Ohmygod, I have so much to tell you guys.

I finished the book (again). So here, once and for all, it was happened with my book (if, you know, you care):

- I signed a book deal with the new imprint of a subsidiary of a major publisher in late 2005, a deal I negotiated myself without an agent when the editor approached me (whoops!).

- I finished the book in May 2006.

- By late 2006, there were rumors that the imprint might be “going away.”

- In March 2007, the new imprint of the subsidiary of the major publisher officially went away, meaning my book was, essentially, now a free agent.

- I did absolutely nothing for awhile, aside from meeting and wonderful lit agent, Erin.

- Erin read the book either in late 2007 or early 2008, and returned it to me with some notes.

- In February of 2008, I went down the shore by my lonesome to “finish” the book again.

- I gave the book back to Erin to re-sell in the spring of 2008.

- Because I have (and Erin has, too) a great relationship with a wonderful editor at HarperCollins, we took it to the wonderful editor at HC first before taking the book “out to auction” (sorta like we gave HC first dibs).

- HC said, “We’ll take it!” in June 2008. I said, “Cool, let’s do it!”

- There was some back and forth with my HC editor in fall 2008, giving notes and meeting for beers, which most of the time degenerated into me getting drunk and saying, “You don’t understand – I’m like Scotty Fitzgerald but with bigger balls and a smaller vocabulary!” over and over again.

- I went down the shore by my lonesome to “finish” the book in November 2008, but mostly took fantasy showers, dicked around on the internet, overate and masturbated.

- I “finished” the book again in January 2009, and all parties were extremely happy with the result (well, except my mom).

- The book will likely be released in January 2010.

Got that? There’s the whole timeline, most of which I couldn’t explain as it was happening, since these things can be sensitive. It was a long, strange trip, but I really am very happy with the end result and I think you’ll like it. I don’t want to give too much away, but it’s a memoir that deals with my family from a few years before my birth up until about the time I turned 13. There will be some pictures (like the Life in Pictures), but there will be no overlap with anything you’ve read on here. AND it’s not very long, so you can read it quickly even if you hate reading, and it will be coming out in paperback, so you don’t have to spend $26 for the hardcover. Everyone wins!

[The bestest person in the entire world through the process - aside from my Aunt Maureen and Uncle John, who let me use their shore house to "write" - was my agent Erin. When I negotiated the first book deal back in 2005 by myself, the editor gave me a figure and I said I'd think about it. I called him back the next day and said I wanted a little more. When he asked how much, I said, "I don't know...how about [figure]?” and he yelled “SOLD!” before I could even get the rest of the number out of my mouth. The lesson: I suck at negotiations, a fact which became apparent later when I learned that other bloggers were getting GINORMOUS “Wait, are you serious?” book contracts; I literally (potentially) cost myself tens of thousands of dollars with my shrewd negotiating tactics. Which was totally, totally sweet. Meanwhile, Erin has always been terrific – I agreed with every note or suggestion she had on the manuscript, she was pleasant and always smelled nice, and she handled all that negotiating/business stuff with grace and aplomb. She’s the bomb.]

I was entertained by the Philadelphia Eagles’ (mostly) valiant playoff efforts. Here’s the thing: when I watched the Eagles lose 10-3 at Washington on December 21 in a game that they absolutely, positively needed to have, I checked out. That doesn’t meant that I stopped being a fan of the team, but between that game, the Ravens’ demolition, and the putrid tie at Cincy, I was all set with my Phillies’ championship, thanks. Because they needed Tampa to lose at home to Oakland (!) and either Minny or Chicago to lose in Week 17, I, like everyone else, figured the Birds were done. Pitchers and catchers in seven weeks, baby!

But then, over Christmas break, I watched one of the top three most satisfying football games I’ve ever seen. Tampa surprisingly lost and the Birds simply destroyed the hated Cowboys. I am not ashamed to say that I may have teared up a bit while watching that game, but the holidays generally make me an emotional wreck anyway, so whatever.

I was home in Philly for the first round playoff game against Minnesota and was bemused by the callers to 610 WIP (the sports talk station in Philly), as 90% of their questions before the Vikings game were related to how the Eagles can beat the Giants in the next round of the playoffs. The Eagles, of course, did beat the Vikes, but I wasn’t overly impressed; in the chicken-or-egg debate, it seemed to me not so much that the Eagles played well, but that the Vikings played really, really poorly (was AP even on the field in the second half of the fourth quarter?)

But then, over Christmas break, I watched one of the top three most satisfying football games I’ve ever seen (again). Say what you will about the Giants suspect play calling, but the Eagles went into the Giants’ house and 100% took it to them. Goodness gracious. After Jake Delhomme decided to play catch with the Cardinals the night before, I knew that anything could happen in the playoffs, but I had not expected such a trouncing of the Giants (the game was not as close as the score would indicate). The Eagles’ D looked tenacious, coming up with huge short-yardage stops and making big plays. Oh, boy. We were going to Arizona, where they need two extensions of the blackout window to sell out their first home playoff game in 67 years. In short, I wasn’t worried about playing on the road.

And then Arizona happened.

I don’t know exactly how that went down – how the Arizona offensive line became the 1992 Dallas Cowboys’ offensive line in the first half, or how, even though the Eagles led in the second half, I knew they wouldn’t hold onto the lead. I’m still sorting through my thoughts on this game, and it doesn’t help that I had seven 22oz pints of Bud during said game.

The point is that the Eagles made it interesting in the end, but it’s getting harder and harder to be a fan of this team. Next year, they’ll come back with McNabb (a year older), Westbrook (a year older and that much more fragile), the same cast and the same play-calling. I can’t complain too much – five NFC championships in eight years, even with a 1-4 record in those games, is something that two-thirds of the teams in the league would love to have accomplished – but from an organizational standpoint, I’m very frustrated. The one time the Eagles’ deviated from their philosophy, they wound up going 13-1 (before purposely tanking their last two games) and lost the Super Bowl by three points, mostly because the other team was cheating.

(In the beginning of the year, this team – whose top two WRs were hurt, making their #1 guy a rookie – could have had Anquan Boldin for Lito Shepard and a #2. Think they could still get Anquan for that? Can you imagine DeSean’s deep threat ability, Boldin’s physical prowess, and Curtis’ slot-savvy, together? Good lord.)

They run a west coast offense with (mostly) sub par WRs. The valued the draft, but have made some serious missteps in the first two rounds of the draft under Andy Reid (1999: Barry Gardner in the second round; 2000: Todd Pinkston in the second round; 2001: Freddie Mitchell and Quentin Carver in the first and second rounds; 2003: LJ Smith and Jerome “The Bullet” McDougle in the first and second rounds; 2006: Winston “The Turnstile” Justice in the second round; traded first round picks in 2007 and 2008). They continue to be pass-heavy when evidence and statistics says that they do better when the run the ball more. And now, sadly, their long-time defensive coordinator, one of the best in the league, has cancer.

(I don’t mean to be insensitive – obviously, Jim Johnson having cancer is much worse than the Eagles’ shitty early-round drafting. But it’s more to further illustrate why being an Eagles fan is not the easiest thing in the world right now, even after this “magical” season.)

Anyway, I’m sort of rambling here, but I love the Eagles, their stubbornness as an organization greatly distresses me, and go Phils.

I am now determined to beat this thing that is eating me alive. In July, I got athlete’s foot (or something like it). By October, it had spread to both feet, my armpits, chest, neck and upper back. A doctor buddy took pity and prescribed me some pills. These worked for a while, but once they ran out, it seemed like the pills had only pissed the fungus off. It came back with a vengeance, threatened to attack my penis, and nestled itself all over my body again, seeming to have a special affinity for my belly button, which looked much like the knot of a bright red balloon for a solid month or so.

(By the way, does anyone want to have sex? My car is just around the corner, I promise.)

For the past few weeks, I have had difficultly sleeping because of this rash, since my chest and armpits itch constantly. At first, I covered myself with an antihistamine spray before bed that reduced the itchiness, but again, this seems only to have pissed off the fungus. I still use the antihistamine spray, but now it wears off usually sometime around 4am and I spend anywhere from one to two and a half hours in bed, half-asleep and desperately scratching myself, before rising and starting my day. I’m back to not wearing deodorant, since in my sleep/while half-awake I rake my armpits so incessantly that they’re all cut up. Instead, I use a generous handful of Gold Bond in each pit, resulting in two to three minutes of shrieking at 7am and armpits full of spackle-like paste by noon.

(Seriously, is anyone else hard?)

Last week, I decided that I had had enough and made a doctor’s appointment. After living with my disease for over six months, it’s time to get this straightened out. While I will no doubt miss it in some sort of strange way, a medical-twist on the Stockholm Syndrome, I simply can’t function like a normal human when most of my body is red and itchy and I’m sleeping four or five hours a night. At least, I can’t survive like this without being a junky. I’m pretty sure junkies can handle something like this.

The appointment is next Friday. I would not be surprised if the doctor inspects me, asks me to come with him, walks me outside, and shoots me. It’s at that point where I just may have to be put down. It really is.

I’m going to Vegas to see Motley Crue. Two of my favorite things about LA are: 1) Las Vegas is only a five-hour drive away; and 2) you always “know somebody.” Motley Crue is playing at the Hard Rock Hotel in Las Vegas on Saturday night, February 7. The Joint at the Hard Rock has a capacity of 1400. To put that in perspective, in a few weeks, the Crue is playing at MSG, where capacity is 20,000.

As you might expect, the tickets for the Saturday night Vegas show sold out almost immediately. I was not one of the few to grab a ticket before they sold out, since I didn’t even know Crue was playing there until all the tickets were gone. However, because I have a friend who “knows somebody”, guess who’s going to Vegas on a Saturday morning, seeing Motley Crue that night, then driving back to Vegas on Monday afternoon, likely with at least one of the wimpier STDs and significantly less money in his checking account? This guy right here! A buddy is even flying out from NYC on a $231 round-trip fare and we got a room at Mandalay Bay for $50 per person, per night! (God bless this recession!)

I don’t like to have high expectations, but something tells me that weekend is going to be a good one.

Finally (and probably most importantly)…

I’m moving to Santa Monica. After months of complaining about my commute, things have fallen into place and as of mid-February, I will be living Santa Monica. This is huge. Absolutely, absolutely huge.

As you may have picked up over the past few months, I do not like living in Los Angeles. Coming from NYC, where everything you want is a $10 cab ride away, 24 hours a day, LA has been a very difficult adjustment for me. I loved it when I visited here – I got to see friends, enjoy the warm weather, stare at an entirely different breed of beautiful woman – but those were vacations. Now it’s like I live at my vacation home all year-round and, by the way, I work 50 hours a week.

But on the other hand, I am self-aware enough to realize that I am a very, very shallow person, and that all of my unhappiness in Los Angeles may very well stem from two factors: the fact that I spend about 2.5 hours a day in traffic and the fact that I can’t walk to a bar when I get home. Remove these factors and all that unhappiness may just go away.

And this Santa Monica move just might achieve this. For example, last night I left the office at 7:15pm. As I was driving home, I was shocked at how empty the roads were and what great time I was making. But you know what? I got home at 8:10pm. When I thought I was making great time, it still took me 55 minutes to drive 17 miles from my office to my home. That’s not good.

Living in Santa Monica, my commute will be – max – thirty minutes each way, likely less. That’s an hour a day. Right now, my average time in the car is 2.5 hours. This move is giving me back 1.5 hours a day. If you think that doesn’t sound like a whole lot, I want you to go sit in your car for 90 minutes today. Then tomorrow, I want you to spend 90 minutes at home (or wherever) beating off, listening to music and eating chicken fingers. Then I want you to tell me which 90 minutes you liked better.

So I’m looking forward to this move, to say the least. I hope that this will open up my eyes to a new part of LA, allow me more time to pursue my interests (see: beating off, music, chicken fingers), and generally make me a happier person. Or, at the very least, it will free up more time for me to tell you all how miserable I am on a more consistent basis. So that might be nice. I guess.

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

My Super Bowl Pick

We can argue the pros and cons of each team for hours (just like they’ve been doing on talk radio, TV and web for almost two weeks). Part of me thinks that the Steelers should blow the Cards out – they are the superior team, they’ve been more consistent, they’ll force Arizona to be one-dimensional, it will practically be a home game for the Steelers because all three of Arizona’s fans have previously committed to wine-tasting this weekend, etc.

But here’s why I’m thinking, gambling-wise, Arizona might not be a bad pick:

Ken Whisenhunt (now Arizona’s head coach, formerly the Steelers’ offensive coordinator) and Russ Grimm (now Arizona’s o-line coach, formerly the Steelers’ o-line coach) coached against Dick Lebeau’s defense in practice every week for four seasons.

Might I remind y’all of a quote from John Lynch after the John Gruden-led Bucs beat the Oakland Raiders in Super Bowl Whatever: (something to the effect of) “I’ve never been in a game where the other team ran plays exactly like we ran them in practice.”

Obviously, the situation was a little different back then, as John Gruden was the head coach of the Raiders just the year before. But isn’t the single most crucial aspect of this game the ability to protect Kurt Warner so that we can hit his WRs on both the little timing routes and the deep bombs? And wouldn’t the experience of Whisenhunt and Grimm and their knowledge of the Steelers’ defensive schemes help in this area? You know, maybe just a little bit?

(The Lynch quote reminds me of another post-Super Bowl quote: “They picked up every screen we ran.” Jim Johnson said that after the Eagles lost to the Patriots. Three years later, turns out the Pats were cheating. So that’s probably why they picked up all those screens. And no, I’m not bitter. Fucking Massholes.)

Therefore, if I had to do a straight bet, I’d go Ari +7. However, I’m really digging the tease of Ari +13 and taking the over at 40.5. I think the Steelers will still win. But I think that even against the vaunted Steelers’ D, Arizona can score 17 points, possibly in their sleep. I’m thinking something like Steelers 25, Cardinals 18. Yes, really, 25 and 18.

[Enjoy the game, the weekend, and please, be safe.]

Something tells me that 2009 is going to be a bad, bad year.

I know, I know – not the best attitude to start the new year with (“with which to start the new year?”). I am usually a believer in the theory that positive thinking affects positive outcomes and vice-versa. But since I started thinking about the concept of 2009 – of 2009 as a new year, a fresh start – about fifteen or twenty minutes ago, I can’t help but be overwhelmed with a sense of dread.

2008 was a mixed year for me. The good: resold my book, got a “promotion” at work, saw – in person (!) – the Phillies win a world championship, drove cross-country with my dad and my brother, and lived with the phrase “rock out with your cock out” pretty much all of April and May as I said “See you later” to NYC. Pretty solid. The bad: moved to Los Angeles, which, let’s face it, has essentially crippled me as a person – socially, creatively, and psychologically. Truly, the damage that this move has done to me cannot be understated. So there’s that. Which is kind of a bummer.

Still, on the whole, 2008 cannot be considered a lost year. Really, if any one of those cool things had happened – the book being revived, the promotion, the Phils’ win, or the cross-country drive – I think the year would still qualify as a “W”. All four at once is nothing short of a blessing.

Which brings us to 2009…

I can’t explain it in any other way than to say that I’ve had a pretty good run for the past 29 years, and my come-uppance is long overdue. Yes, moving to LA was a major kick in the pants, but I will be back in NYC full-time, back where I belong, by October at the latest. And if there is a silver lining about the travesty of my LA life it’s that it’s become the rehab that I thought it would: I don’t drink as much, because I don’t have many friends and so I don’t go out; I’m saving a ton of money, because I don’t have many friends and live so far away from the friends I do have but don’t want to get a DUI after hanging out with them; and I’m learning to appreciate life in a new and different way – I don’t think I’ll ever pull the “I don’t go above 23rd Street” line when I move back to NYC after commuting 2.5 hours a day. It’s funny, though – if I was leaving Los Angeles with anything, I assumed it would be an STD or a coke problem, not a greater sense of perspective. But I digress…

Somehow, in some way, I’m going to get what’s coming to me in 2009. I dare not even speculate what this means specifically, because that’s a road I don’t want to go down. But hear me now: 2009. Not gonna be a good one for old Uncle Jason. The come-uppance awaits – and it is really, really pissed off.

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

Now that that wonderful piece of humor writing is finished (I mean, yikes), instead of doing some recap of 2008, below is a Six Songs: Special 2008 edition. All the songs below are songs that I either heard or got into in 2008. This doesn’t mean that the songs were released in 2008, just that they were new to me. Basically, if I had to make a 2008 playlist for myself (of only six songs), this would be it.

(Note: I’ve pimped out some of these songs on here before, but I encourage you to listen to them again, for the first time.)

Six Songs

“Poke” Frightened Rabbit
If sadness is a “bad” emotion, why is it that we are so drawn to it, specifically in art? I typically do not like to be sad, but arguably my most listened to playlist is “Sad As Fuck,” which, as the name implies, makes me sad as fuck. Do we need a good cry/sad feeling as a sort of release to maintain an emotional equilibrium? Does such sad art make us feel better about our own not-so-bad-now condition? Are we so spoiled as a civilization and a culture that we seek out sadness in art because real sadness no longer exists for us (i.e. I don’t think Jews in the Holocaust or serfs in sixteenth century England would consider creating a “Sad As Fuck” playlist)? Are we just a bunch of inherently miserable fucks who would rather secretly wallow in our own pity, wrapped up in a blanket with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s, than run through a meadow holding hands with our lover? I do not know; I only took one psych class in college for about a week before dropping it and switching to “Intro to Sign Language,” in which I got an A-. At the time, a smart move on my part. But now, we are unable to answer these questions. So, sorry about that. My bad.

Aurally, this song is beautiful, ethereal, nearly perfect. It may sound cheap or incomplete to explain it thusly, but it is not so much a song, as in words tied in and blended with music, but an experience, as in when I turn it on I feel one way, and when it is over, I not only feel another way, but I feel this other way very, very deeply. In addition to the pure sound of the song, after a listen or two, it becomes clear that the lyrics are profoundly, devastatingly sad (a small sampling):

I might never catch a mouse and present it in my mouth
To make you feel you’re with someone who deserves to be with you.
But there’s one thing we’ve got going and it’s the only thing worth knowing
It’s got lots to do with magnets and the pull of the moon.

–snip–

Well we can change our partners – this is a progressive dance,
But remember it was me who dragged you up to the sweaty floor.

These words make me want to fall deeply in love, then fall horribly out of love, then fall deeply in love again, then fall even more horribly out of love. And, as stated, I typically do not like to be sad.

So a word of caution: listen at your own peril. And make sure you have a fresh pint of Oatmeal Cookie Chunk in the freezer.

(…)

(OK – enough with the sadness. Let’s focus on romance.)

“Wedding Bell” Beach House
As an overweight, hairy man with a penis no more formidable than your average contact lens case and only a very basic, limited working knowledge of female genitalia, I need all the help I can get when m’lady and I decide, hand-in-hand, to enter the musty realm of lovemaking. To this end, I have been perfecting the “Let’s Make Out or Something” playlist for several years now. This playlist was borne out of necessity; in college, I needed something to mask the sounds of my grunts and snorts while making love, lest my roommates think that two boars were fucking while they studied in the next room (well, one boar and a mannequin and/or sack of potatoes). What started as a mix CD featuring such songs as Phish’s “Waste” and a few choice U2 numbers (“All I Want Is You”, “Trying To Throw Your Arms Around the World”, etc) has evolved into a sophisticated collection of songs whose aim is to cultivate a mood that is romantic and conducive to making out without being too obvious (all this despite the title of the mix).

This song is easily the marquee 2008 addition to the LMOOS list. Dreamy, wispy, romantic without hope (“Oh, but your wish is my command”), I cannot imagine a scenario in which playing or listening to this song would not lead to making out, likely in under thirty seconds. It is not too far-fetched to conceive of walking around the city with this song loaded into a boombox, turning it on every few blocks, and watching those around you fall helplessly into each others arms, powerless against the desire to seek out physical affection from the nearest possible source. The song is just that lovely, and for this reason, is a tremendous asset to the LMOOS playlist.

As I approach 30, I have come to accept the fact that if a woman mutters “Wow” while she and I are in the bedroom, it is not because of my almost-technically-assault fingering, my poorly misguided attempts at cunnilingus, or my one-two-three-and…scene! genital-to-genital penetration, but because, invariably and always, she really digs the song that’s playing. And seriously, I am totally ok with that – I’m just happy to be getting laid.

“Emily Jean Stock” Clap Your Hands Say Yeah
This song = NYC in winter. Not the NYC of Fifth Avenue or Rockefeller Center, but the NYC of the Bowery between Delancey and the Manhattan Bridge or the NYC of 1st Ave between Houston and 4th Street. Weird to the point of being slightly alarming, but ultimately harmless and charming (“You look so neat/Every day is your birthday”). I hear it, and I’ve got a good buzz on, and it is 3am, and I am walking through the streets of the East Village and then down the Bowery to my old place, eating pizza, unable to walk in a straight line, thinking how strange and lovely it is that everything is so quiet, as I burn the roof of my mouth because I’m too drunk and too hungry to just wait for the damn slice to cool off.

“Hellodrama” What Made Milwaukee Famous
The band’s name could not be more obnoxious, but the song could not be more catchy. I pimped this one before and what I said still holds true: if I could start a band that would highlight my Elvis Costello-meets-Weezer leanings, this is exactly what our first single would sound like. I mean, exactly. I’m guaranteed to turn the volume all the way up when this song comes on in the car, which is a compliment of the highest order.

“Bring It On Home To Me (Live from Harlem Square Club)” Sam Cooke
I never thought I’d say “I wish I could have been a black man in 1963,” but if it meant I could be at this show, I think I’d take the whole racism and struggle thing and just figure it out. It’s unfair to single out one song from this album; to be appreciated, the whole album, all ten songs and thirty-four minutes, must be listened to in order to properly follow the building enthusiasm of the crowd, the growing power and confidence of the band, and the increasing swagger of Sam himself. But this song, the eighth on the album and the set, represents the zenith of the evening. Sam is…well, Sam is totally fucking spectacular, feeding off the crowd’s energy, the very pinnacle of performer without comprising the unique beauty and power of his voice. You can easily hear the crowd singing along with him, particularly at “Buried, buried in my grave!” line, and the call-and-answer “Yeah!” session toward the end had me doing 70mph after midnight in the November night of the Jersey shore and later, vodka cran in hand, sitting at the kitchen table just before the sun came up, screaming right back at Sam – I’m not sure that my hearing has fully recovered from listening to this song so loudly. Easily one of the best live performances I’ve ever heard, a singular piece of music history, and a must-have for any soul music fan (or any music fan, really).

(After reading this over, what I have written does not do justice to the “Live at the Harlem Square Club” album. I am sad about this, but also can do no better. If you were standing next to me right now, I’d give you $10 to download the whole thing. But you’re not, so you’re going to have to figure it out on your own. My last word: it is not possible to be disappointed by this music.)

“Whole Lotta Rosie” AC/DC
The best guitar player I ever met was (and still is) my buddy Mike, who I lived with the summer between my junior and senior years in college. Mike was a rock star almost accidentally: he was 6′5″, jacked, sported an unkempt mohawk, loved studying and visiting India, and absolutely crushed (in addition to being a virtuoso guitar player). I s’pose that many would describe him as a “character.”

At the time I was playing bass in college band called Royce, and, while it was fun, I didn’t really care for the music. My favorites were Elvis Costello and Squeeze; we covered Tool and Helmet extensively. Though I had been playing guitar for several years, I picked up bass to play in the band and was ok, passable, at it. The singer of the band would email a song for us to learn, I’d get the tab, download the song, and work it out. Done and done. I was in the band for the camaraderie, the free booze and the blowjob (singular – thank you Kathy at Middlebury), but not the music.

In order to help me get better at bass, Mike and I would “jam” together, usually creating nonsense songs while bombed with the help of our friend (and lyricist) Dan, songs with titles like “Monkey Man”, “Masturbation (Shit On My Chest)”, “Choco Taco”, “It’s Not My Fault I Like to Drink (It’s Not My Fault I Like to Puke Some)” and of course, the heart-wrenching “Later, Powers”, written after our buddy’s dad forced him to move out after we got an eviction notice and a $24,000 fine for damage we did to the apartment (long story).

But through all the booze-fueled sessions, the most important thing that Mike taught me was also something very simple: the best way to improve both your feel and your speed was to crank up the stereo and play along with whatever song you’re trying to learn. Sure, there’d be moments of ugliness, as you lagged behind riffs and butchered large chunks of solos, but sooner or later, you’d pick up the feel and be rocking right along. Despite the fact that I had been playing guitar for seven or so years and had been in a band for almost one, I had learned all of my songs playing just my instrument without accompaniment (stupid, I know). Mike’s rather obvious nugget not only improved my playing but also made it a lot more fun.

And then I heard this song and my penis nearly exploded.

This is a very powerful song to begin with. When a buddy asked for a few recommendations for his work-out playlist, I offered this song, with the caveat that he will likely break whatever machine he is using and possibly his own hands when this song comes on (seriously, it is that intense). I was so moved by this song when I first heard it a few months ago that I felt a strong desire to name my first-born daughter Rosie, even though the song itself is about a fat chick who fucks like a maniac. But because I’ve made out with two girls named Rose/Rosie, I can’t do it (I have a rule that I can’t name my daughter after anyone I’ve made out or done it with, which means she won’t be named Rose/Rosie, Heather, or Josh).

Last month, while packing for a three-week vacation back east, this song came on the old iTunes. I paused it before I hurt something and decided to do something I had never done before: plug in my guitar and play along with it.

I went online to get the tab and saw that the song itself, the rhythm part at least, is pretty easy – just good ol’ fashioned simple power-chord rock n’ roll. I plugged in my guitar, turned on my amp, and then put the song on my Bose iPod uber-speakers as loud as it would go.

As soon as I played the first chord with Angus & Co, three women in my neighborhood instantly orgasmed. By the time Bon screamed “You can say she’s got it all!”, my penis had already grown seven inches and was threatening my life (in both Spanish and English). By the second verse, I had somehow managed to beat up three former death row inmates and my balls were roughly the size of softballs (but much, much harder). Because of the solo, approximately eight months from now, several children will be born in the 90278 zip code with beards and propensities for 16oz cans of Budweiser, boobies, and the Philadelphia Eagles. When the song finally finished, I dropped down to do some push-ups and accidentally destroyed certain areas of northern Mexico.

So yeah, if you’re going to add this to your work-out mix, just be careful. For God’s sake, be careful.