, roommates, called me to come over their apartment. I’d gone to bed at 5am Friday night and woke up at 9am Saturday morning, so if I wasn’t going to barbeque I wanted to nap. But they were insistent, so over to their place I went.
On the way there, I picked up a little something – six pounds and $70 worth of Italian meats and cheeses from a shop in Little Italy. If we couldn’t grill outside, maybe we could dine on fresh mozzarella, prosciutto and other delicacies indoors. I called Meredith and Jeremy and told them of my plan and they (well, Meredith) immediately ran out and grabbed wine and bread and olive oil and Campari.
So all afternoon, we ate our salted meats and fine cheeses and drank our Campari and wine. We talked, we laughed, we actually had intelligent conversation (I put this squarely on Meredith’s shoulders; had she not been there, Jeremy and I would probably have sat in silence staring at the TV and would only talk in order to alert each other of nice boobies outside). I was exhausted, all the salt and meat and wine really doing a number on me, so at 6:30pm I left their apartment – after I watched the horse I bet on die, right there on the racetrack (I should have known this was an omen for the night). My plan was to go home and nap, because, since at that point I already knew my weekends in NYC were limited and I intended staying out until last call at 4am. To do this, I’d need to recharge my batteries.
But when I got home, I couldn’t nap. I had a nice buzz and a full belly, but all I could think about was all the packing and moving I have to do, and I just laid there on my couch wide-awake. So instead of sleeping, I did what came naturally: I made myself a drink. Then another. Then I made and ate another (half) Italian meat and cheese sandwich. Then had another drink.
Jeremy and some friends, Lisa and Carly, came over to my place and we drank some more and watched VH1 Classic, which was lovely. By the time we left, I had had three vodka red bulls, a couple vodka crans and a number of Bud bombers. I felt like $40,000, completely better than I had when I first got home when I was tired and miserable and full. If I had two Saturday nights left in NYC, I was going to take advantage of them. That’s just how I roll. Tell your friends.
We went to Lorely, one of my old stand-bys, to meet a bunch of other friends. I talked to my friend Susie, who I hadn’t seen in years, and after she took off talked to my buddy Pat and his brother, who was in town for the weekend, and his buddy. It was a lot of fun, and long story short, Uncle Jason was getting a little tipsy – even for Uncle Jason standards.
I kept my promise to myself, however, and was there until close with Jeremy, Lisa and Carly. There was an argument with the bartender, who kicked us out even though we had half-full beers (he was right though, since it was well after 4am and we were the last people in the bar). There was talk of pizza and we left the bar. This is where the wheels came off.
Pizzaless, I walked home from the bar, which is only a few blocks from my apartment in Little Italy. I really had to piss. I have no idea why I didn’t just pee on the street; the area was deserted and I’m not above letting my bird get some fresh air. But for whatever reason, despite my increasingly angry bladder, I was intent on making it home to pee. And truth be told, I was doing ok with this – until I got into my apartment. As soon as my key twisted in my doorknob, my bladder and urethra, which had been working in concert to stem the tide of urine raging and raging inside me, simply gave up, exhausted. I was struck by that rare yet familiar feeling: I am going to piss myself.
I ran across my apartment toward the bathroom, throwing my keys on my coffee table and beginning the process of freeing my bird. Unfortunately, I had button-fly jeans on, so this added a layer of difficulty when a layer of difficulty was most unwelcome. Opening my jeans with my left hand and gripping my dick in my right, I kicked in my bathroom door like marshals executing a search warrant. As soon as I entered the bathroom, before I got to the toilet, I couldn’t hold it any longer and it all fell apart - urine streamed out of my bird, my thimble-like penis expelling a surprisingly forceful stream of urine on (at first) my curtain and my walls then (eventually) my toilet and the bowl of my toilet. Exhausted, relieved, I put my left hand on the wall ahead of me and let out a wail of ecstasy, shuddering, overcome with a feeling of pleasure, comparable to an orgasm achieved via threesome with Elisha Cuthbert and Christ. Joy; sweet relief. Sweet, sweet relief.
Having peed on myself and my bathroom, I did what an reasonable drunk guy would do at 4:30am – ate the rest of the sandwich I had made for dinner (after washing my hands, of course) (I think). Provolone, fresh mozzarella, prosciutto, genoa salami, pepperoni, hot and sweet soppressata, and sweet cappocola, piled high, filling me with enough nitrates and sodium to kill a four-hundred pound man twice. Once that was polished off, it was approaching 5am, so I did what an reasonable drunk guy would do at 5am - stripped down, grabbed a book, turned the water on and laid down in the shower to read. I read in the shower usually, sitting in the tub as though I were having a bath, but with the showerhead pointing at my feet and the water draining, so only my body below my knees gets rest. However, I don’t usually do this after such heavy drinking. On this night, I’m not sure how many pages or words I got through, but I fell asleep, there, in the shower, water running, book on my chest.
I wasn’t out long, but I was definitely unconscious. I woke up, drunker than ever, feeling sick – the steam and the meats and the booze…not a favorable combination. So I put on my clothes and as I was dressing, bent over the toilet to puke. After a vomiting session that left me feeling slightly better, I cleaned myself up and fell into bed, asleep before my head hit the pillow.
I woke up hours later on my couch. Completely, 100%, balls-ass naked.
I went back into bed.
************
My name is Jason Mulgrew. I am 28 years old. On Saturday night, I drank all day, consumed 6000 calories, peed myself and all over my bathroom, fell asleep in my tub with the water running, then vomited, then passed out, and then woke up in a different room than the one I fell asleep in, wearing no clothes. On Sunday, I was so hungover that I remained naked for most of the day, walking around my apartment hunched over in pain, dividing my time between the couch and the restorative powers of the shower, the water running, listening to it, breathing in its steam, reciting my incantation of "Oh god…oh god…oh man…please" over and over and over again, praying for relief. I did not leave my apartment, ate only Bayer and some reheated pasta, and was in bed by 9pm.
You want a reason why I’m moving to Los Angeles? Maybe I’m moving there to retire. Maybe I’m moving there because I can’t stay out until 4am every Friday and Saturday night, because I can’t afford $7 beers (or $2000 a month in rent), because I’m getting old enough where nights like Saturday result not in a funny story but a trip to the emergency room after my heart explodes from the cumulative effect and abuse from years of vodka, of red bull, of Bud bombers and PBRs, of whiskey served in fancy glasses, of steak, of cheese, of prosciutto, genoa salami, pepperoni, hot soppressata, sweet soppressata, and sweet cappocola.
But you know what? Fuck no. I’m not moving to LA for those reasons. Because I’m going to Philly next weekend, I have one more weekend in New York City, and a total of 16 more nights in the city that I have called home for seven years, the city that has made me.
Drinking too much, overeating, peeing, passing out in the shower, puking, waking up in a strange place. A better way to say goodbye to NYC, I can think of none.
One night down, 16 more to go.
Sfoglia has always been our white whale. Nicole, who is much more restaurant-savvy than I am, has been trying to get us reservations there for months and months. It’s one of those "hot" restaurants – it’s tiny, has a modern Italian menu, and is all the way on the Upper East Side, but Nicole, who lives right above the restaurant (literally), has seen Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes walk out, as well as Jerry Seinfeld and his wife, Clive Owen, and other really rich and famous people. It’s currently booked solid through June.
I don’t care for such things, personally. Even though Nicole and I have been having monthly dinner dates at various nice restaurants in NYC for almost two years now, I wouldn’t say that I have good taste in food. I wouldn’t say that I have bad taste either, but a more appropriate description of my culinary palate would be junior high. If a junior high student loves it, then I love it. I like butter, I like cream, I like sugar, I like cheese, I like steak (not necessarily in that order). I’ll take a big piece of beef with a side of cheesy potatoes and creamed spinach, a generous pour of whiskey, and a giant piece of pie over almost anything else.
Usually, I like to case out a restaurant and study its menu the day of a dinner. I’m a planner and I like going in with a plan: I know what I want from the appetizer on through the dessert. I feel like this enhances the dining experience, since I can spend all afternoon and the early part of the evening fantasizing about that particular meal. What’s the quote – "the best part of sex is the walk up the stairs"? Looking at the menu, deciding what I’m getting, and thinking about it all day is my walk up the stairs.
But for Sfoglia, I couldn’t pick my meal in advance. This is not because I was without internet or temporarily unable to read, but because of what the hell is on their menu. Here’s a sampling:
affettati misti
olive oil poached fluke, red onion, sesame seed zabaglione
wild mushroom soup, crisp guanciale, vin santo cream
stinging nettle, crab rotolo in tomato
riso venere, steamed cockles, jalepeno, parsley
pasta sciue sciue
broiled orata, lemon marmellata
A couple of things:
1) I consider myself reasonably intelligent and well-read, and I have (at least) a working knowledge of Latin, Greek and Spanish and a little bit of Russian, and yet I can recognize maybe 40% of the words in those descriptions. 40% on a good day.
2) I believe "zabaglione" is not a food, but an Italian slang term for when a girl puts her finger in a man’s heinie while giving him a blowjob. "So she’s down there, right, sucking away, and then all of a sudden – zabaglione!"
3) Likewise, "guanciale" is slang for African-American penis. "She’s hot, and I really like her, but I can’t compete – she loves the guanciale."
4) "Pasta sciue sciue" is gibberish. I’m not even going to argue this. It’s like if I made "cheesesteak balki balki." Complete gibberish, but no one wants to call it out, lest they look unsophisticated.
This is what we were going into when we arrived at Sfoglia. I was not properly in the mood for dinner and might as well have looked at the menu blindfolded from all I was able to ascertain from it. Instead, I looked around the room: the eating area was small, definitely cozy, even rustic and charming. But again, I don’t care about these details – I would eat a pile of spaghetti and meatballs in a peep show booth. Really, whatever.
I started with the mushroom soup, basically because I am familiar with mushroom soup and I like every kind of cream. Nicole had the cheese plate, which I didn’t realize was on the menu, since it was not called cheese plate. Nicole won the battle of the appetizers, as her plate of three cheeses and homemade jam on gingersnap-type crackers was incredible – one smooth cheese, one moldy cheese and one cheese that was so good I can only assume it was made from clouds and the laughter of innocent babies. My mushroom soup was not shabby by any means, but my first remark after trying it was, "I don’t think I’m good enough for this soup." I realize it was complex and probably would be very critically-acclaimed, but I couldn’t appreciate it. I’m too poor, too dumb, too unkempt. Such is life, and we move on.
For the main course, Nicole got something that appeared to be broad flat noodles with a meat sauce that was not tomato-based. I got the "stinging nettle, crab rotolo in tomato" which I can tell you translates to "crab lasagna (more or less)." Again, Nicole bested me. Her pasta and meat sauce made my eyes water a little bit, because it was everything the mushroom soup wasn’t: so profoundly simple that I was moved by its delicious. When I ordered the crab, I envisioned huge chunks of crab meat and…well, I didn’t know what else to expect. Instead, there was no crab meat to be seen – there was crab essence in the ricotta-type cheese found between the noodles. Delicious, to be sure, but not breathtaking.
Finally for dessert, Nicole got the homemade mint chocolate chip gelato and I went with some parfait with coconut meringue and plum. Advantage: Jason. This is what I’m talking about – delicate, creamy, the perfect contrast between the meringue and the plum. Nicole raved about her gelato and made me taste it, and I was thoroughly disgusted. But know this: I hate mint. Hate it with the fire of a thousand suns and a million stars. If I went to my grocer’s freezer and saw only two Ben & Jerry’s options – Mint Chocolate Chip or Ron Jeremy’s Spunk ‘Scream made with Semen-Flavored Ice Cream and sprinkled with Moustache Hairs and Valtrex – I’d probably take the Spunk ‘Scream.
That concluded our night at Sfoglia. A good dinner, maybe even a very good dinner, but one that needs to be taken down a notch. (We get it – your menu speaks Italian. Just tell us what’s in the food, for Chrissake.) Save yourself the wait time on the phone go to one of the countless restaurants in NYC that deliver with they promise. Then cap the night off with some Spunk ‘Scream (if Oatmeal Cookie Chunk is not available).
I don’t care for such things, personally. Even though Nicole and I have been having monthly dinner dates at various nice restaurants in NYC for almost two years now, I wouldn’t say that I have good taste in food. I wouldn’t say that I have bad taste either, but a more appropriate description of my culinary palate would be junior high. If a junior high student loves it, then I love it. I like butter, I like cream, I like sugar, I like cheese, I like steak (not necessarily in that order). I’ll take a big piece of beef with a side of cheesy potatoes and creamed spinach, a generous pour of whiskey, and a giant piece of pie over almost anything else.
Usually, I like to case out a restaurant and study its menu the day of a dinner. I’m a planner and I like going in with a plan: I know what I want from the appetizer on through the dessert. I feel like this enhances the dining experience, since I can spend all afternoon and the early part of the evening fantasizing about that particular meal. What’s the quote – "the best part of sex is the walk up the stairs"? Looking at the menu, deciding what I’m getting, and thinking about it all day is my walk up the stairs.
But for Sfoglia, I couldn’t pick my meal in advance. This is not because I was without internet or temporarily unable to read, but because of what the hell is on their menu. Here’s a sampling:
affettati misti
olive oil poached fluke, red onion, sesame seed zabaglione
wild mushroom soup, crisp guanciale, vin santo cream
stinging nettle, crab rotolo in tomato
riso venere, steamed cockles, jalepeno, parsley
pasta sciue sciue
broiled orata, lemon marmellata
A couple of things:
1) I consider myself reasonably intelligent and well-read, and I have (at least) a working knowledge of Latin, Greek and Spanish and a little bit of Russian, and yet I can recognize maybe 40% of the words in those descriptions. 40% on a good day.
2) I believe "zabaglione" is not a food, but an Italian slang term for when a girl puts her finger in a man’s heinie while giving him a blowjob. "So she’s down there, right, sucking away, and then all of a sudden – zabaglione!"
3) Likewise, "guanciale" is slang for African-American penis. "She’s hot, and I really like her, but I can’t compete – she loves the guanciale."
4) "Pasta sciue sciue" is gibberish. I’m not even going to argue this. It’s like if I made "cheesesteak balki balki." Complete gibberish, but no one wants to call it out, lest they look unsophisticated.
This is what we were going into when we arrived at Sfoglia. I was not properly in the mood for dinner and might as well have looked at the menu blindfolded from all I was able to ascertain from it. Instead, I looked around the room: the eating area was small, definitely cozy, even rustic and charming. But again, I don’t care about these details – I would eat a pile of spaghetti and meatballs in a peep show booth. Really, whatever.
I started with the mushroom soup, basically because I am familiar with mushroom soup and I like every kind of cream. Nicole had the cheese plate, which I didn’t realize was on the menu, since it was not called cheese plate. Nicole won the battle of the appetizers, as her plate of three cheeses and homemade jam on gingersnap-type crackers was incredible – one smooth cheese, one moldy cheese and one cheese that was so good I can only assume it was made from clouds and the laughter of innocent babies. My mushroom soup was not shabby by any means, but my first remark after trying it was, "I don’t think I’m good enough for this soup." I realize it was complex and probably would be very critically-acclaimed, but I couldn’t appreciate it. I’m too poor, too dumb, too unkempt. Such is life, and we move on.
For the main course, Nicole got something that appeared to be broad flat noodles with a meat sauce that was not tomato-based. I got the "stinging nettle, crab rotolo in tomato" which I can tell you translates to "crab lasagna (more or less)." Again, Nicole bested me. Her pasta and meat sauce made my eyes water a little bit, because it was everything the mushroom soup wasn’t: so profoundly simple that I was moved by its delicious. When I ordered the crab, I envisioned huge chunks of crab meat and…well, I didn’t know what else to expect. Instead, there was no crab meat to be seen – there was crab essence in the ricotta-type cheese found between the noodles. Delicious, to be sure, but not breathtaking.
Finally for dessert, Nicole got the homemade mint chocolate chip gelato and I went with some parfait with coconut meringue and plum. Advantage: Jason. This is what I’m talking about – delicate, creamy, the perfect contrast between the meringue and the plum. Nicole raved about her gelato and made me taste it, and I was thoroughly disgusted. But know this: I hate mint. Hate it with the fire of a thousand suns and a million stars. If I went to my grocer’s freezer and saw only two Ben & Jerry’s options – Mint Chocolate Chip or Ron Jeremy’s Spunk ‘Scream made with Semen-Flavored Ice Cream and sprinkled with Moustache Hairs and Valtrex – I’d probably take the Spunk ‘Scream.
That concluded our night at Sfoglia. A good dinner, maybe even a very good dinner, but one that needs to be taken down a notch. (We get it – your menu speaks Italian. Just tell us what’s in the food, for Chrissake.) Save yourself the wait time on the phone go to one of the countless restaurants in NYC that deliver with they promise. Then cap the night off with some Spunk ‘Scream (if Oatmeal Cookie Chunk is not available).
There are three Mexican places that I love in NYC and eat at regularly (in order of cheapest to priciest, which not coincidentally is also the order of most frequently-visited to least frequently-visited):
1) Festival Mexicano (Rivington Street between Essex and Norfolk in the Lower East Side). This is a dive Mexican place with authentic Mexican food, but also with authentic Mexican hygiene standards. Their food is phenomenal and cheap – the picadillo nachos, piled with spicy ground beef with chunks of potatoes, may be the best nachos you’ll ever have – but every time I leave this place, I can’t walk the 15 minutes back to my apartment. Instead I need to flag down a cab, preferably one with a toilet in it, to accommodate the imminent explosions that immediately burst forth from my colon as soon as step outside the restaurant. Seriously, last time I ate here, I went home, pooped like a crazy person, and then looked down into the toilet bowl and saw a hand. No idea what that was about. Anyway, great food, but not for the faint of heart (or intestine).
2) Pio Maya (8th Street between Macdougal and 6th Avenue). This is a small place, which, unlike Festival, is very clean and colon-friendly. Also unlike Festival, which uses beef made up of a mix of cow, horse and kidnap victim, when Pio Maya says "beef" they really mean "steak" – and steak of surprisingly high quality. No need to eat at your own risk – sit down, relax and enjoy. (And then walk home – no need for the toilet cab.)
3) Agave (7th Ave, a few blocks north of W 4th Street). Good food, good drinks, reasonably priced, and a good date spot because of its location. This is where I ate Thursday night with my friend Stacy (who sadly was not my date).
Another reason why Agave is a good date place is because the Mexicans, god bless them, make drinking fun. For example, you could take a date to an Irish pub, have burgers and fries and shepard’s pie, and then drink twelve pints of beer between the two of you. Or you could go to Agave, order dips and chips and things with fun names like "enchiladas" and "chimichangas," and sip margaritas, mohitos, daquiris or sangria. I ask you: which environment is more conducive to getting laid (as long as, of course, your date is not supremely racist toward Mexicans, which is most often not the case with me)? Also, the meal is much longer and laid back – start with some guacamole and margaritas, work on those for a while, more margaritas, then the entrees and maybe a pitcher of sangria, and before you know it, you’re drunk and your hand is down your pants.
This is pretty much exactly what happened with Stacy and I on Thursday night (although my pants were too tight to fit my hand down them). We started with guacamole and margaritas, each had two of those, and then ordered our entrees and more margaritas. I went with the beef machaca enchiladas, slathered in a delicious sauce and covered in mushrooms and cheese. I’m embarrassed to admit this, but I have no idea what Stacy ordered. I was so drunk by the end of the night that I don’t remember what it was, and even looking at the menu didn’t jog my memory. I blame this on the two pitchers of sangria we split, which I’m guessing I drank at least 72% of. Whoops.
The real fireworks didn’t start until well after midnight, hours after Stacy and I had parted ways. I went to bed that night with a heavy buzz and a belly full of Mexican, feeling terrific and loving life. At around 4am, I woke up with a sharp pain in my belly that made me sit up in bed. I stood up and immediately doubled over, unsure if I had to shit, throw up or if I had been stabbed. To be safe I ran to the bathroom and fell on the toilet. And then it came:
The Gargoyle.
For those of you unfamiliar with it, a gargoyle is a traumatic and very personal event during which a person shits and vomits at the same time. I had only done this once before, my freshman year of college, after eating Beef Wellington from the dining hall on Upper at Boston College. I was struck so suddenly that I couldn’t even make it to the communal bathroom in the hall and instead opened my dorm room window and vomited, pooping myself more and more with each heave (our room was in the back and faced away from the quad). I’m tempted to say that thankfully, I was wearing sweatpants at the time so the mess was minimized and limited to my legs and thighs and not my room, but there’s nothing to be thankful for when you’re in that situation. The gargoyle deserves no gratitude under any circumstances.
On Thursday night, I was at least sitting on the toilet when the gargoyle struck. Also adding to my luck was the fact that the bathroom trash can was not one foot in front of me, so as the first eruptions came from my heinie and my mouth, I was able contain them (within reason).
Dear reader, you must understand that the gargoyle is so much more than just pooping and puking at the same time. It is also incredibly painful; it feels as though someone has stuck their hand inside your stomach and is gripping up and shaking around your intestines. I’m not ashamed to admit that whilst I gargoyled, I cried. The poop, the puke, the pain – it was too much for this man to bear.
(If you’re interested in the inventory, what was being released from my body was about two liters of margarita and sangria, a pile of guacamole and chips, the enchiladas, and a few beers that were consumed after the dinner. Making matters worse, I had had lobster and corn chowder for lunch. If you’ve never thrown up lobster and corn chowder, I would not recommend it. Not at all.)
Though I spent the rest of the night taking turns throwing up and puking (and cleaning out my trash can and bathroom), the gargoyle only struck once, only the second time in my life. The next day – or rather, two hours later – I called out of work, because I was too exhausted to drag myself out of bed. Also, though I was certain there wasn’t much left to expel from my body, I dare not run the risk of the gargoyle hitting me at work. I am a veteran of colonic wars and routinely have to duck into public or bar bathrooms to vacate my bowels, but even someone as experienced as I am would have little hope of not pooing his pants if the gargoyle swooped in while I sat at my desk, writing personal emails or making personal phone calls.
Now, fully recovered, I look back on the gargoyle with respect; like any traumatic event that involves pooping, I feel like I’m a stronger person because of what I went through. Sure, I may stay away from Agave for awhile, but I have emerged from my most recent dance with the gargoyle a better person, albeit a better person who will probably be eating mostly at Pio Maya for the next few weeks.
1) Festival Mexicano (Rivington Street between Essex and Norfolk in the Lower East Side). This is a dive Mexican place with authentic Mexican food, but also with authentic Mexican hygiene standards. Their food is phenomenal and cheap – the picadillo nachos, piled with spicy ground beef with chunks of potatoes, may be the best nachos you’ll ever have – but every time I leave this place, I can’t walk the 15 minutes back to my apartment. Instead I need to flag down a cab, preferably one with a toilet in it, to accommodate the imminent explosions that immediately burst forth from my colon as soon as step outside the restaurant. Seriously, last time I ate here, I went home, pooped like a crazy person, and then looked down into the toilet bowl and saw a hand. No idea what that was about. Anyway, great food, but not for the faint of heart (or intestine).
2) Pio Maya (8th Street between Macdougal and 6th Avenue). This is a small place, which, unlike Festival, is very clean and colon-friendly. Also unlike Festival, which uses beef made up of a mix of cow, horse and kidnap victim, when Pio Maya says "beef" they really mean "steak" – and steak of surprisingly high quality. No need to eat at your own risk – sit down, relax and enjoy. (And then walk home – no need for the toilet cab.)
3) Agave (7th Ave, a few blocks north of W 4th Street). Good food, good drinks, reasonably priced, and a good date spot because of its location. This is where I ate Thursday night with my friend Stacy (who sadly was not my date).
Another reason why Agave is a good date place is because the Mexicans, god bless them, make drinking fun. For example, you could take a date to an Irish pub, have burgers and fries and shepard’s pie, and then drink twelve pints of beer between the two of you. Or you could go to Agave, order dips and chips and things with fun names like "enchiladas" and "chimichangas," and sip margaritas, mohitos, daquiris or sangria. I ask you: which environment is more conducive to getting laid (as long as, of course, your date is not supremely racist toward Mexicans, which is most often not the case with me)? Also, the meal is much longer and laid back – start with some guacamole and margaritas, work on those for a while, more margaritas, then the entrees and maybe a pitcher of sangria, and before you know it, you’re drunk and your hand is down your pants.
This is pretty much exactly what happened with Stacy and I on Thursday night (although my pants were too tight to fit my hand down them). We started with guacamole and margaritas, each had two of those, and then ordered our entrees and more margaritas. I went with the beef machaca enchiladas, slathered in a delicious sauce and covered in mushrooms and cheese. I’m embarrassed to admit this, but I have no idea what Stacy ordered. I was so drunk by the end of the night that I don’t remember what it was, and even looking at the menu didn’t jog my memory. I blame this on the two pitchers of sangria we split, which I’m guessing I drank at least 72% of. Whoops.
The real fireworks didn’t start until well after midnight, hours after Stacy and I had parted ways. I went to bed that night with a heavy buzz and a belly full of Mexican, feeling terrific and loving life. At around 4am, I woke up with a sharp pain in my belly that made me sit up in bed. I stood up and immediately doubled over, unsure if I had to shit, throw up or if I had been stabbed. To be safe I ran to the bathroom and fell on the toilet. And then it came:
The Gargoyle.
For those of you unfamiliar with it, a gargoyle is a traumatic and very personal event during which a person shits and vomits at the same time. I had only done this once before, my freshman year of college, after eating Beef Wellington from the dining hall on Upper at Boston College. I was struck so suddenly that I couldn’t even make it to the communal bathroom in the hall and instead opened my dorm room window and vomited, pooping myself more and more with each heave (our room was in the back and faced away from the quad). I’m tempted to say that thankfully, I was wearing sweatpants at the time so the mess was minimized and limited to my legs and thighs and not my room, but there’s nothing to be thankful for when you’re in that situation. The gargoyle deserves no gratitude under any circumstances.
On Thursday night, I was at least sitting on the toilet when the gargoyle struck. Also adding to my luck was the fact that the bathroom trash can was not one foot in front of me, so as the first eruptions came from my heinie and my mouth, I was able contain them (within reason).
Dear reader, you must understand that the gargoyle is so much more than just pooping and puking at the same time. It is also incredibly painful; it feels as though someone has stuck their hand inside your stomach and is gripping up and shaking around your intestines. I’m not ashamed to admit that whilst I gargoyled, I cried. The poop, the puke, the pain – it was too much for this man to bear.
(If you’re interested in the inventory, what was being released from my body was about two liters of margarita and sangria, a pile of guacamole and chips, the enchiladas, and a few beers that were consumed after the dinner. Making matters worse, I had had lobster and corn chowder for lunch. If you’ve never thrown up lobster and corn chowder, I would not recommend it. Not at all.)
Though I spent the rest of the night taking turns throwing up and puking (and cleaning out my trash can and bathroom), the gargoyle only struck once, only the second time in my life. The next day – or rather, two hours later – I called out of work, because I was too exhausted to drag myself out of bed. Also, though I was certain there wasn’t much left to expel from my body, I dare not run the risk of the gargoyle hitting me at work. I am a veteran of colonic wars and routinely have to duck into public or bar bathrooms to vacate my bowels, but even someone as experienced as I am would have little hope of not pooing his pants if the gargoyle swooped in while I sat at my desk, writing personal emails or making personal phone calls.
Now, fully recovered, I look back on the gargoyle with respect; like any traumatic event that involves pooping, I feel like I’m a stronger person because of what I went through. Sure, I may stay away from Agave for awhile, but I have emerged from my most recent dance with the gargoyle a better person, albeit a better person who will probably be eating mostly at Pio Maya for the next few weeks.