My vacation, aside from Site Guy Brendan’s wedding (which was lovely), was kind of a disaster.

There’s going to be a Big Announcement soon, but I’d rather not get into it at this juncture (however, if you read through the Glamour.com interview, you can probably guess what it is). I had some vacation days to burn and some work to do on this project and so I took last week off, hoping to spend it in seclusion down the Jersey shore, cut-off from the world, being alone and reading, writing, showering and drinking (or some combination of all four).

But the week was – and really there are no other words for it – a complete waste, because I was unable to perform in certain of these capacities.

Normally when I go down the shore to work, I basically stay up until 5am or 6am getting bombed and working.* After many visits down the shore to do just this, I had only recently figured out the perfect combination to keep me optimally drunk and also optimally productive.

(* Editor’s Note: I will never, ever use the term “writing” to describe what I am doing, since stringing together a bunch of run-on sentences about how little my penis is and how messed up my youth was is only writing in the bare minimum sense of the word. So instead we’ll go with “working.” Thank you for your understanding.)

For several trips previously, I had experimented with whiskey. All great writers drink whiskey, so if I aspired to be a great writer, I too should drink whiskey while working. However, rather than bring out the best of my ability, whiskey only made me tired and crave a blowjob and then get really, really sad. Many of the mornings after my little whiskey binges, I would look at the last edited word document on my computer and find something like:

The nighth [sic], she was dark. Dark and coold [sic]. The night she was dark and cold and alive with fear and loathing (in Las Vegas, or somewhere else, or somewhere whole).

I am so alone.

So whiskey was out.

Then there was straight beer – just lining up the cans of Bud as I ripped through some work – but that plan was also flawed; there are only so many cans of cheap domestic beer that a man can drink before wanting one of three things: pizza, titties or sleep. So beer all night long was a no-go, too, since every beer night ended up with me either eating or masturbating and then falling asleep on the couch for a good five or six hours during a “break” to “clear my head”.

But then finally, I figured it out. My old roommate Brian and I went through a period where we drank a lot of vodka crans. Maybe it’s not the most manly drink (I mean, it is red and all), but if you make it strong enough to burn the hair in your nostrils, no one’s going to call you out on it. The only problem with the vodka cran is that it has a limited appeal – after a few I get all heartburny and full of sugar and bleeech. There is only one alcoholic beverage that I can drink practically without end, without getting too tired or lonely or hungry: Guinness. There were Sundays during football season in NYC that I would drink Guinness all day, from 1pm until midnight, and still, I was certain, I could fly a plane if pressed into service. Despite its thick texture and heaviness, Guinness makes me feel sexy, alive and ready for anything (anything hopefully involving pizza or titties).

So the perfect combination is two large pints of vodka crans, followed by as many Guinness as can be drank (drunk?). The two strong vodka crans will get me quickly where I need to go, feeling all buzzed and brilliant, and the Guinness will level me off, keep me right on that feeling all night, adding a little but taking away nothing. This is how we roll.

But it was all for nothing this time around, thanks to my athlete’s foot.

I wrote recently that I have athlete’s foot. But really, to stay I have athlete’s foot is like Clay Aiken saying “I have gay” – this athlete’s foot has spread to the rest of my body, threatening to consume me, to literally almost eat me alive – it practically is me at this point. I’ve been dealing with a rash not only on my feet, but on my entire upper torso. I have worn deodorant only once in the past three weeks, since my armpits are alight with inflammation, and have been wearing my glasses constantly, because some of it had spread to my face (the glasses covered up the splotches of disease around my eyes). So as you can imagine, I am crushing a lot of p-ssy right now. It’s amazing. So much ass. So, so much ass. Love it.

To combat the athlete’s foot, I am on these strong anti-fungal pills that apparently are working my liver overtime. I was warned that if I drank on these pills, best case scenario would be yellow eyeballs, worst case scenario would be abdominal pain followed by liver failure followed by death, that last part being kind of a bummer.

So dutifully, I did not drink on the pills. That is, until Site Guy Brendan’s wedding, where I got absolutely shitcanned and have no recollection of the last 1.5 hours of the evening (really morning, since we did not leave the bar until it closed). After SGB’s wedding, I headed down the shore to start my lonely work odyssey, and, having not died of liver failure after SGB’s wedding, I was emboldened and confident that yes, I could indeed drink on these pills.

(Now this is my bad, here: I was supposed to take the pills every day, which meant that my last day of pill-taking would be on SGB’s wedding. However, I have a lot on my mind and forget to take them a number of times, probably every other day. So instead of being pill-less and healed on the day of SGB’s wedding, I still had about half the pills left and could not wear deodorant, instead putting the deodorant on the outside of my undershirt. Which worked out surprisingly well, truth be told.)

But then, sometime around 1am on the first night down the shore, my mania took over. In the middle of that second lovely vodka cran, I was convinced I was having abdominal pains. In under two seconds, I was standing in front of the bathroom mirror, looking deep into the whites of my eyes to look for any discoloration. About a minute later, I was gingerly pressing on my stomach, trying to locate the source of the intense pain I was sure I was feeling. Then I think I cried a little bit. Either way, I was done drinking for the night.

The same scene more or less repeated itself the next two nights, after which I gave up completely on drinking. There are many ways I envision of myself dying, all more or less involving a hotel fire, but dying alone down the shore because I had two vodka crans and athlete’s foot is not one of them. No sir. That = weak.

Thus, the most important element in my creative process – getting bombed – was out of the question. But even if I were able to overcome that single obstacle, another had prevented itself: the presence of the internet.

I love going down the shore in the winter because I love being alone. I love being at home alone, I love having meals alone, I love going to bars alone, love it love it love it. There is nothing quite as refreshing for the soul and the mind as cutting oneself off and speaking about two dozen words in an entire week, most of which are to waitresses, bartenders, and Wawa employees. Really, for as social as I consider myself, I am pretty certain that I could live like this forever.

But in order to attain this aloneness, I must go to extremes because I am weak, due to my complete lack of willpower and extremely short attention span. For example, in college, all of my papers were done not by bits at a time in my room, but in one intense 5am to 9am session in the library on the day they were due. Further, when I was on deadlines either for the ol’ TV show or for the book’s old publisher, even though I lived alone in NYC, there were only two ways I could get work done: by checking into hotels in the city, not paying for internet access, and leaving my cell phone in my apartment; or, if I stayed at my place, taking my both wireless router and other internet-related devices AND my cable box, unplugging them, and dropping them off at a friend’s apartment for the night. Both options essentially forced me to do what I had to do and sure enough, it would get done.

That’s why the shore had also been so great for this. My cellphone barely worked down there and I had no internet – not even dial-up. No internet, no good cell reception, and a liquor store, two bars, a diner, and a Wawa within walking distance – this is how Uncle Jason takes care of business.

But it appears that someone in my aunt’s condo complex has finally modernized and installed (unsecured) wireless in their home, wireless internet I was able to use freely and regularly. The result? A near-criminal amount of cyber-stalking of ex-girlfriends and girls I’d like to make my ex-girlfriend on Facebook, coupled with an unreasonable amount of fantasy sports research.

So an equation:

(Unlimited internet + being alone for five days)/no drinking at all = zero productivity

Therefore, I wasted five vacation days, five vacation days I could have spent traveling or recovering from surgery or even doing nothing but having fun doing it, as opposed to doing nothing and constantly thinking, “I should really do some work, but there’s another episode of ‘Law & Order’ coming up – why is TNT trying to destroy me?”

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Now I’m in NYC, then going to Philly for Thanksgiving, then coming back to NYC before flying back to LA on Tuesday night (12/2). A little over two weeks after that (12/19), I’ll be on a plane again – I’ll land in Philly at 10pm on that Friday night and go straight from the airport to a pub crawl, then leave for NYC the next morning for a holiday brunch and spend a few days there, then back to Philly for the holidays (I know that was boring to read, but trust me, it’s going to be much, much worse to live through it). Somewhere in there, I have to finish the book for the new publisher, which I thought would not a problem at all, until suddenly some family members (who shall remain nameless) had problems with the content of the book, problems of the “If this goes in, we are no longer on speaking terms” variety. Which is great. Happy holidays.

(I’m going to ask each of you to buy several copies of the book when it comes out, not for my own personal gain, but so that I can buy gifts and trinkets to smooth over any suffering relationships after it comes out. So start saving up now. You have a little over a year, so I’d recommend stashing a dollar a week, which should be enough to get you three or so copies.)

So there it is. For as much as I wish you a happy and safe Thanksgiving holiday, please wish me luck. I’ll need it.

(I’ll also need to do some serious catching-up on the drinking front, but one day at a time.)

Before we get to a more comprehensive recap of my “vacation” last week, two things I didn’t want buried in a larger post.

From the “Ol’ Judgemental Me” File:

I got bumped up to first class on my flight out of LAX the Thursday before last, which meant that I got to go through Successful People security. This didn’t matter too much; I left LAX in the middle of a Thursday afternoon, so the airport was almost completely empty.

As I was standing in line, waiting to go through the metal detector and feeling full of myself and proud of my accomplishments (when really anybody can get bumped up if they give Delta buckets of money every year like I do), I noticed out of the corner of my eye the gentleman behind me in the security line, who was short and was wearing pink sunglasses. I turned away from him, now looking straight ahead, and thought to myself, “Who the hell is this short douchebag wearing pink fucking sunglasses in the middle of the airport?” He then answered his cell phone and had an accent, so, my curiosity piqued, I turned to get a better look at the d-bag.

The douchebag was Bono.

So yeah, Bono can probably wear pink sunglasses in the middle of the airport. I don’t have a problem with that. Sorry about that, Bono. Carry on.

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From the “Only in South Philly” File:

After complaining about needing something to read while alone and reflective down the shore, an NYC friend recommended a book to me (something by Bill Bryson, who I think is eminently readable). But alas, I didn’t have time to get said book in NYC, since I had a train to catch to Philly.

I got to my dad’s house late that night and the next morning, woke up determined to get the book. However, seeing as I haven’t lived in my neighborhood since 1997, I didn’t know of any bookstores around. So I went online to Yahoo yellow pages, entered my zip and searched for “books.” There was only one hit in 19148, a zip code that encompasses a large part of South Philly, including my Second Street neighborhood, and is home to over 48,000 people.

The one bookstore hit was Show & Tel Adult Center and Bookstore.

The lone bookstore for 48,000 (!) people in South Philly, in the neighborhood in which I – and the rest of my giant family – was born and raised, is also a strip club and sells dildos.

I honestly don’t even have a joke here. So I’m just gonna stop.

This evening, I’m flying back to NYC and the east coast for a long stretch – all the way through December 2. I’m taking next week off and going down the shore to be in solitude – now that I live with roommates, I am in desperate need for some serious alone time, and a Jersey beach town in mid-November will suit me just fine – and then celebrating Thanksgiving in Philly. But first, this weekend, I will be celebrating love: Site Guy Brendan, the man who (literally) built this site with his (not literally) blood, sweat and tears (well, maybe the tears), is getting married to his longtime girlfriend, Liz.

Weddings are always special. It’s great when two people who are in love make a promise to spend the rest of their lives together, barring divorce. It’s even more special when a close, personal friend is getting married to someone that you know well. Over the years, I have watched Brendan and Liz grow together (in Brendan’s case, physically, especially around the gut) and getting to know Liz has been a true joy; I can say without exaggeration that she is cooler than at least 60% of my other friends’ girlfriends/wives. And now, after a long, long, long courtship, they’re finally (finally) tying the knot. I am honored that they have asked me to be a guest at their wedding, to witness their celebration of love, and to eat a lot of steak. On a personal level, I’m glad that Brendan and Liz are getting married now because I have been on medication and unable to drink for two weeks. The medication runs out on Saturday, the day of their wedding, so I am going to get absolutely shitcanned. Throw in the fact that this is a mini-reunion for me, since I haven’t seen many of my Boston-based friends who will be in attendance since July, and that I’m returning not only to my old city of NYC but to the very first neighborhood that I lived in when I moved to NYC (Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, where SGB is from) and boy…do we have a recipe for disaster.

(I mean, love – a recipe for love.)

At any rate, I will be bringing my camera and provided I am physically able to operate it, will be taking pictures and later posting them on here somehow. Of course, I won’t be able to ask SGB how to do this, as he’ll be on his honeymoon, so it may be a while. Whatever – I’ll figure it out. The important thing here is love and friendship. Love and friendship and the sweet, sweet taste of beer again after two long weeks without it. Wow. But if you have the time, please send Brendan some congratulations at brendan_at_jasonmulgrew.com. What a joyous time.

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

Now that I think about it, I guess it is worth saying that if this here site somehow dies or goes away anytime over the next two weeks, it’ll come back eventually. Promise. Because even if calamity were to befall us, I don’t think Brendan’s going to rush to the nearest computer on his honeymoon to fix a problem. I don’t expect a problem – and as I said, I’m on vacation and with very limited internet next week anyway, so I will likely not post again until Thanksgiving week – but I’m just saying.

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

About my little illness, I’ve learned an important lesson: do not fuck with athlete’s foot. See, I got a bit of athlete’s foot in July. Naturally, I did nothing about this. Then came August. Then came September. Then came October. It was in October that I noticed that my athlete’s foot had taken over my entire right foot and had spread to the left. Naturally, I did nothing about this. Then I went to Vegas, where I both drank and wore shoes almost 24 hours a day. Then I went to Philly for the Phillies win, where I both drank and wore shoes almost 24 hours a day. When in Philly, I noticed that certain parts of my body – my neck, armpits and hands – were getting pink and itchy. By the time I got back to LA, I noticed certain parts of my body – neck, armpits, chest, arms, hands, and parts of my legs and even my face – were now a color that I’d call “enflamed red” and were being eaten alive by something. Fearing that this enflamed red and itchiness would spread to and attack my penis, causing it to look like a red Jolly Rancher, I panicked and finally did something. After assuring my new doctor that no, I did not drink that much, I was put on extra strength antifungals and advised that if I did drink alcohol over the course of taking the medication, my eyeballs might turn yellow and my liver might fail. So there’s that.

But the good news: It’s getting better. We still have a little bit of irritation, but we’re down to a soft pink color and maybe only 10% of the original coverage (also, my bird was spared and, thankfully, was not attacked). I still have not drank, put on deodorant or even put in my contacts for almost two weeks, but the light…she is at the end of the tunnel. My goal is to be 100% clear for Brendan’s wedding Saturday and then, it’s on. So please send some good healing vibes my way, since having my liver fail would really put a damper on the wedding.

(Probably.)

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

Thanks are due to:

1) All those who suggested music. I’m still working my way through your emails, but I set up a “reader recommendations” playlist when I started going through your recs, and that playlist now includes 276 songs. Apparently, many of you like Fleet of Foxes, Bon Iver, Kings of Leon and the Black Keys, by far the most popular suggestions. I’m intimately (wink wink) familiar with the last two, but don’t know much about the first two – yet. So thank you and keep them coming.

2) All those who signed up for the monthly email. Again, for better or worse, the days of me posting four times a week are gone. Now I that I live out here in LA, I just don’t have the time, between my much longer commute, greater work responsibilities and all the time I spend looking at NYC apartments on craigslist and planning my return to that great city. My goal is to steadily post twice a week and then once a month, starting next month, send out the monthly email, which will consist of a longer post that will not be otherwise found on the site (so if you want to read it, you gotta sign up). Of course, your email will not be shared with anyone yada yada yada.

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This is the part where I’m supposed to recommend new music, but honestly, I got nothing. Of course, I could recommend something – surely I can pick six songs out of my library to pimp out to you – but the whole point of Six Songs is to pimp songs that, at that very moment, are rocking my brains out. Since I’m still in the early stages of working my way through your recommendations, nothing’s rocking me just yet. And rather than force it, I’m going to take a pass this week. I will have a long, lonely time down the shore with just me and the computer (and a case or two of Guinness, a liter of vodka and a half-gallon of cranberry juice) ahead of me, so I’m sure I’ll have Six Songs ready to go when I get back.

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Finally, one quick note:

God,

Do you remember the whole “I win” thing? You know that was a joke, right? Because I don’t win. You do. Always. And no, I’m not just saying this because things have been going really well for me lately – the Phillies won the World Series; Obama is the next president; I got a very good review at work; I had a nice lil’ Glamour interview this week; I’ve been bumped up to first class the last three times I’ve flown, including tonight; etc – and I feel like I’m due for a come-uppance, perhaps in my plane plunging 35,000 feet from the sky over Omaha this evening. I just wanted to say thanks, praise You, and let You know that no matter what I write at 5:15 in the morning after the greatest night of my life, You win.

Here’s wishing me safe travels,
Jason

[Have a good weekend]

I was recently interviewed by Glamour.com. You can find the interview here.

Because I tend to ramble, two questions (and some of my answers) were edited for length. Also, I was told the KKK reference below would not fly, but would not compromise my artistic integrity. The questions that were left out are below.

(More later)

Do you have any gripes about women wearing makeup (i.e. you end up with lipstick all over your mouth, mascara on your pillow on overnight dates, etc.)?
If I’m ending up with lipstick all over my mouth or mascara all over my pillow and I’m complaining, you officially have permission to punch me in the face. “Man, this girl’s make up ruined my pillowcase!” is right up there with “No, I don’t want extra cheese” or “I would prefer if we slept together for the first time while we were sober” on the list of things I’ve never said in my life.

Who do you think are the top three most beautiful women in the world?
Good question. First, you have to understand something: Adriana Lima is pretty much the hottest thing that God has ever made. I mean, it’s not even really that close. But while she’s tremendously hot, I look at her and I think, “What the hell would I talk to Adriana Lima about?” Again, she’s unbelievably hot, but after we’ve touched upon “So, you’re from Brazil, right?” and “So, you’re a model, huh?”, I mean, that’s about all I’d have.

So “beautiful” to me is the whole package. Looks are, of course, tremendously important to someone as shallow as me, but there are other intangibles in there as well. So here goes three I’m digging at the moment:

- Alana de la Garza: Actually, you know what? Forget everything I said about “intangibles” before. Alana de la Garza could openly be the Grand Wizard of the Louisiana chapter of the KKK and I’d still want to marry her. Good lord. It’s getting to the point that I can’t watch Law & Order anymore, as I’m afraid of what might happen.

- Jenny Lewis: Goodness gracious. I could be watching a gastric bypass surgery being performed and if “The Frug” came on, I would get an erection and, most likely, collapse. I’m getting dizzy just thinking about Jenny right now.

- Minka Kelly: I’m sort of down on her now that’s she’s become the latest member of Derek Jeter’s rogue’s gallery – I mean, the Yankees didn’t even make the playoffs, Minka – but there’s no denying she’s something special. Also I once had brunch at a table next to her dad, who used to play guitar In Aerosmith. True story.

Wait, I need a fourth, a wild card:

- Cia Leigh Cherryholmes: A family-oriented country girl who plays the banjo like a rascal and has a voice as clear as a bell – a gorgeous, extremely appealing bell that I would like to kiss as soon as possible. Hearing her sing makes me want to spend the holidays in the Smokey Mountains eating pumpkin pie in flannel pajamas. With her, I mean. Although alone might also be ok. Whatever, really.

A couple of totally unfunny things that I need your help with:

1) Please sign up for the “monthly” email list. I know you’ve heard this a thousand times, but I’m going to start relying on this list and using it a lot more going forward (which is to say, just plain using it). Obviously, now that I live in LA and have essentially lost two hours of my day (LA commute: 2.5 hours a day; NYC commute: 30 minutes a day), I’m not posting as much as I have in the past. Also, I hardly ever go out here and am miserable, which sort of doesn’t give me a lot of material. But at any rate, one of my New Year’s Resolutions for 2009 is to send out those monthly emails, which will contain posts that will not otherwise be found on the site. So sign up, please.

(One of my other big resolutions: Travel. Once I get a full slate of vacation days in the new year, my goal is to take a bunch of long weekend trips here out west that I couldn’t normally take from NYC. So Seattle, San Fran, Austin, Denver, and others are all in my plans for 2009, as is another cross-country drive, this time through the middle of the country. So look out.)

2) Because I spend so much time in the car, I am always looking for new music. Please please please send me any music suggestions to the same old address (jason_at_jasonmulgrew.com) and I will be your best friend. I’m a rut musically and need some guidance.

3) For those who live in the South Bay (Manhattan, Hermosa, Redondo and the surrounding area), my roommates and I need a cleaning lady. If you can recommend one that won’t rob us while we’re out and/or kill us in our sleep, we’d be grateful.

4) Site Guy Brendan is getting married in a week, so I’ve been unable to ask him for anything for the past, oh, three months. You’ll see above that it says I’m “28, bipolar and hungry.” I’ve been 29 since July 17. If you can send me and updated banner with “29″ in it to make SGB’s life easier, I’ll give you a link to whatever you want. Otherwise, please don’t email me saying “Dude, you’re 29 now.” We’ll fix it at some point.

Now that the begging is out of the way, let’s move on.

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Just two thoughts about the election and I promise I won’t speak again about politics until 2012:

1) I, like most reasonable people, was saddened that Prop 8, the ban on same-sex marriage in California, passed here in California, by a 52.5% to 47.5% margin. People here in LA are up in arms about this, demonstrating all over the place, and their anger is justified. The country is at war, my 401K is in the drain, and I probably won’t be able to get a mortgage if I wanted – but I’m really go to prevent two people who are in love from getting married, just because their gennies match? Really? If for no other reason, gay marriage should have passed here in CA because, I mean, do you know what kind of parties gay people throw? Are you kidding me? The residents of Cali were just robbed of some fabulous wedding parties featuring a lot of Madonna and Duran Duran and cute little cupcakes and people with great hair and impeccable taste in clothes. This is a travesty in and of itself.

However, I can’t say I’m entirely surprised that Prop 8 failed because of – you guessed it – Mexicans and Mexico-type people. You see, for every gay-loving liberal person in California, there is one Catholic Latino who cleans his/her house, one Catholic Latino who does his/her dry cleaning, one Catholic Latino who takes his/her order at Jack in the Box, one Catholic Latino hanging outside of Home Depot hoping to help install new shower doors at his/her house, one Catholic Latino to change his/her oil, etc. Even if only half of those Catholic Latinos are registered voters, there’s still a lot more Catholic Hispanic people in California then there are those who love gays and hope they can marry. Combine these Catholic Latinos with a propaganda campaign that stressed the “Your kids will be taught about gay marriage in school!!!!” and the fact that those many people opposed to Prop 8 – young people – are not as well-registered (poor phrase) as they should be, and you get 52.5% Yes, 47.5% No.

The only silver lining – if we can even say there are any – is that gay marriage will pass in California – and not just eventually, but soon. Mixed-race marriages were only approved in Cali in 1948, so the state is a little slow to respond, but gay people will be able to marry (and have wedding parties with little cupcakes and such). Why, you ask? Because for gay marriage not to become legal would be retarded. Just 100% retarded.

(How’s that for political analysis?)

2) There was a tremendous response to my “election eve” post on Monday, both from Democrats (theme: “Preach, brother!”) and Republicans (theme: “Ur an asshol”) alike. However, there is one thing I regret writing in that post, inasmuch as a person can regret writing anything in an internet diary: When I wrote that I had probably out-earned the ex’s dad who said his taxes went it “dishwashers” and their families. One reader, in an email titled “farewell to your blog”, called me out on it: “There is nothing more douchy and Manhattany than a guy who has to prove himself better than another by comparing salaries.”

This is absolutely true and I admit, a d-bag move on my part. BUT, though I could have articulated it better, I still stand by my point. This guy was equating success with monetary value, i.e. my success has made me wealthy; now, I pay a lot of taxes in order to finance the existence of poor, unsuccessful people, who strive only to be dishwashers. I was turning around his logic and saying that I was someone who was on welfare (for a short time) growing up and aspired to be more than a dishwasher and, to some extent, have succeeded. As such, I have probably paid a similar amount in taxes as this ex’s dad because of my earnings recently (maybe not last year, but likely in 2006 – what a glorious, magical year, thanks to NBC, DreamWorks, and DK Publishing). If you want to throw down and say your wealth subsidizes bums, I’ll point out that as a former bum, I probably paid more in taxes than you did last year. Me = HNIC. You = Not HNIC.

One last point: I think that there are two misconceptions about the welfare system:

a) That every tax dollar goes directly to the welfare system. I can’t find any firm numbers on this, but it simply ain’t true. We live in the greatest country in the world and it costs money to keep us at Number #1. Things like infrastructure (everything from roads and bridges to police and fire), defense and education don’t come cheap and they, like welfare, are also paid for by you, John Q. Taxpayer. So every last penny of your tax dollars does not go straight from your paycheck into the crack pipe of the project dweller.

Which brings us to the second misconception:

b) That every person on welfare is either living in an inner city project eating KFC or living in the middle of nowhere and building a meth lab. Look guys – I watch just as much “Cops” as the rest of you. Of course, someone is paying for crack with their welfare money. Of course, someone is buying cough medicine to make meth with their welfare money. But c’mon – this isn’t always the case. Not to get all Oprah on you guys, but in the case of my family, we were doing just fine – we took vacations down the shore, I got lots of He-Man stuff for Christmas, and things were great. Then my dad got laid off, and boy, did that change some things: my parents divorced, my athletic career ended before it began, I picked up both a sense of humor and a weight problem, etc. The point is that there are a lot of hard-working people who are or were once on government assistance. Just please keep that in mind.

And now that’s it. No more politics until 2012. Promise.

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

Six Songs

(Many songs can be heard on mixwit)

“Poke” Frightened Rabbits
Gorgeous song, an immediate addition to the “Let’s Make Out or Something” playlist. So pretty and sad and complex and haunting that you probably won’t catch the line “Or should we kick its cunt in and watch as it dies from bleeding.” But it’s there. Oh, it’s there. And that, my friends, is romance.

(Note however that these guys are Scottish – they used the word “cunt” like we would say “thanks” or “awesome.” I think they even name dogs “Cunt” over there. So it’s not a big deal to them at all.)

“The Company I Keep” Drive By Truckers
Because sometimes I feel like shit, too.

God, I wish it got cold out here (in Southern California). One of my favorite things about winter is that it’s whiskey-drinking season. How the fuck am I going to drink whiskey when it’s only 68 degrees at night? The other night it was a little chilly and we have a fire pit in our backyard, so I poured myself some bourbon and went to sit out by the fire. However, we were out of lighter fluid and I couldn’t get the log to catch, so I grabbed some junk mail and lit that on fire and threw it in the pit. Not a good idea. I was sitting there with my bourbon for maybe two minutes before I was coughing on the smoke – apparently, lighting mail on fire causes a LOT of smoke – and was back in the house in under five minutes, filling pint glasses with water to throw on the fire to put it out. Total, total disaster. I guess I’ll just have to get my fill of whiskey this winter when I’m back on the east coast. But man, do I miss a nice glass of whiskey on a cold night.

“Red Satin Dress” Cherryholmes
Three things about this song:

1) Bluegrass is awesome. Really, anytime I have my iPod on “shuffle” and a solid bluegrass tune comes on, a) I can’t turn it off; and b) I immediately feel better hearing it.

2) “The Sweet Princess” is a great name for a frontier tavern.

3) So the girl in the red satin dress is the devil, right? Am I getting that right?

“Dandy” The Kinks
So the guy in this song is gay but playing straight, right? Am I getting that right?

“Lily and Parrots” Sun Kil Moon
I had to have recommended this before, but it’s worth nothing that few songs make me want to rock harder than this. That’s really saying something.

(And it’s only one of 102 five-star songs out of 8500+ on my iTunes. Actually, about 550 of the 8500 are still unrated, so there still may be more five-stars lurking out there, but I think I’ve caught them all.)

“How Can I Tell You” Liz Durrett
This week, because of daylight savings, it’s now dark when I leave work. This means that my commute home, which before was “juuuust bearable” (about an hour-fifteen to go 17.6 miles), is now firmly entrenched in “completely unbearable and homicide-inducing” – apparently LA people don’t know how to drive in the dark. I wrote before that when I moved to LA and started doing this commute, I learned how and why parents beat their children, why couples get divorced, and why so many kids grow up hating their parents – because few things can ruin a person’s mood than a long, bad commute home, and this mood is then in turn taken out on those around the bad commute person.

(The good thing: When I move back to NYC next year, I will never again say, “Oh, I don’t ever go above 23rd Street.” Christ, at this point I think I could live in Rhode Island and be ok with commuting to NYC.)

So when I have a bad commute, I try to mitigate its effects on myself, my roommates and my friends (for some reason, Friday evening is always the worst drive, even though Friday morning is the easiest). After a long, slow, blood pressure-raising drive home, I will pull into my driveway, turn off my car, and sit in the car, listening to this song. I know, I know – it makes me sound like a crazy person, just sitting there in the dark car, head back, eyes often closed, listening to this chick cover Cat Stevens – but I need a few minutes to decompress, to take deep breaths, and to calm down, lest I go straight into my house, put my fist throw a wall, grab a beer, and lock myself away in my room.

These are good moments, in the car listening to this song, completely shutting off my anger and letting the calm flow over me. And now, whenever I’m at work or on a plane or cleaning my room and listening to the iPod, when this song comes on, I completely shut down – it’s like someone is putting nitrous through the vents: I hear it and get calm, sleepy and quietly content. See you later, stress.

I’m not sure it’ll have the same effect on you, but if you’re looking for a chill-out/stress-reducing song, try it out.

[Have a good weekend.]

Well, that was fun.

I’m going to be magnanimous here and not gloat. Believe me, I had every intention to do just that – to talk about how my faith in this country and in the citizens of this country has been restored by a good ol’ fashioned ass-whuppin’ (349 electoral votes to just 163, when the previous two elections went 286-252 and 271-266), or about how fans of Larry the Cable Guy and trucks with hemis are having a rough day while fans of racial tolerance and bachelors degrees from accredited four-year colleges are very happy, or whatnot.

But no – I’m not going to do it. This is mostly because I was so surprised by the vitriol spewed from McCain followers via Facebook status, so much so that I decided that I should not stoop to that level. However, just for fun, three of my favorite status updates of (I presume) McCain supporters/Obama haters that I saw either during the election or immediately after were:

- “_____ is disgusted at the college liberal fucks who are voting for obama….letting homo’s, poor ppl, and scumbags run wild….wake up hippies”

- “_____ is waiting for someone to go John Wilkes Booth/Lee Harvey Oswald on Obama”

- “_____ is sad for all the beautiful babies who will be murdered before they have a chance to make it out of their mommy’s tummies”

I mean, yikes. It’s worth noting that all three of these people are college graduates, and all three were immediately de-friended.

Anyway, it goes without saying that this is a great day for America. And – at the risk of being called a cop out – that’s all I’ll say about that. To the point: I’m sick as shit and have been pretty much wiped out the past two days. First, I have such a bad case of athlete’s foot that both my feet are wrapped in gauze (one foot has it much worse than the other). I have only myself to blame; I’ve had some form of athlete’s foot since July, but now it’s out of control. When I was hanging out with my doctor buddy last week, I showed him the foot and he responded with a sincere, heartfelt “Oh my god.” A few days later, my sister nurse asked me to never show my foot to her again, saying it looked more like a burn than athlete’s foot. So there’s that. Secondly, because of my neglect of the athlete’s foot, I’ve developed some sort of rash in several parts of my body, including my chest, neck, armpits, arms, hands and face (especially around my eyes). No idea what that’s about, but I’m guessing I’m not getting laid anytime soon with little red bumps on my arms and hands and what appears to be birthmarks developing in splotches all over my face. And lastly, I have a head cold. This is by far the least problematic of my three ailments, except in the morning. Invariably at some point during my morning one hour twenty minute commute, I will work up a loogie the size of my thumb, attempt to spit it out my window while the car is moving, and fail miserably, resulting in said loogie either flying back and hitting me on the shoulder or missing the window completely and landing on the inside of the car door. Not the best part of starting the day.

(By the way, this is the first time in my entire life that I’ve written the word “loogie” and had to google it to get the spelling right. Apparently, there are two camps: loogie and lugee. Didn’t think I’d learn that when I woke up this morning.)

So as much as I’d like to rise to the occasion and write something about a watershed moment in American history or dawn of a new era or “yes we can” – or even rant about the lunacy about Prop 8 passing here in California – Uncle Jason just does not have his good stuff right now. Maybe tomorrow, maybe the next day, but for right now, I’ve got to get back to limping and scratching and spitting. But even though I’ll continue to be disgusting, like most of you I am now and will continue to bask in that warm glowing warming glow, knowing that for once, we got it right. We got it right, folks.

Now comes the hard part.

Here’s the thing: I kinda like John McCain. Sure, he’s a child of privilege, an admiral’s son and an admiral’s grandson. Sure, he graduated 894 out of 899 at Annapolis; when I think of the bottom 0.6% of my college class, I think mostly of transients, drifters, and the now-deceased. Sure, upon graduation he displayed no real talent in the military, crashing not one, not two, but three planes during his tenure in the service, part of which was spent at McCain Field, named after his grandpop, which is the equivalent but not really of being a computer programmer named Steve Microsoft. Sure, he married a former model but when he returned from ‘Nam and found her in a wheelchair after a car accident, he took up with a woman eighteen years his junior – with a family fortune estimated around $100 million – whom he married six weeks after his divorce was finalized. And sure, he’s short and bad-tempered.

But you know what: the guy was in a cage for five and a half years. A cage! Five and a half years! Have any of you reading this spent any time in a cage? Didn’t think so. Neither have I, but I can’t imagine it’s any good. Also, does the term “straight talk” mean anything to you? After years of BS from politicians, McCain’s always told is like it is, never pulling punches. And he’s a Maverick, which means he plays by his own rules, nobody else’s, not even his own. Most importantly, he’s Country First ™; all the time, Country First ™. America, America, America. John McCain. Straight Talk. Maverick. Country First ™. America. McCain.

So I actually kinda personally like John McCain. Aside from the cage thing, he’s pretty much lived a great life: born into wealth and privilege; got into college and numerous sweet jobs because of his dad; married a model and when she got ugly, married another richer, younger, more attractive woman; and ultimately attained power, wealth and prestige. Five and a half miserable years, sixty-six and a half (!) terrific ones. Doesn’t seem like a bad trade-off to me.

But as much as I admire the guy for Living the Life, I can’t vote for him for president. The reason is simple: I have a brain. Also: I care about this country.

Before we continue, a disclosure: I am not quite a “raging” liberal, but I’m not too far off. Call me crazy, but I prefer when gay people are treated as human beings, not slightly better than slaves or dogs. I also think that if a woman is raped and impregnated by a stranger or, say, by her dad, she should have the right to choose whether or not to have the baby; I can be Irish Catholic and still realize that my personal/religious beliefs should not be forced by law onto others (nuts, I know). Universal healthcare would be nice, I think, as would maybe figuring out how to wrap up all this war stuff going on. Most important to me, I believe in the welfare system and the concept of government assistance. I once dated a girl whose father hated paying taxes, saying that all his tax money went to “dishwashers” and their several (presumably brown or brown-ish) children. I had to bite my tongue, because one of the most beloved pastimes of my youth was beating up my little brother and forcing him to go to the grocery store when my mom asked me to go to the store, since I didn’t want any of my friends to see me paying for groceries with food stamps. We were not brown (or even close to it) and neither of my parents were dishwashers, but we were on public assistance back in the day. However, I think we turned out fine – I’m pretty sure that I made more money last year than this ex’s dad (if not, I almost certainly out-earned him in 2006), my brother is a first year student at UVA Law, and my sister, a newly-minted nurse, graduated in the top 3% of her class. Each of us at one time or another paid for milk with food stamps, then later got scholarships to our respective high schools and colleges (which led or will lead to profitable and successful careers), and five years from now we will pool our money to buy the sickest beach house the Jersey shore has ever seen, which I will promptly burn down during a failed suicide attempt after my second divorce. So you lose, ex’s dad.

(Well, I guess the beach house ultimately loses, but you know what I mean.)

It’s hard for me to argue how one should not vote for John McCain and Sarah Palin, since it seems to me to be such an easy choice. It’s kinda like a beautiful woman (or man) walking up to you and saying, “Look, I’m going to either bite off a large chunk of your face or give you a hot, steamy kiss – which one do you want?” Everyone I know – and every sane, rational person – would pick the kiss, although I do realize that there are some sick, demented fucks out there who would take the face-biting.

(I might also add that when someone says “I’m a Republican”, they’re essentially telling me they’re either rich, churchy or dumb. Please find me a Republican who doesn’t fit into one of those three categories and I’ll give you $1. Good luck.)

(Note: Children of the rich, churchy or dumb count here as well. I’m sure I’m going to get at least one email from a Republican who’s a teacher and poor, but whose dad owns half of whatever county he/she lives in. Just wanted to clarify.)

And I realize there is nothing that I can say right now about the election to change your opinion. After months of constant media coverage, the election is tomorrow. You know who you’re voting for. It’s go time. No turning back. It’s on. Like Donkey Kong. Etc, etc, etc. Still, here’s my short, last-minute pitch:

Not to be Debbie Downer, but America is in trouble. Our role as leader in world diplomacy is in jeopardy, as we are mired in two wars, both with no end in sight, neither of which has caused us to be held in very high-esteem by the rest of the world. Over the past eight weeks, our financial infrastructure has crumbled, seemingly getting worse and worse with each click of the “refresh” button on CNN.com. The national debt, at $10 trillion, is at a 53-year high (it was on its way down at $5.7 trillion when Bush II took office). From July to September of this year, the number of households that received at least one foreclosure notice was 766,000, an increase of 71% when compared to the same period last year (according to something called RealtyTrac). Gas prices, now dropping, were at an all time high three months ago, the same time Exxon Mobil recorded a then record-breaking $11.68 billion in profits (the record was broken just this past quarter, with news of a $14.83 billion profit).

In short, things are pretty fucked up. So here are two main reasons why you should vote for Barack Obama and Joe Biden:

1) The life expectancy of the average American male is 75.15. John McCain is 72. If elected, he’d be the oldest elected president in US history. At the end of his first term, McCain would be 76.

Do you know what we did when my grandpop turned 72? We took away his car keys. Sorry, grandpop – no more driving. You’re just too old. And unlike John McCain, my grandfather did not spend five-plus years of his life in a cage in Vietnam. Nor did he (presumably) spend his most of his life eating caviar drizzled with truffle oil at Washington high society functions. By 76, my grandpop was down to one foot and was regularly calling both me and my younger brother “Justin.”

So if John McCain were elected and – God forbid – anything should happen to him, the leader of our country and the entire free world would be a woman who went to four colleges in four years, is a few short years removed from being the mayor of a town of 6000, and – let’s just say it – is really, really, really dumb (A Short List of Things Sarah Palin Does Not Know: What EBITDA stands for; If North or South Korea is the bad one; Any Jewish, black or gay people).

Nevermind that John McCain proved himself a one of the world’s greatest hypocrites – a man who truly believes in “Country First” would never choose such a blatantly unqualified running mate only to stem the tide of the press that the opposing party was receiving – Sarah Palin, even with her one semester studying General Studies at Matanuska-Susitna College, is not qualified to be Vice President of the United States. If you’d like to argue this point with me, I’d be happy to engage in a debate with you – provided the institution has reasonable visiting hours and you find the time to stop riding your unicorn and talking to pixies for just a few minutes.

2) In July of this year when Barack Obama spoke in Berlin, Germany, some 200,000 people turned out to hear him speak. Two. hunna. thousand. John McCain’s camp immediately jumped on this, inferring that Barack Obama was a “celebrity.” This made no sense to me; so it’s a bad thing when people – people anywhere – are motivated by and have a stake in the political process? Really?

At the end of the first debate, Barack Obama said that his father came to America to make it, “because the notion was that there was no other country on Earth where you could make it if you tried. The ideals and the values of the United States inspired the entire world.” So my question: Do you guys think that people still feel this way about America? I don’t exactly travel abroad a lot, but I don’t think America is viewed as the great beacon of hope that it once was, this bastion of freedom and equality. In the world’s view, a vote for McCain/Palin is a vote for four more years of the policies that have divided the world diplomatically and nearly crippled it financially. Don’t get me wrong – I’m not saying we should do whatever foreigners say. If the Brits said, “America, you gotta get rid of hot dogs”, I’d tell those limey bastards to stick it where the sun don’t shine because I’m American and this is America and we don’t crap from nobody and “U-S-A! U-S-A!” But after eight years of decline by nearly every conceivable political measure, it’s time for a change. The best thing to come out of the Republican leadership in the past eight years has been Will Ferrell’s impression of George Bush – and he left SNL in 2002. If we fail to take this opportunity to move this country in a new, more positive direction, we will have only ourselves to blame.

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

George Bush “won” the presidency in 2000 and 2004 because he was able to mobilize the vote of the evangelical Christians by playing upon fear, fear of a Godless nation (first), fear of an enemy that was misunderstood (second), and fear that the morals and values of the American people were being undermined on all fronts (both times). Let the election of 2008 not be decided by those who are afraid, but by the young, by the angry, by the determined, and by the hopeful.

Vote Obama/Biden.