On Friday night, I went to dinner with my buddy Griff, in town from Seattle. Griff is an old friend – we lived on the same floor freshman year at BC – and it was good to catch up with him over ribs and beers. When the check came, we decided to split it and threw our cards down (I mean, we weren’t going to have sex later, so a 50/50 split is fair). The waiter took our cards and walked away, but soon can back and asked, “Who’s Jason?” I said that I was, and he said that my card didn’t go through and asked if I had activated it.

I told him that was strange, because it was a debit card, and then I paid my portion in cash. I wasn’t embarrassed, because though I won’t say this is a common occurrence, it happens occasionally. See, at any given time, I only keep about a grand in my bank account. This is divided, with a few hundred in my checking account, but most in my savings account. This means that I often have to transfer money from the savings to the checking when I know I’m going out big time or am about to make a big purchase. The rest of my money I keep in an ING account. The ING account is wonderful, because it takes two full business days to transfer funds between my accounts. The ING account and the $1000 in the bank account (with most in savings) are both efforts to save me from myself, particularly to save me from those $200+ bar tabs and $300+ meals that I so often enjoyed in NYC. When I moved to LA, I said that I looked at it like a stint in rehab – physically, emotionally and financially. Even though I hate it here, at least I’ve learned to be more responsible with my money. Which is nice, I guess, if not a lot more boring.

As Griff and I finished our beers, I pulled out my iPhone to check my bank account and move money from savings to checking. I still thought it was strange that my debit card would be denied – my portion of the bill was around $50, and I was certain I had more than that in my checking account. But after I logged in to the Citibank site, I saw they were having technical difficulties. Whatever. I figured I’d look into it later.

That night, I went home and had to work until 2am (don’t get me started). While waiting for a response on something, I logged back into Citibank’s site again, and again they were down. But still, whatever – I knew I had about a grand sitting in the account and I would just got to an ATM the following day to sort it out. No biggie.

Long Tangent I: I have been occasionally making out with my roommate Selena. The short of it is that I knew her and her roommates Mark and Chris through mutual friends before I moved to LA full-time. I was all set to move to LA and had found a place though Craigslist with a girl I had never met (though I wanted to live alone, knowing LA was temporary, I didn’t want to drop a few grand on couches, TVs, pots, etc and decided I had to live with a roommate while out here), when Chris called me up. He said that he was moving out of the huge, three-bedroom party central house he shared with Mark and Selena and wanted to know I wanted in. I deliberated for a bit: I knew the commute would suck, but I knew and liked Mark and Selena, the rent was balls cheap and they had a yard and BBQs and the largest TV (62″) I’ve ever seen in a home. Living with two people I already knew and got along with was more appealing than living with a stranger, so I moved in.

Now, Selena and I had made out prior to me moving in, but we had a discussion that no funny business should occur if/after I moved in. This worked (for the most part). But as of this weekend, I’m moving out. I found an ideal situation: a gigantic fully-furnished one-bedroom 1.6 miles from my office in Westwood with a lease that runs from June 1 until December 1, which just so happens to be my target return date to NYC. I can’t get into how excited I am to move, because my head would explode (or at least my fingers would be unable to type). But early last week I learned that a buddy and his new lady were going to Big Bear for part of the long weekend, and since I am the Road Trip King and am moving far, far away from the South Bay into the civility that is Westwood, I suggested Selena and I head up as well.

And so we found ourselves at a gas station on Saturday morning, ready to drive up to Big Bear, when I went into the mini-mart to hit the ATM and figure out this bank account nonsense once and for all. I put my card in, entered my PIN, and then immediately got an error message and a receipt that said “Unauthorized User.”

Now I knew something was wrong.

I wanted to get up to Big Bear as soon as possible and figured I would just handle it up there – hey, if someone stole my identity, it was probably too late already – so away we went, two part-time lovers heading into the mountains. The drive was an exciting, up 9000 feet into the sky along a series and narrow and winding roads (I would NOT recommend the drive at night, unless you want a death wish). Finally, when we got to Big Bear, I called Citibank and explained the situation. The woman spent some time looking into my account. She said I had $800-something in the account and that it appeared that when I hit the ATM at the gas station and got “Unauthorized User,” I entered the wrong PIN. When I mentioned that I couldn’t access my information online, she said that Citi’s site was, um, having problems. At any rate, I should be fine to access cash now. Whew.

I left Selena and went out to gather supplies, namely Budweiser, Doritos and assorted cupcakes and related dessert items. I went to the liquor store and before gathering my sundries, hit the ATM there. I swiped the card, carefully entered my PIN and, once again, “Unauthorized User.”

What. the. fuck.

Now I was getting angry. Without returning to the room, I stepped outside the liquor store and called Citi again. I got a different woman and gave her the rundown, perhaps in a not-so-happy tone. She put me on hold for two minutes and when she came back, asked me to hold just a little longer. She then took me off hold and offered up this doozy: “Sir, it appears that there was been a court-ordered restraining order put on your account. You have to call back Tuesday.”

(???)

(I mean, ?!?!?!)

Me: “I’m sorry, did you say ‘court-ordered restraining order?’”

She said that yes, she did. I asked what that meant and why there was a “court-ordered restraining order” on my account in the first place, and she said that she couldn’t tell me and I’d have to call back Tuesday (bear in mind, this conversation was happening at 2pm on the Saturday of Memorial Day weekend). I told her that I’ve been with Citi for years and would call on Tuesday but would also be calling on Tuesday to close my accounts with them and take my banking elsewhere if someone didn’t immediately explain to me what was going on.

She put me on hold for another two minutes, then transferred me to a manager, who did his best to explain the situation. He informed me that the IRS (!) had frozen my assets (!!) and were the ones who put the restraining order on the account (!!!). He said he didn’t know why – all the bank does is get a notice from the IRS providing a name, bank account number and an order to freeze, which Citi got at 4:29pm on Friday. This was something that I needed to address with the IRS itself and he gave me a reference number and a 1-800 number, but told me that they were not open again until Tuesday morning. Until then, “Sorry”, but I was unable to withdraw funds or otherwise use my Citibank account.

I thanked him, completely dazed, unable to complain about the first woman I talked to blatantly lying (wrong PIN? site down?), and hung up. There I was, standing outside the local liquor store in the mountains of California, having just been informed that the IRS was trying to destroy me; I was being treated like an international criminal, a flight risk. I went through the scenarios: I actually got money back this year, and the most recent letter I got from the IRS said that I had overpaid when filing my taxes and would get more back, so that wasn’t it. I wasn’t laundering money or doing anything illegal – I mean, sure, I gamble a little bit, but where are we, Russia? Besides, I am a small beans gambler and mostly bad at it, so it wasn’t like I was not declaring thousands of dollars in gambling winnings. If not owing taxes or being investigating for something illegal, what the hell could it be? My only thought was that it’s a mistake. It has to be a mistake. It has to be a mistake.

But I had more practical concerns. Namely, here I was, one hour into a two-day mini-vacation and I had no access to my bank account. Worse, I don’t carry credit cards on me – I don’t use them (which is good), though I have two stashed in my dresser drawer in my bedroom for “emergency” situations (emergency situations like, you know, when the IRS freezes your assets for three days). But of course, I didn’t have these cards on me for the weekend and would have to live with whatever cash I had on my person.

I looked in my wallet and counted $18.

I had absolutely no means to pay for anything for the next 48 hours. None. Nothing. Nothing at all. Eighteen bucks. That’s it. Standing outside that liquor store, I was faced with the task of going back and telling Selena that she would be treating. All weekend. For everything.

After my unique walk of shame, when I did explain the situation to Selena, god bless her, she was understanding. I told her – and she realized, thankfully – that I was good for it, and then when we got back to LA, I would figure this all out. I told her we’d keep every receipt and I’d pay her back for every last penny and, in the meantime, she could order lobster with every meal. Spare no expense, it was all coming back to her. Promise, promise, promise.

But still, it was humiliating. I don’t have much to offer women, and chief among the things I do have to offer is my whatever-the-opposite-of-frugality-is. I’m old school, baby, and I take pride in being able to take a woman out, to treat her to nice things, and to pick up the check and tip well when the waitress puts the little black wallet on the table (after smacking her on the ass, of course). And now this poor girl was going to pay for absolutely everything for an entire two days. What a nice weekend. What a deadbeat.

(I should mention that on my Friday evening drive home from work, with Griff in the car, I got pulled over and my car was nearly impounded by the po-po because after a year out here I still don’t have CA plates and my PA registration has been expired for two months. The only reason it didn’t get impounded was because I nearly wept in the car, saying, “I’m sorry, officer, I just lived in NYC for eight years and I don’t know anything about cars! And my dad will kill me if anything happens to this car! He’s a mechanic and a real man and he thinks I’m gay! I’m so ashamed!”)

(By the way, I’ll be 30 in seven weeks, have a good job, and, believe it or not, am not a junkie. Friday 6pm – Saturday 3pm was not the best stretch for Uncle Jason. Real “we’re going to talk about this when we get home” moment.)

Anyway, aside from that minor bump in the road, the weekend went off without a hitch. Well, actually, that’s not true – Selena got sick, likely due to being in such close proximity to a financial/life cancer. We did, however, go bowling, which was lovely. My first game: 97. My second game: 157. Then just when I was warming up, Selena said she was going to faint, so we had to go home. There’s your weekend.

(Also the night before, the band at the bar we were at played Styx’s “Too Much Time on My Hands” and I nearly lost my shit. I mean, there are few joys in life like cover-band Styx – and an overly appreciative crowd to go with it. Truly one of the highlights of the past few months. Big Bear really deserves its own post, but suffice it to say, it’s one of the greatest and most interesting places on earth. I would go back this weekend if I could.)

Fast forward to Tuesday morning, back in LA: Before I even sat down at my desk in my office, I was dialing the IRS. I got through quickly and spoke to Mr. White. I explained that there was a misunderstanding and that my assets were frozen and restraining order and mistake and I have no idea what happened and he stopped me half-way through my jumbled story and asked for my social security number. I gave it to him and, after a few seconds, he said, “Nope, nothing here – we actually owe you money.”

You know how after getting laid, you lay there, and you’re smiling, and you take a deep breath, and you think (and in my case, say aloud), “You know what? That was pretty sweet. Pret-tee, pret-tee, pret-tee sweet. Wowza.” Well, I felt the complete opposite of that when Mr. White said, “Nope – nothing here.” All weekend long, all I looked forward to was that Tuesday morning call in which I’d clear my good name. And Mr. White had nothing for me. Meltdown in five…four….three….

Perhaps sensing the distress/imminent explosion in my silence on the other end of the line, Mr. White tried offering help. “Do you owe alimony?” “God, I hope not.” “Have you paid your student loans?” “Yep.” “Maybe it’s a state issue – have you contacted New York State?”

No, I had not contacted New York State. Mr. White gave me the number to the NYS Department of Taxation. In a few minutes, I was on the phone with Marissa, and the mystery was soon solved.

Long Tangent II: I think I have previously mentioned this, but in 2006, I had some tax issues with the IRS. See, when you get a book advance (like the one I got from my first, now-defunct publisher), no tax is taken out. So if someone says, “I got a $100,000 book advance,” they got a check for $100,000 and it was up to them to save for taxes. (Note: I did not get a $100,000 advance.) This is problematic for someone as financially-irresponsible as myself, but that’s not where the problem was. The problem was that H&R Block person who prepared my taxes for 2006 completely forgot to include the portion of this first book advance that I was paid in 2006. The result was that eight months later, I got a letter from the IRS basically saying, “Hi Jason – You owe us $6000. Send that over now. Thanks. PS – Hope you’re well!”

(About an hour after getting this letter, my mom called me and told me, out of the blue, that she was getting remarried. Later that night, while sleeping I dreamed that an intruder had walked into my bedroom. I woke up on my bedroom floor, after I dove out of bed to tackle this “intruder,” my shoulder hurting from jumping through this imaginary intruder and into the side of the closet. Yet another “we’re going to talk about this when we get home” moment.)

After cleaning the poo from my pants after reading the IRS letter, I called H&R Block and a few days later, brought them my prepared 2006 taxes. The book advance was the second item in the folder and the H&R Block person now reviewing the taxes said, “Yep, there it is – we messed up.” And because I paid $29 extra for their “Peace of Mind” guarantee, since they so obviously fucked up, they were going to – and did – pay the entire $6000. A better $29 spent, I can think of none.

But what they also did in this process was re-file my entire 2006 taxes. These were sent out by H&R Block in July 2008, one month after I moved to LA. When they re-filed these taxes, I thought I was in the clear and the long, national nightmare of the 2006 taxes was over. Little did I know that, once these taxes were re-filed, I owed NY State several hundred dollars for 2006. Had I known this, I would have paid it off immediately. But I was not aware of it because, as Marissa and I figured out:

- When I moved out here initially, I was unsure how long I’d stay in Redondo Beach, and so gave my work address as my official address to a number of companies. NY State had this address, but they didn’t have my company’s name in the address, just the street numbers. My office building is over twenty stories and shared with over a dozen other companies, and I am not a named partner in my firm or any other firm in the building. Marissa went through each and every notice that was sent to me, noting the dates and contents of each letter – none of which I received. I asked her if any of these were returned to NY State and she said yes, all of them (!!!) were, likely because my company was not in the address.

Hey, NY State, after getting every letter mailed to me sent back, you didn’t think that I was no longer there? Or that you should probably try to get in touch with me another way? No? Really? Never crossed your mind?

- Well, actually it did cross their mind. I moved out here in June 2008. The taxes were filed in July 2008. In June-July 2008, I had my old NYC/646 cell phone number and never thought I’d have to change it. Then in August 2008, I got an iPhone and was forced to changed my number to an LA/310 area code. The NY State tax people were calling this old 646 number. Over and over and over again. And no dice.

So at least they tried both mailing and calling me. But here’s something else: why not give Google a shot? Facebook? MySpace? Twitter? As a friend who I told this story to said, collection agencies have no trouble tracking people down. And here was NY State, after getting every letter returned and a disconnected signal for every phone call, deciding to not try anything else – and to freeze my bank account at 4:30pm on the Friday of a holiday weekend (!!!).

(Anger rising…must…go for walk to get ice cream…)

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

As of this writing, my assets are still frozen. The about-$800 in my account is just short of what I owe, so I have to wait for my ING account transfer to kick in at midnight Thursday night before paying (remember: two business days, so even though I requested the transfer on Saturday, that’s really Tuesday because of Memorial Day). Then on Thursday, I will presumably spend all day on the phone with the IRS and at Citibank getting this sorted out. Then I’m immediately cutting Selena a check and paying off the credit card debt I’ve accumulated since returning to LA. After that, I’m changing bank accounts, always carrying $40,000 on my person, getting a fake passport and switching my affiliation to the Republican party. Because never again will the government be able to hold me by the short and curlies again. Word is bond.

This weekend, I experienced my first ever yard sale, held by my roommates Mark and Selena.

Basically a yard sale is when you clean out your house and closets, gather up all the shit you don’t need, and instead of throwing it out, you sell it to strangers. Apparently, yard sales are a staple of suburban life, but I only learned this recently. Growing up in a rowhome in South Philly, we didn’t have yard sales. I’m guessing this was mostly because we didn’t have a yard, but also because in a neighborhood like the one in which I grew up, everyone knows everyone. There is a certain pride in being poor, and I think that my mom, who still works two jobs because I think she thinks they’re fun, would have rather ingested poison than sold a neighbor my old windbreaker for $2. I mean, why not just dress her kids in t-shirts that say, “Please, sir, can I have some more?” Yeesh.

But in the suburbs, I guess it’s different. For some reason, people with homes with lawns and more than one bathroom have no problem selling their (almost) trash to make a few extra bucks. To me, the concept is still a little foreign – why not save yourselves the time and effort involved and just donate the stuff (which you can get a write-off for)? – but whatever. I’m almost 30 and trying to judge less, seeing as I’m getting closer and closer to death, so I’ll just let this one go.

My role in this particular yard sale was limited. I actually wasn’t even supposed to be in LA this weekend, instead defending my title in the Second Annual West Coast Wine Drinking Competition in Seattle. But only a few days before I was scheduled to depart, the WCWDC was postponed because a competitor had a work emergency. So, somewhat reluctantly, I agreed to “help out” (which turned into mostly drinking Guinness, acting as security and getting sunburned). My friends Mark, Selena and Lisa were the ones selling stuff – old clothes for the most part, but also jewelry, DVDs, household trinkets and even some furniture. Knowing that LA was only a temporary move, I don’t own a whole lot out here, just clothes (all of which I wear regularly), my computer, my guitars and some books. I mentioned previously that one of my main sources of pride in my former fun/NYC life was my library, which was really just a huge bookshelf filled with important and challenging books, all of which I had read, understood and could discuss while drinking bourbon and/or eating steak. Then I moved to LA and began to exclusively read books about murders and FBI profilers, and I eat at least two cheeseburgers a week that make me shit immediately. If I was going to sell anything, it would be these books – no need to bring them and their memories back to NYC this winter, thanks.

The yard sale was supposed to start at 8am, but I was laying in bed at 7am when I heard the pumping of diesel engines outside my bedroom window, which drowned out a conversation going on outside. Shortly thereafter, Selena, who was setting up stuff for the sale, asked me to come outside so that she wasn’t “kidnapped and raped”; even though the signs said the sale started at 8am, the customers were starting to drive by in their trucks, seeing what was available.

Throughout the course of the day, I learned a lot. Some thoughts:

- The people who patronize yard sales fall into two categories: 1) Mexicans (or other Mexico-type people) and 2) creepy middle-aged white men who you are certain have secret sexual perversions beyond your wildest dreams.

- Re: the latter – Holy geez. I can’t even imagine what kind of late 80′s camera equipment some of these guys have in their apartments and what exactly the film with it – and I have some seriously deviant tastes.

- I guess there might have been a third category, but really there were only two people the whole seven hours of the sale who didn’t fall into 1 or 2. One was a woman who drove past the yard sale in her Escalade and then screeched to a halt, jumped out, and bought every piece of denim for sale, mentioning something that the private school her daughter goes to gets credit because denim is used as insulation in Africa or blah blah blah (when Lisa asked “Do you want to know the price?” the woman said “I don’t care” and Lisa, savvy businesswoman, sold her five pairs of jeans for $25. Smooth, Lis.) The other was an attractive late 30′s/early 40′s well-to-do woman who showed up with her going-to-come-out-in-fifteen-years kindergartener son and spent most of the time chatting up Lisa and Selena, sending me into paroxysms of ecstasy about the potential of Lisa or Selena (or both!) going back to this woman’s mansion and having some mojitos while the woman talks about how it’s hard, because her husband is always busy or traveling for work, and she’s left in the house with her finook son, and really all she wants is a little attention, and then she makes a possibly inappropriate joke about her vibrator and all three girls laugh and then she says, “Well, would you like to see it?” and then she brings out the vibrator and, before you know it, some serious hardcore lesbo action is going on right there on the veranda, while the nancy son and I watch from the bushes and exchange high-fives.

(Sorry – give me a minute to catch my breath.)

(…)

(OK. I think we can move on.)

- As I said, I basically stood around crushing pints of Guinness and acting as security, so I did a lot of eavesdropping. I witnessed one such negotiation between Selena and a woman who walked up to Selena with an armful of clothing. Selena went through each piece – maybe four in total – saying, “Oh, this is a nice one – it’s [insert brand name]” and such. Selena then said, “Let’s go with $5, please” The woman shook her head and said, “$4.50.” Selena, surprised, stumbled and said, “I don’t know…I…um…I don’t think so” and the woman then put down the clothes down in anger and walked away – not just from Selena, but from the entire yard sale. She up and left the premises in a huff.

This made me furious. Furious. I mean, 50 cents? Really? 50 cents gets you so angry that you slam down what was once over $100 of clothes and storm off, speaking in bitter-sounding Spanish as you walk away? I wanted to walk up to the cash box in front of Selena, take out two quarters, and yell “Hey, lady – want to see what 50 cents means to me?” and either throw the effing two quarters into the street, eat them or rub them all over my balls.

Even as I write this, while I realize that this is an ugly thought – for some less fortunate than myself or my friends, literally every penny counts – I still think it’s ok that this made me mad. I got nothing but love for the poor and am ok with the desire (or I should say, need) to save money, but if 50 cents makes you comport yourself in such a manner that you put some Honduran curse on someone who’s trying to cut you a reasonable deal, I mean, that’s just messed up.

- Two things didn’t sell well: books and things over $3 (shocking, I know). Of all the books I had, only one sold – my hardcover of Gladwell’s “Outliers” for a whopping $2, to one of the sex offenders. I also had a lamp that I bought two months ago for $60, put a $5 “eco-friendly” light bulb in, and turned on maybe a dozen times. I was looking for $15 for this lamp, but when Mexicans asked the price and I told them “Quince,” they were so disgusted that I thought that maybe “Quince” meant “I like to cook and eat genitals, specifically yours, please.” Still have the lamp.

- I got extremely sunburned. I don’t know what the deal is – this is my fourth or fifth fairly horrendous sunburn in the past six weeks. In the past, mainly when I was a kid, I would get two major sunburns and then maintain a nice, pink “I have high blood pressure” look for the rest of the summer. But so far, the California sun is putting a hurtin’ on my pasty Irish skin. It’s not too bad, since at least I look like I spend some time outside. But I now look (even more) ridiculous when I’m naked – the nearly translucent skin on most of my body juxtaposed to my beat red face, neck and arms does not a sexy sight make.

The yard sale dragged on through the day, more friends showed up, and we wound up having an impromptu barbeque during which I consumed approximately 1500 tortilla chips and was president in a spirited game of Asshole for a dozen hands before the game collapsed completely. Sunday, I was a disaster – I actually called in sick on Friday because I didn’t feel well, then had the yard sale and BBQ – and took a three and a half hour nap. Actually, quite a nice lil’ Sunday.

But as my time in LA is coming to a close (NYC 12/1/09!!!), I’m trying to focus on the positive and the new. This yard sale was an example. Yeah, maybe I did get a really bad sunburn, and sure, maybe Lisa and Selena didn’t get it on with the lonely rich woman, but the yard sale was a fun time, an experience I had never had before and will likely not have again for some time.

(That is, unless one of you doesn’t buy my lamp. $15. Like new and a really cool lightbulb. Inquire within.)

[This message was sent out to those in DUYS Facebook group, so I’m sorry if you’re reading this twice. But I’m not really sorry, since it’s not that big of a deal. I mean, get over it.]

Hey y’all,

The 11th Annual Flood-Mulgrew “Drink Until You Shit!” tour is less than two months away, on Saturday, July 11. Shirts have been ordered, bars have been contacted and we’re on our way.

For those of you coming from out of town and in need of a place to crash, we have decided that the North Wind Motel will be our official homebase. The North Wind is one block from the beach and only a few blocks – easy walking distance – to all the bars on the pub crawl. If you need a room for the weekend, please call them at 609.522.0746, ask for Brenda and tell them you’re part of the group with Jason.

If you do need a room, I would book yours today, since i) space is limited (it is also the NJ State BBQ Championship that weekend, so finding a motel with several rooms available was tough) and ii) you need only to mail a deposit in, so it’s not like they need the money right then and there. If the North Wind gets sold out or is too expensive, please contact me and I’ll point you in the direction of several other nearby motels.

If you have any problems or any questions, let me know. Otherwise, see you at Casey’s (3rd and New York) at 3pm on Saturday, July 11.

Hugs,
Jason

You should know that I have not been able to work today after seeing this picture. As of this writing, I can barely speak or walk, let alone work. I have completely shut it down. I mean, there is nothing going on. Simply can’t be.

I know, I know – it’s unlike me to post something so short and so seemingly random, but I had to speak up, since this is pretty much the hottest picture I’ve ever seen, or at least among the top five. And at any rate, I now have a purpose in life: do whatever it takes (within reason and abiding by the laws of the state of California) to be in the same room as this woman when she has her shirt off. I’m not gonna aim high and say I want to marry her (even though “Diora Mulgrew” has a lovely ring to it) or seduce her (seeing as my penis would vaporize from overstimulation – and, looking at it now, it seems to be partially vaporized) – I just want to be in a room, and she’s in the same room, and she has no top on. I’ll even settle for a bra still on, but otherwise, no shirt. That’s not much, folks. Really not that much.

(And I’ll save about a dozen of you emailing me – yes, I know that that’s the girl from “Wedding Crashers” who says to Owen Wilson, “So are you totally full of shit or just 50%?” I loved her then, but then there’s this and now I can barely see right now.)

Now, back to “work.”

(Holy geebus.)

(And guys who haven’t seen it yet: you’re welcome.)

This one put a smile on ol’ Uncle Jason’s face:

Hi Jason,

Back in 2006 I was out with a group of friends for a night of drinking and the subject of ‘what blogs do you read?’ came up. I was more than happy to share that I read your blog, as every single post made me laugh. I sent the link to one of the guys that was out that night the following week, he read it at work…and got a call from IT the next day telling him that the site was being blocked (congratulations?). When he emailed to tell me the story, it started a regular conversation between us…and, well, long story short – we’re getting married in September.

Although we’ve never met, we credit you for bringing us together with your words that are dirty enough to be banned by an IT department. Thought you’d like to know.

On that note, you’re a music loving guy…and we are not musically savvy- people. As the man that brought us together, what do you recommend as our first dance song?

Stacey

p.s – I grew up in Palos Verdes, and I can see why you’re not loving LA. There’s a reason I’m in NYC – hope you come back soon!

I must say, nothing makes me happier than bringing people together through profanity and jokes about masturbating into empty Pepsi cans on the internet. I have come to accept the fact that this is the reason that God put me on this earth. And I am totally, totally ok with this.

Now, I don’t know if you know this, Stacey, but I’m kind of psycho about my music (congratulations to you, by the way – all the best, remember to listen to each other, don’t sweat the small stuff, etc). As of this writing, I have 9216 songs in my iTunes library. I have spent the past two-plus years giving star ratings to each song, and now have only 188 songs in the entire library that do not have a rating. When I finish this task, my head is going to explode. Either that or I’m going to kill myself, seeing as I will no longer have a purpose in life. It’s fair to say that I’ve put more work into rating and organizing my music library than anything I’ve done in my life – and a few months ago I finished a goddamn book.

(And yes, I’m aware that I should probably talk to someone about this.)

But back to the question of the song for the first dance: I don’t think I need to get into the catalogues of Elvis Presley and Frank Sinatra, the stand-by/go-to oldies (i.e. “I Only Have Eyes for You”, “Unchained Melody”, etc), or the songs that my mom would love me to use as my wedding song (think: Shania Twain, Celine Dion, Luther Vandross, etc). That being said, I also realize you don’t want to use a song that was recorded in a basement on a four-track by a group of hipsters living in a studio apartment on Ludlow Street; I must limit my indieness.

To that end, I’ve categorized the song suggestions below into three categories:

- Pretty Much Mainstream, which can be described as songs, or at least artists, that 95% of your wedding attendees will recognize;

- Kinda Mainstream, which are slightly deeper cuts, but won’t necessarily garner stares and make guests mouth the words “What the fuck is this?” to their dates; and

- Not So Mainstream, which may not be hipsters in the basement making music, but are songs that I can almost guarantee have not been used as first dance songs before (note: that doesn’t mean they are songs like “Me So Horny” or the Miami Vice Theme – these are still very appropriate songs, just less well-known).

That being said, what I recommend, Stacey, is downloading each of these songs, giving them a listen, and making a decision. Good luck to you and your fiancée, and in lieu of an invite, you can send me a handful of scallops and a piece of cake. I’ll send you my mailing address under separate cover.

(One penultimate note: The research for this got a little out of control. I clicked through about 3200 songs, judging each one’s First Dance-merit in about five seconds. The first go-round had almost 60 songs, which I whittled down to the 25 or so you see below. Of course I may have missed some, but I think this is a pretty solid collection to have come up with in about two days.)

(One final note: Aside from any omissions, one thing that I am guilty of is how many of these songs are man-centric. Now, they don’t talk about football and titties, but some of them are more “my love for you” than “our love.” This speaks to how selfish and egocentric I am when it comes to relationships, how it doesn’t really matter who the girl is, because I’m the more important one in the relationship. To wit, during a break-up conversation with an ex, I said something like, “I don’t know…it really doesn’t matter, does it, since there’ll always be someone, you know? I mean, I’m pretty sure that, thinking long-term here, I can marry just about anybody.” BOY was that the wrong thing to say. I don’t know what’s worse: the fact that I blurted that out without thinking of the possible repercussions, or that I believed – and still 100% believe – what I said. Looks like the jury’s come back with a verdict and I’m just not a good person. Such is life. At least I’m good at music.)

Now, the First Dance songs…

PRETTY MUCH MAINSTREAM

“Be Mine” David Gray
A great, all-around wedding song: good artist, good “sound,” easy to dance to, fitting lyrics (starts off with “From the very first moment I saw you, that’s when I knew/All the dreams I held in my heart, had suddenly come true”), simple theme (um, “Be mine”). In sports terminology, this would be described as a “can’t miss” prospect.

“Follow You Follow Me” Genesis
Gotta say – not a huge fan of this song. However, there’s no denying it sound purdy and would make a nice first dance song. This is all I’m gonna say about this one, since we’ve got a long way to go yet and I need to save my juice.

“Happy” Bruce Springsteen
I’ll tell you something: this was the best wedding song I’ve ever heard. My friends Mike and Lee, both big Springsteen fans, used this for their first dance. I, like many people in attendance, had never heard this one before, but there was an awestruck silence during the song and their dance – a powerful, moving, introspective moment sandwiched between hours of revelry and, for your truly, about a dozen little lobster cake hors d’oeuvres.

(Man, I love love.)

(And lobster cakes.)

“Spirit on the Water” Bob Dylan
Classy, old-school/jazzy toe-tapping song. This one is near perfect aside from one knock: it’s almost seven and a half minutes long. I hope you two are good dancers.

“Sweet Thing” Van Morrison
This, to me, is the quintessential love song. That is, of all the songs ever written about love, of all the songs that make me want to be in love, of all the songs that sound like love, this one, in my opinion, is the best. Classic song, classic artist. Can’t go wrong, until you remember that I have ejaculated about 800-1000 times while this song played. Then it gets all wrong. Really quickly.

“That’s How Strong My Love Is” Otis Redding
I had planned for this to be my wedding song for about twelve years, until I told my buddy Kyle this, who told our buddy Bob this, and guess what Bob and his wife Nydia’s song was when they got married? Yep, they completely stole my song. Good for them, though. Very happy for them. Very happy.

(Jagoffs.)

Another classic (though a little bit different), it almost sounds like wedding vows (“I’ll be the ocean so deep and wide/I’ll get out the tears whenever you cry/I’ll be the breeze after the storm is gone/To dry your eyes and love you warm”). Once, on a ride home from college when this song was on the radio, I mentioned to my mom that if I ever got married, I’d like this to be the song my wife and I dance to. She was surprised, confused, and then asked, “Are you going to marry a, um, country girl?” Um, do you mean a black girl, Mom? If that’s what you’re getting at, probably not. But thanks for checking.

“To Make You Feel My Love” Garth Brooks
A spectacular declaration of love and devotion (even if Garth Brooks’ voice irks me a little bit).

“Two of Us” The Beatles
Arguably my favorite Beatles song (though I think that “Sexy Sadie” probably gets the nod), a decidedly non-mancentric focus makes this one a front-runner. However, there’s one huge knock: because it stops and breaks, it’s pretty hard to dance to. So rather than dancing, you’re kinda standing and moving then stopping then moving then standing. If you can pull it off, more power to you. If not, move along.

KINDA MAINSTREAM

“The Book of Love” The Magnetic Fields
Poignant and touching, but ideally suited for a wedding filled with gays and/or theater-type people. Peter Gabriel did a more mainstream-sounding cover of the song, but I have not heard it.

“Hold You In My Arms” Ray Lamontagne
Even though I launched his music career, I’ve gotten over Ray a little bit. Still, this one holds up; the first time I heard it, I remember thinking, “I don’t understand how anyone can be within ten feet of a member of the opposite sex and not make out with them when this song comes on.” A ringing endorsement for a wedding first dance? Probably not. But the themes (“I could hold you in my arms forever”) make it work.

“I Want You” Tom Waits
Probably not a first dance song, but if I were creating a wedding CD, this is the closing song.

(Show of hands: do you know of any other overweight bearded men quickly approaching 30 who can list each song on their future wedding CD? Anyone?)

And while we’re here, a tangent: since the dawn of time, man has been playing music in front of woman in the singular hope of getting into her pants. In the same vein as my above pronouncement about “Sweet Thing”, I would say that this is the best song for a guy to perform for a woman in order to get her to take her shirt off. The reasons are tripartite: i) it’s short, so there’s no dragging on or room for “Jesus, he just keeps singing!”; ii) it’s a rather complicated arrangement, so not just any schmuck can play it – you actually have to be good at guitar; and iii) it’s song softly, so you don’t need a very strong voice, nor is there any chance of over-singing or the awkwardness that comes along with it. Trust me. It’ll work.

“It’s Impossible” Perry Como
My grandfather was a true old-school Irish-American Man (capital “M”), a hard-drinking, hard-working longshoreman and a bookie on the side (in addition to being a tremendous dancer). Every night when he came home drunk, he’d make my mom, then around age ten, play this song on the piano, while he sang along. Then he’d make a big bowl of vanilla ice cream with crème de menthe liquor poured all over it and go to bed.

He died when I was four, but the image of him standing the living room, bombed and belting this tune out while one of his six kids played the piano to accompany him, always puts a smile on my face (and really, seeing myself doing this in fifteen or twenty years is not entirely out of the question, though I’d go with caramel over crème de menthe).

Also, have I mentioned that it makes for a nice old-school wedding song?

“Stay Forever” Ween
A song that’s a little more upbeat and a little more fun, from the same guys who brought the world “Spinal Meningitis (Got Me Down)”, “Bananas and Blow” and “Don’t Shit Where You Eat”. Don’t hold their other work against them, though; this is a great candidate (“And I wanna know, do you feel the same way?/’Cause if you do, I want to stay forever”) and sounds so dang pretty and soothing. Also, if chosen, your friends not at the wedding will ask, “What – you chose a Ween song as your first dance? Let me guess – was it ‘The HIV Song’?”

“Still” Elvis Costello
A spectacular declaration of love and devotion (and I like Elvis’ voice).

“You Are Too Beautiful” John Coltrane and Johnny Hartman
If you want something that says, “We are two classy people who are deeply in love and have excellent taste,” then go with this one. Coltrane’s sax and Hartman’s voice, I mean, it doesn’t get any better than this. One of only 100 or so five-star songs in my music library. Great, great song.

NOT SO MAINSTREAM

“Born for Me” Paul Westerberg
Pretty straight-forward: you were born for me. To be honest, now that I’m listening to it in full, this one makes a lot of sense – if not for all the “loneliest” talk in the beginning. Although most people don’t listen to the songs lyrics that closely, especially those at the beginning, anyway, so whatever.

“Buy You a Ring” Huffamoose
On second thought, this, like Old 97′s “Question,” is more of an engagement song than a wedding song. So forget it (but still worth a listen).

“Echo Park” Joseph Arthur
This is the most played song in my iTunes library, and will be my wedding song – I am going to hire Joseph Arthur to play this song at my wedding, I guarantee it – so please don’t pull a Bob and Nydia and steal it. More of an FYI. Thanks.

“I’ll Be Your Mirror” Clem Snide
Originally by the Velvet Underground, Clem does a breathtaking version of the song. May be a little slow, but really, it’s pretty wonderful, and, like “That’s How Strong My Love Is,” it sounds a bit like wedding vows (“I’ll be the wind, the rain and the sunset/The light on your door/To show that you’re home”).

“A King and a Queen” Okkervil River
I debated putting this one on here, but it’s worth a listen, even if it’s not exactly right. It’s a little sad and has a line that goes “Because honey, you’re murdering me,” but at the same time it has the whole king-queen/dramatic-eternal love thing going on. Again, this would be the long shot of the group, but how great the ending is (even if it is a little “Annabell Lee”; see: “lie by your side…” vs. “lay down by the side…” until the end of time, etc) makes it a viable dark horse candidate.

“Love and Some Verses” Iron and Wine
Like “Follow You Follow Me” above, not a huge fan of this one. But on paper, it works very well and I would be remiss if I didn’t include it.

“Perfect Lovesong” Divine Comedy
Quirky, fun, upbeat and downright charming. I mean, you’re looking for a First Dance song – how can you go wrong with one called “Perfect Lovesong?” It’s a little cheeky with the “We’ll stumble back to our hotel bed/And we’ll make love to each other/’Till we’re half-dead” line, but c’mon, we’re all adults here.

“Wagon Wheel” Old Crow Medicine Show
If this is your wedding song, I’m guessing there’s going to be a lot of barefoot dancing on grass and a lot of whiskey at your reception – and I mean this in the best possible sense (and if this is the case, I’m actually coming to the wedding). I’m thinking I’m due for a fairly significant nervous breakdown in the next two to five years, at which point I’ll move to the South and spend 80% of my time trying both to become a Southern gentleman and to find a Southern girl to wed, mostly because I like this song so much. You guys would honestly be the coolest couple ever if you used this song. Seriously.

“Wedding Bell” Beach House
Gorgeous, but perhaps a little too ambient. If you are distributing nitrous balloons at your wedding, this song will go over very, very well.

“When You Smile” The Flaming Lips
This one is never going to work, since if others have been hard to dance to, this one is impossible to dance to. But it’s really nice.

“Your Pretty Face Is Going To Hell” Iggy Pop and The Stooges
Kidding! Just seeing if you’ve read this far.

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

Anyway, hope this helps, Stacey. If you have any questions, let me know. And if anyone has any other suggestions, send ‘em on in.

If there’s one thing that’s become apparent to me recently, it’s that I should start playing the lottery. Like, now.

Let’s take a looky why, shall we?

- On Sunday, I went to NYC for about 44 hours. I did so because my editor, the incredibly talented Rakesh Satyal, released his own book, Blue Boy, and had a book release party for it. Though I wanted to attend this party, both to show my support and because I just fucking love to party, I didn’t think I could swing a trip back for it. Lo and behold, I found a round-trip ticket to NYC for $250, flew back, partied like a crazy person for two nights (and slept maybe eight hours total) and then flew back to LA. A tremendous stretch of fun for Uncle Jason.

I also got bumped up to first class both ways, making it (I think) six flights in a row that I’ve been bumped up (due to my Delta SkyMiles status, not because I’m paying for it). On the flight back to LA, which left NYC around 4pm on Tuesday, I saw a beautiful girl boarding before me and thought, “My god, that girl has the most amazing and luxurious hair I’ve ever seen” – a sea of dark, shiny locks, slick as onyx, suitable to be drowned in. As I got closer, I then thought, “My god, that girl’s ass is just unstoppable” – a rump in the almost literal sense, mouth-watering, primed for biting, grabbing, squeezing. As we entered the first class cabin, I then thought, “My god, that girl is Kim Kardashian.”

Sure enough, it was Kim Kardashian. I had only a strong hunch until a few hours into the flight when I looked up from “Family Guy” and standing right in front of me, in line for the bathroom, there she was (I sat in 1B, right in front of the bathroom). And I am here to report, boy, she is really, really fucking hot. Like really, really hot. Generally speaking, I’m not so high on women who almost exclusively date brothers – going from a black guy to my Irish Catholic goods is like going from one of those mondo snickers bar to my lil’ tootsie roll and results in me having (even more) cripplingly low self-esteem and at least one crying jag after every other lovemaking session – but I think I might be willing to take her out for a beer or two.

I was totally blown away seeing her, and not because of her celebrity status or how hot she was, but because I’ve seen her have sex. Sure, I watch porn all the time, probably too much, but this was the first time I’ve seen – up close and in person – someone that I’ve seen have sex (aside, of course, from those poor, unfortunate ladies who’ve slept with me and I’ve later seen hanging around the Carl’s Jr. at La Cienega and Jefferson offering blowjobs for cheeseburger money). It just kinda blew me away. There’s this hot girl, standing in front of me, waiting to use the restroom, and with two clicks on the computer sitting on my lap I can bring up a video of her getting mauled by Moesha’s brother. Strange, indeed.

(By the way, you should totally buy the book. I plan to write more about it; I’m currently on page 85, but can already tell you it’s hilarious and a worthwhile read. And it’s about $10! You can’t beat that.)

- Two weeks ago, on a Friday morning, my buddy Brian and I were in our respective offices in LA, talking about how slow it was and how we had absolutely no plans for the weekend, when we came up with a radical plan: Why don’t we drive up to SF and binge drink for a weekend? Our buddy and old roommate Ben, who now lives in Seattle, was planning on being there, both Brian and I could take half-days to gather out stuff and get going, and I have the Lincoln Town Car, the ultimate road trip car, a “hotel on wheels” as Brian calls it. A few hours later, I picked him up in Hollywood at 4pm and we were standing in the lobby at the Westin (which I got on Priceline for $80) in Union Square (the SF version, not the NYC version) at 9:15pm.

What followed was an awesome, awesome weekend, spent with old and new friends, getting bombed, and having a blast. I kinda love San Fran, because it’s a real actual city, and I was surprised that everyone was so good-looking there, which is not a bad thing. One tidbit that stands out is how on Friday night, Brian and I went to a diner at about 3am, quite drunk, and Brian was so blown away by the pancakes (he kept repeating, mouth full and food falling out, “These are the best pancakes I’ve ever had…I can’t believe these pancakes are so good…Oh my god, they’re so good”) that he actually walked back into the kitchen and tipped the short-order cook $20. I tried to stop him, saying that I didn’t think he could just waltz into the kitchen and that short-order cooks don’t usually get tips, but he would have nothing of it. He loved those fucking pancakes.

The next morning, we went back and this time both of us got the pancakes. They were…meh.

- A few weeks ago, I went to New Orleans for my agent/friend Joel’s bachelor party. Two words: holy shitballs. I’m writing about this for a separate post so I don’t want to blow my load here, but I can’t recall a time in which I’ve had more pork, bourbon and fun. Absolutely, positively a fucking blast, with a great group of guys.

(I’ll give you a hint about NOLA and what I’m writing: it involves my finger, a stripper, some throw-up, and an AC/DC tribute band. So there’s something for everyone.)

- Not travel-related, but I thought I was going to have to pay a pretty nice chunk of change come income tax time. Instead, I wound up getting money back (!!!). Between the money I had stashed away to pay the taxes and the refund I got, I mean, if I had a drug problem we’d be in serious, serious trouble. Fortunately, my day-to-day life in Los Angeles still revolves around sitting in traffic, watching television, and waiting to go back to sleep, so I will have to continue to spend my new-found income on my travels.

- And further back in March, before NOLA, I went to NYC to gorge myself on beer and expensive Italian meats and cheeses, spend hours and hours watching college basketball, draft an incredible fantasy baseball team (which has been in first place by around 15 points since the third day of the season) and see how much fun I could have without exploding. Still working to figure this out.

And in the next few weeks/months, there’s a bunch more great stuff going on:

- As I write this, I am sitting on a plane, going from LA to Cincinnati. I’m meeting my buddy Joe in Cincy and together we’re renting a car and driving down to Louisville and the Kentucky Derby for our buddy John’s bachelor party.

So, um, yeah, this should be fun.

- We are about 90% certain that the Second Annual West Coast Wine Drinking Competition will be held in Seattle on Sunday, May 17. The rules will be the same as they were last time (which was back in December 2006, so I guess it’s not annual, but whatever) – two bottles of white are to be consumed, followed by two bottles of red, with each participant’s budget capped at $44.

It might sound easy, and those first two whites ain’t bad, but man, once you hit the red, things get ugly quickly. If you’ll recall, I “won” last time, when the only other competitor, Brian, left the event grounds (read: Ben’s apartment), packed his things, and hailed a cab to the airport, where he asked the driver to take him to a minimum three-star hotel with a dance club. Thus Brian got dq’ed, and victory was mine.

But the wine competition really isn’t about winning, anyway; it’s more like, “Look at me, look at the luxurious life I lead, look at how I can drink delicious and wine all day on a Sunday, etc.” So it’s really more of a celebration, which will be expanded this year to five competitors. I look forward to defending my title.

- The planning for the 11th Annual “Drink Until You Shit!” tour, to be held on Saturday, July 11 in North Wildwood, NJ, is going smoothly. I mentioned this before, but I think this year’s going to be especially great because we’re starting earlier (3pm), which means less crowds as the night goes on, and because a number of my friends have decided to come on the tour from NYC and Boston because my 30th birthday is the following week (July 17 – start saving those pennies now, because I’m going to expect a beer from each of you, even in a shitty economy).

My co-partner David and I have decided on this year’s captain (a ground-breaking decision), are almost finished the t-shirts designs, and are working with hotels/motels in N. Wildwood for all those coming from out of town. The best place for info is probably the Facebook group, but I’m sure I’ll get around to posting stuff on here as well.

- Within two weeks of my turning 30, I will be in LA, NYC, down the Jersey shore and Boston. This is not to celebrate my 30th, but because of DUYS (which accounts for NYC and the Shore) and a wedding (which accounts for Boston). Even though I’m not really a big birthday person, preferring a steak and a goodly amount of whiskey over streamers and cake and fuss (well, I guess I’ll take the cake, too), I am looking forward to one part of my birthday – my 30th Birthday Threesome. Yep. Totally, totally looking forward to that. So whenever you guys are ready for that, just let me know. That email again is jason_at_jasonmulgrew.com. I check it all the time. Just let me know. Pretty open. Pretty, pretty, pretttty open.

So, all things considered, I am pretty much the luckiest guy in the world. Good lord. Don’t get me wrong – I still hate LA. But I have been on such a hot streak with the fun and the awesomeness and the luck that it just might be worthwhile for me to buy a lottery ticket or two.

(Again, I’m writing this on a plane. If I just jinxed this and the plane explodes upon landing, I’m going to be really, really pissed. And God will have totally won, once and for all.)

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Six Songs

“Don’t Let Him Waste Your Time” Jarvis Cocker
I can’t tell you how much I love this song. I really can’t. It’s so wonderful and British (and has an important/poignant/funny message, ladies) that I just don’t even know what to say about it (although I guess I just did say some things about it).

It also makes me sad that I haven’t made out with more British girls. Even though I studied abroad in and have been to London a half dozen times, I’ve only made out with one British chick, and that was in Dublin during a post-college/graduation-gift-to-ourselves jaunt to Europe. We met at a club-ish bar and she was (not surprisingly) bombed and (quite surprisingly) thought I was a bodybuilder; a fitness nut herself, when she learned that I was moving to NYC the next month, she wanted to make plans to come to NYC to run in Central Park with me. I said that one of the things I was most looking forward to about NYC was running in Central Park. I then think we did more shots.

Obviously, she’s dead now from life-ending/brain-exploding insanity and poor judgment, but a fun memory nonetheless.

“See You At The Lights” The 1990’s
Speaking of British girls, if this song doesn’t make you want to do a bunch of coke in the bathroom of a London club and then dance your balls off all night long, well, you’re just not very fun. Sorry. But that’s the verdict.

“In The Aeroplane Over the Sea” Neutral Milk Hotel
A beautiful song that I’d hadn’t heard in ages until it randomly popped up on my iPod. This song makes me feel nostalgic and important; nostalgic because NMH was one of the first real “indie” bands that I was introduced to (I remember thinking, “’Neutral Milk Hotel?’ What a strange and lovely name!”) and important because I feel like this is such a monumental song, not necessarily because it’s grandiose or long or complex musically or anything like that, but because it’s just so g.d. unique.

“Electric Feel (MGMT Cover)” Katy Perry
Look, I know almost nothing about Katy Perry. What I do know I don’t like – that “I Kissed a Girl” song is stupid, and she seems kind of loud and obnoxious. But god help me, when I hear this song, if I don’t want to reach through the alternative universe on the other side of the iTunes with an ether-soaked rag, a good tarp in the car, and a nice lil’ cabin in the mountains waiting. The way she sounds singing this song, particularly how hot she sounds singing this song…I mean, the things I’d like to do to her would probably get me into some serious, serious trouble. Wowza.

(Wowza.)

We should probably change the subject.

(Man, I really need to get laid. It’s getting a little frightening.)

“One Way” The Bridges
Like Fleetwood Mac, but without all the drug use and intra-band fucking. Well, I hope there’s no intra-band fucking, since it’s four sisters.

(Wait – or do I?)

(I’m so confused.)

“Trashcan” Delta Spirit
Y’all know I like my driving rock n’ roll songs. So here you go, a genuine, real-deal, pound-on-the-steering-wheel-and-yell (“My love is coming I can barely hardly wait!”) piano-driven rock song. Terrific, terrific, terrific.

[Wish me luck at the Derby – and have a good weekend.]