Guys,

I blew it. My bad. See you again soon.

Love,
Jason

What I will miss most about LA is In-N-Out.

I know, I know – by this point, the love affair with In-N-Out is so played-out that the place is now waaaaay overrated. I think the reason why In-N-Out is so overhyped is the east coast/west coast situation. By this I mean, do you know what fast food burgers are available to the large majority of east coasters? McDonald’s, Burger King and Wendy’s. That’s pretty much it. This is what we’ve been eating our entire lives, moving between those three, with no variety, same thing, all the time. It gets pretty old after a while. But on the west coast, in addition to those three, you have In-N-Out. You have Jack in the Box. You have Carl’s Jr (in my opinion, a terrific burger). Also, I’ve found that LA has more of a burger culture than NYC. I have no empirical evidence to back this up, nor do I want to read your emails defending NYC as burger capital of America/the world/the universe, but in my experience in LA, they are more a burger population than we are.

So anyway, you have all these east coasters who grew up on the Big Three and coming to LA and seeking out In-N-Out, because they’ve heard it’s great, or maybe because they remember it from Big Lebowski, or whatever (for whatever reason, no one gets off a plane at LAX and says, “I can’t wait to hit Carl’s Jr!”). And then those east coast transplants/visitors eat and subsequently rave about this fresh burger, and then go back and tell their east coast friends about it, and when those friends make a trip west, they hit In-N-Out, and the cycle continues. Thus, In-N-Out is, I’m comfortable saying, very overrated.

But here’s the thing: it’s still a good burger. It’s made fresh, and the animal-style topping (grilled onions, thousand island-type sauce) is just fucking delicious. Also, I’ve gone on record that In-N-Out has the best vanilla milkshake I’ve ever had. Not ashamed to throw that out there. So while the fries could use a little work, it’s still a great product. And thus, I will miss it.

So my plan, with less than a week left in LA, was to eat so much of In-N-Out that I wouldn’t miss it.* Essentially, I’d try to make myself sick of it. Short on time and not wanting to take 3-4 years off my life, I didn’t want to eat it every night for a week in a row. Instead, I’d try to max out in one meal, getting an animal-style 4×4 (four beef patties, four slices of cheese), animal-style fries (fries topped with cheese and covered with the grilled onions/thousand island mix) and a large vanilla shake, a meal nicknamed “I’ve Given Up.”

[*This is kind of hard to explain, but I notice that as I get older, my refractory period for everything gets longer and longer (bear with me). For those of you who don't know, the refractory period is the time between orgasms, specifically for a male (I think - no way I'm googling "refractory period" at work, though apparently I have no problem writing about it). For example, when I was 18, I could beat off, and then be ready to beat off again just a few minutes later. Likewise, when I started having sex, I could do it over and over again (physical stamina permitting) without having to wait long periods of time between love-making. But then, as I got older, those times between got longer and longer:

18
Time between beat-offs: two-five minutes minimum
Time between sex sessions: ready again now, please (if I had had sex at this age, that is)

22
Time between beat-offs: at least a half-hour
Time between sex sessions: I think I'll have another one in me in about fifteen or so, maybe ten depending upon the situation (i.e. am I drunk, is the girl hot, how does the room smell, can I keep my shirt on, etc)

26
Time between beat-offs: I'm 26, and probably don't need to be jerking off more than once an hour. However, I do have some time to kill...
Time between sex sessions: meh, I'm probably just gonna grab a nap and we can pound one out again when I wake up

30
Time between beat-offs: I don't know if I'm healthy enough for more than one orgasm every four-six hours
Time between sex sessions: I don't know if we really need to even see each other again, because I'm all set

But my personal ever-increasing refractory period also applies to a number of other things: food, restaurants and bars, trips and cities, friends, physical activity (i.e. I ran five miles once three months ago, so I won't need to do that again for another nine months), etc. So this was my logic behind the overload of In-N-Out: not only do I need things less often, but I'll also get so much of it that I really won't want it for awhile. Dig?]

There is an In-N-Out in Westwood near UCLA just about a mile from my house. Usually, I walk there, but I have been incredibly busy this week, what with moving and all, so I figured on a lovely Tuesday evening that I’d jump in the old Town Car, head on up Westwood Boulevard and into UCLA, and grab my SUPER MEAL and gorge myself back at home. We’re talking a fifteen minute trip, tops.

Well.

I noticed that traffic heading into the UCLA area was a little heavier than usual, but it was rush hour and this was not unexpected. Plus, I was starving for that In-N-Out. So I forged ahead.

I didn’t realize what I was getting into before it was too late: the reason traffic was bad near UCLA was because the fucking premiere of the new Twilight movie was going on at that very time. And because the area near UCLA is a series of windy streets that are unfamiliar to me, and because I drive a ginormous car, and because traffic was bumper to bumper, and because there were about 15,000,000 nerds and media people within two blocks of the In-N-Out I was heading to, I was trapped. When I eventually broke free, I had to take a series of back roads and use my iPhone GPS twice to free myself of Westwood Village. I had left my apartment at 5:30pm. It was now after 6:30pm. Mission: Fail.

But because I was now at this point both ravenously starving and enraged, I was even more determined to get that In-N-Out. So I went to the one on Venice Blvd in Palms, four or so miles from my house. That trip was uneventful but successful (the most disappointing part was when I ordered my gigantic meal and the high schooler taking my order was not impressed in the least and didn’t even look up from her cash register). But all in all, my simple trip that should have taken fifteen minutes, took nearly an hour and a half, all because of terrible traffic due to a movie premiere. That’s LA for you.

[As for the meal itself, wowza. Even though I pooped almost immediately after finishing it and then woke up at 4am the following day with more poop pains, I think I could have done a 5x5 (my buddy Brian suggest I add a beef patty/slice of cheese each day to see what I max out at). But guys, do not try this at home. Not for the faint of stomach. Like, at all. Before/after pics of the meal are available on my Facebook and Twitter pages.]

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

As I mentioned, this week has been a crazy, crazy time for me, as I apparently forgot how much of a nightmare moving can be. In addition to the packing, sorting, cleaning and throwing out, I’m also going to be out of the office and essentially unreachable all next week, so my days are cycles of crazy busy at work followed by crazy busy at home. My dad lands in LA in about 29 hours and we’re hitting the road in about 50 hours, and I can say that (personally and professionally) I’m only about 38% prepared for this move. Yikes.

Fortunately, my employer has allowed me to work adjusted hours this week, so instead of doing 9-5, I’m doing more like 7-3. This allows me to do those afternoon things (i.e. oil changes, laundry/dry cleaning, buying moving supplies) that are easier when everyone else is still working until 5pm. Also, it helps with the traffic, but I now live a four-minute drive from work, so that’s not really an issue.

This morning, I was running a bit late and my blackberry was blowing up, so I hastily showered, dressed, got ready and jumped into the car. I turned left onto Olympic, a large six lane boulevard here in LA, and it was surprisingly empty, even for the relatively early hour.

You all know that LA traffic is terrible. I don’t need to harp on this. But when there’s no traffic, it becomes the extreme opposite. For example, when I lived in Redondo, seventeen miles from my office, I’d leave the office at 5pm and would be home at 6:41pm, full of anger and just miserable. However, when I’d leave the office at 9pm, I’d be home by 9:19pm, and it was like it was goddamn Christmas morning. I’d be so, so happy. Instead of being crammed with thousands of other cars, I’d have the 405 almost to myself, could speed and weave as I pleased, and would actually enjoy the drive.

So when I turned on to Olympic this morning, saw there was no traffic at all, and knew I had to get into work asap, you can bet your ass that I floored it. Now, it’s a residential neighborhood and I’m only on Olympic for just over a mile (it also has lights), so it’s not like I was drag racing here. Still, I was comfortably zooming along when suddenly a police officer walked into my line of vision from the right and onto the otherwise empty street and beckoned me to pull over. Crap.

A very nice gentleman, he asked me if I knew how fast I was going. I replied, “Um, 35?” and he informed me that no, I was actually going 56, but then he had me at 50 after I saw him come into view. I started to uncomfortably blurt out, “Well, I didn’t know…” and was going to add, “…that you were there”, but caught myself and trailed off. Probably not the best thing to say to a cop after you’ve been pulled over.

Despite trying to take the jovial approach and telling him that it’s just my luck – I’m leaving LA in three days and I’m getting my first-ever speeding ticket – there was no getting out of it. Though he did cut me some slack and listed me at 50 instead of 56, I got a nice, fat notice to appear in a West LA courthouse on January 5, 2010. The good news is that, according to the officer, I don’t have to appear and can take care of it all online. The fun news is that if he’s wrong and I actually have to appear, well, you fuckers and can come and get me. Because that just ain’t happening.

But yeah, getting my first speeding ticket on my 1.2 mile drive to work on an otherwise empty road at 7am, three days before I’m to move away from this shithole…that’s LA for you.

Now that we have some time, a few things to catch up on…

Next Friday, November 20, my dad and I will be setting off from Los Angeles to drive across the great land to Philadelphia, as part of the Mulgrew Men Conquer America Tour (Part Two). I will not be posting at all that week, and instead will be using Twitter to give updates from the road, post pictures, take suggestions, etc. Therefore, you should follow me if you want to read about it.

If you don’t have Twitter, I assure it’s not scary and it’s easy to sign-up. At first, I didn’t like it at all – why the hell do I care if you’re going to take a nap or hate studying for GMAT or whatever? – but then, I sort of “got it” and use it primarily as a news/sports news aggregator. And I’ve since learned that it’s very easy to do from my phone. So I kinda dig it.

And of course, I’m hoping it makes a nice outlet while spending ten hours a day in a car with my chain-smoking father. Also, I look forward to taking pictures of foods I eat that are both exotic (to me) and wholly American.

As for which route we’re going to take, a number of you chimed with suggestions. The majority of you said the same thing: “Dude, take #4.” But as I explained, this is just not possible with a 55 year old man with a bad back and the bladder of an 85 year old man. So while I realize it would be awesome, I’ll have to save it for another time.

After spending the first night in Vegas, we’re gonna go with either #2 or #3. This leads us to the other reason why Twitter works great for the trip: you guys can give me real-time suggestions. For example, I might say, “Pulling into Albuquerque for the night – car smells like ASS!!!!.” Maybe you live in Albuquerque and could say, “Hey Jason, great steaks at ___”? Or maybe you live in Albuquerque and you and your girlfriends are really crazy and want to get into a little something nasty and/or consciously make a bad decision strictly for the sake of the story? Twitter. So follow me there.

[All of this is dependent on AT&T having reasonable coverage, by the way. I noticed on my recent trip to NYC that AT&T blows, so I'm not sure how much hope I'm going to hold out for northern Texas or southern Missouri. Let's keep our fingers crossed.]

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

Thank you for all the kind words about the October monthly email, “the jerk (twice).” As I’ve said time and time again, the best props you can give me is to pass on anything that you like on here. I’m not gonna lie, this is going to become even more important, as my book will be released on March 2, 2010. Uncle Jason needs to get famous, to get some money and to make out with two girls at once. So if you like the monthly emails (or any posts or anything, really), just forward it along to friends, co-workers, whatever. Don’t mean to beg here, but again, I really want to make out with two girls at the same time. Or touch four boobies at the same time. Either one.

And if you haven’t signed up already for the monthly email, well, I don’t know what the hell is wrong with you. While I’m hoping that my return to NYC will lead to an increase in posting (since, you know, I’ll be doing stuff), I’m committed to making the monthly email a big part of the site. (And hey, I’ve done two in a row!) So if you want the content, go on and sign up.

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

Speaking of the book (and since I’m practically begging you for all kinds of shit), in anticipation of its release, there are going to be some changes (good changes, I think) to the site. Site Guy Brendan is at the ready, but if you are anywhere from “good” to “bad-ass” at graphic design and would like to lend a hand and join the JM.com Team, please shoot me an email.

I gotta be upfront: there are no real benefits to joining the team and offering to help out with book/site stuff. I am a tyrant and impossible to work for, and most of the time I will email you only to send you pictures of really overweight black people fucking each other. However, if you do help out, I’m willing to pimp whatever you want on here and buy you drinks should we actually meet in real life. Also, you’ll get to see some book-related stuff before anyone else does.

(And yes, I did get money for this book and could – in theory – pay others to help me. But by the time the IRS and the agents and lawyers take their chunks, then you take out all the money for expensive bottled water and wine that I never end up drinking and, of course, those pictures of overweight black people having sex with each other, you’re not really left with much.)

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

I should probably say something about the Phillies appearance in the World Series, but boy, is that stale now. But, my thoughts are pretty simple:

1) Hamels and Lidge were not good all year. The former was horrible in the playoffs; the latter returned to his regular season in the playoffs at the worst possible time.

2) Simply put, the better team won. I read some sportswriter who said it was refreshing that the two best teams in the league during the regular season played each other in the World Series, and the four best regular season teams all played in the LCS. Couldn’t agree more.

3) Winning a championship last year really changed everything. It’s not as though I didn’t care this time around – far, far from it – but I think I would have been popping Xanax like Pez if we were going for our first championship since 1980 against the Yankees. Yowza.

4) Next year, every major component returns except possibly Pedro Feliz and Pedro Martinez. Hopefully, Hamels gets his shit together, and sometime around next July we’re looking at a rotation of Cliff Lee – Cole Hamels – J.A. Happ – Joe Blanton – Kyle Drabek. I’ll take that.

All in all, I have to feel pretty content and thankful for the greatest two-year run of sports in my lifetime. Which isn’t bad.

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

Six Songs

“2002″ Bob Schneider
Guy writes letter to his girlfriend detailing what’s gone on with him since she left him (hint: it ain’t good). Great, great song, and worth the 99 cents if you like to get drunk alone and feel sorry for yourself (um, who doesn’t?). I can’t wait to write this song in about eight years, but a much, much crappier version, for the most part without any rhymes or melody and instead with a lot of curses words and groans and things crashing and a dog flipping out in the background.

“Twice As Hard” The Black Crowes
Speaking of getting drunk alone, I think we all forget how good the Black Crowes were/are. Whether I have one beer in me or sixteen, every time I hear this song, the same thing happens: I turn it up as loud as it can possibly go. (Go ahead – download and listen to it now. I promise you’ll be blasting through your headphones within 20 seconds.) Just an absolutely fantastic, dirty-rock, getting-fucked-up-and-partying track.

“When Your Lover Has Gone” Ben Webster and Oscar Peterson
I don’t know shit about jazz, but this song is about as close to aural Xanax as it gets.

“How Can I Forget” Marvin Gaye
I own only three box sets, but, if I may speak frankly, they are likely the three most important and awesome box sets to own if you consider yourself a fan of music even a lil’ tiny bit. They are Velvet Underground’s “Peel Slowly and See”, “Five Guys Walks Into A Bar” by The Faces, and Marvin Gaye’s “The Master: 1961-1984.” VU makes me feel smart, moved and impressed with myself; The Faces make me rock; and Marvin makes me dance. I have no idea if this particular song was a hit of Marvin’s (I mean, I know it wasn’t a huge hit), but boy, does this one get my hips a-shakin’ and my hands a-clappin’. You truly were the master, Marvin.

[Whoops - just realized I was given AC/DC's "Bonfire" for my 30th birthday. I wouldn't recommend that one, if only because, in the wrong hands, it can lead to a lot of damage to one's ears, home and relationship, since you'll be inclined to leave your lover and dedicate your life to ROCK.]

“Rattlesnake Charm (Dream Machine)” Sean Hayes
If you’re the kind of person who likes to put on a song, smile, do a bit of nodding, and generally feel good about yourself and life and everything, you might want to check this one out. I’ve been thinking about how to describe this one forever, and this is the best way I think I can do it. And I’m ok with that.

“Kathleen” Josh Ritter
“All the other girls here are stars/You are the Northern Lights.” I mean, if you tell a girl that you wrote this line about her, you get carte blanche, right? Christ, I blush when I hear this line.

This is one of the 108 (out of 9700+) five-stars songs on my iTunes, and with good reason. I thought I’d pimped this before, so I looked it up and I did – five years ago. And yet, every time I hear it, I still get those same chills: it reminds me of all those high school parties in the fall, at houses in the suburbs when parents were away, where guys and girls stand around drinking keg beer and getting drunk for the first or second or less-than-twentieth time and hoping that something magical happens. And at the party, there’s the one girl who, well, is the Northern Lights among all the stars.

[By the way, good analogy by ol' Josh. He's still saying that the other girls are "stars," but that one girl is just much better. Could have been, "All the other girls here are chuck/You are filet mignon" or "All the other girls here are garbage/You are that really expensive thing that accidentally got thrown out." Or, alternatively, he could have gone with "All the other girls here are AIDS/You are the common cold." So hey, you may not be the Northern Lights, but at least you're a star. Smart guy.]

You might be surprised to hear that I did not have sex in high school. Instead, I had to make due with ogling the hottest girl at the party – or really, any girl at the party – and then going home and putting the moisturizer and beat sock to work. Perhaps this is why two of the more satisfying relationships I’ve had as an adult have been with girls who, in each case I learned through several sources, were the “northern lights” in their respective high schools. Of course, the story here is not that I went from super nerd virgin masturbator to dating high school hotties years later, but the series of damaging and damning decisions that these former high school hotties made to end up dating me all those years later. I’m sure, when they were 17 year-old northern lights and the desire of every guy at the high school party, they never thought to themselves, “You know, I’m thinking that 8-10 years from now I’d really like to find myself laying beneath a 230lb man/bear/thrusting machine who smells of marinara sauce and Jameson, just pumping away on me, while I wait for him to ejaculate or tire or for his heart to explode, whichever comes first. Yeah, that sounds like an awesome future for me.”

Oh, life and its cruel, cruel pathways and passages.

[Have a good weekend.]

Nothing like opening the ol’ inbox and finding this nugget on a Monday morning (from Marty in NYC):

1. Although I dont have regular anxiety (except after a weekend bender, so every Sun-Tues), I love me some pills. But I have a pretty young hip doctor that would see through any sob stories if I asked for a Xanax prescription. Any suggestions on a sob story to use? Or maybe just the name of your doctor if he’s loose with script pad?

2. Went to Anna Burritos when in Boston recently as you’ve been pushing that shit for years. That shit blows – thanks for nothing.

First, I’ve already referred two friends to my doctor, both of whom (I believe) were eventually prescribed Xanax. Therefore, I can’t give out his name, lest the well run dry. Uncle Jason needs his medicine.

My advice is pretty simple: get another doctor. My first primary care doctor, when I told him I couldn’t sleep and was anxious, told me to go to therapy. I immediately found a new doctor, who, upon hearing the same story, prescribed me a shit-ton of Xanax. So it’s not so much the story – unless you’re willing to tell a BIG lie, like a death-in-the-family caliber lie, which, for karmic reasons, you should probably not do – but the doctor. I’m sure if you go to WebMD, memorize the symptoms of anxiety and read them off, you’ll get something, if not Xanax.

Or, of course, you can just buy them from your local drug dealer. There’s always that.

(And to be clear, in the event that a family member or my employer is reading this: I believe in my heart of hearts that I actually did need the Xanax when it was first prescribed to me. I don’t use it recreationally, either; I’ve never understood how people can take a pill or two and then go out and hit the town. Instead, when I use it now, it’s usually on a Sunday night after a long weekend bender that Marty describes when I need some good, solid sleep. And it works really, really well.)

(And my doctor is really awesome, and steered me in the right direction when I went on that diet a few years back and lost 35 lbs in two months. Really great guy. Also, when I got my first STD test from him, he walked in the room, sat down, and said, “Ok…first, anything weird on your dick or your balls, babe?” Nothing like a middle-aged man with a spectacular Jew ‘fro calling you “babe” while asking about your genitals.)

Second, if you don’t like Anna’s, I really can’t help you. I’ll concede that I’ve had my fair share of “bad” Anna’s – sometimes the pork is fatty, sometimes there’s an uneven distribution of ingredients, sometimes the burrito is too loosely rolled and messy, etc. And it’s fast-paced and has a bit of a Soup Nazi feel to it, so you really have to know what you want and how to order it quickly. But over the long run, there’s not a better handheld burrito, in my opinion (to be fair, I’ve never been to Mexico, but I have lived in LA for 18 months and I once made out with a half-Puerto Rican girl, so I’m more or less an expert on this subject).

Next time you’re there, Marty, I invite you to order the Mulgrew: super steak, extra cheese, lettuce, no tomato, pinto beans, no hot sauce, lot of sour cream, side of guacamole, medium Orange soda. This is a recipe crafted over dozens – if not hundreds – of visits to Anna’s over the past twelve years, and it works perfectly. For example, by saying “a lot of” instead of “extra” sour cream, you’re not charged the extra 35 cents, but the burrito guy can’t help but put on a little more than he normally would. Also, if you order guacamole in the burrito, you run the risk (a high one, at that) that they’ll put the guac in only one part of the burrito. By getting a side of it, you can apply it to your liking on each bite.

(Sometimes I’ll switch up the meat – FYI: always go with boiled chicken over grilled chicken – and the beans, choosing refried instead of pinto, which makes for a messier and heavier but equally rewarding burrito. But otherwise, that’s my go-to, right there.)

I hope this helps, Marty. I wish you luck in all your future drug and burrito endeavors.

I’m not even sure where to begin, since so much has transpired in the last two weeks. I originally started writing one of those extremely long (and extremely laborious) “Hey, I haven’t talked to you in a while, so here’s ten bullets and 3000 words on everything’s that has gone on” posts, but my god, they are terrible to write (just as I’m sure they’re terrible to read). So let’s focus on one thing for now, and we’ll take it from there.

I’ve spent the past week-plus in NYC for the purposes of finding an apartment for when I move there in less than a month (I just got back to LA last night). And the good news? As of December 1, I will not only be making my return to New York City, but also to the Lower East Side.

Fuck. Yes.

Hear me now: apartment hunting was MISERABLE. This was mostly related to my near-constant state of hangover whilst in NYC – every day was an endless repeat of work-apartments-World Series game-beef patty, and it really, really took its toll on me (specifically in the colon area). But in addition to the hangover, three things made apartment hunting terrible:

1) Holy crap, NYC apartments are expensive. One thing I will dearly, dearly miss about LA is the price of its real estate. A $2000 one-bedroom in certain parts of Venice (or even Santa Monica) could get you a view of the Pacific. A $2000 one-bedroom in NYC likely has a 6′x8′ living room – with a kitchen in it – and a modest to moderate bug problem. I need only to refer to you my last apartment, a two-bedroom (really 1.5) in the $2000/month range in the heart of Little Italy that was steps away to Soho, the Lower East Side and Chinatown, but whose toilet overflowed spewing feces all over my bathroom and kitchen floor anytime I went away for a weekend. And to be honest, I was devastated to give up that apartment. This should tell you pretty much all you need to know about NYC real estate.

(Also, I don’t even want to think about what $2000/month could get you in, you know, 99.5% of America. A buddy was recently offered a job paying something like $170K/year in Kansas. When he told me, it was only a matter of seconds before I was screaming, “DO YOU KNOW WHAT $170K COULD GET YOU KANSAS! YOU COULD LIVE LIKE A KING! I MEAN THAT LITERALLY – YOU COULD HAVE A MOAT FILLED WITH ALLIGATORS AND A GOLD THRONE AND A TOWER DEDICATED TO HOLDING PRISONERS AND EVERYTHING!!!!” He didn’t take the job and decided to stay in NYC, thereby assuring himself that he will not own land within the next five-eight years.)

Having lived in NYC for seven years prior to this little pit stop in LA, and also having spent three hours a day since mid-September looking at NYC apartments online, I was aware of the great disparity in value in real estate between the two cities. But it’s one thing to remember it or to see it online, and another thing entirely to walk into a building deep in Chinatown that smells of dead junkie, get shown an apartment not suitable for a war criminal, and be told it’s a “steal” at $1900/month.

Very early on, I had to learn to accept this. Many thanks go to my friend Nicole, who saw some apartments with me and would assure me that, hey, this is NYC, you know it’s NYC, you know it’s expensive, and if you don’t like, go live in Jersey. I needed that tough love. But I’m still pretty certain that the check I just wrote for first-last-security was larger than my parents’ mortgage for the South Philly rowhome they bought in 1977.

(Good thing it’s worth it.)

2) With all due respect, real estate brokers can be a very slimy bunch. I did work with some very nice brokers, including the one who ultimately got me my apartment, but goodness, some brokers are might scummy. In my experience, they fell into three categories: the salesman who’s all smiles and fake laughs and who’s convinced he’s smarter than you (but probably spends his evenings jerking off into panties he stole from his building’s laundry room and eating cookies); the walking STD of a salesman who shows up fresh from the LIRR, unlocks the apartment doors, and waits outside while you look at the apartment because his hangover can’t handle stairs or words; and the blow-off, the broker who will email and text with you for days, but then, without explanation, stop all forms of communication or not show up when it’s time to show you an apartment (I mean, I get it – the apartment’s been rented – but that’s all you gotta say and I’ll move on).

Also, I was adamant about not paying a fee. There’s no way in this economy that I, as a consumer, am going to pay an extra one month’s rent or 15% of the annual rent just to have a broker let me in to a building. The majority of brokers respected this and showed me only no-fee apartments, but there were some who’d push to show me “sweet” apartments with “negotiable” fees. Um, no thanks, buddy.

A renter choosing to go with a broker is kind of like a restaurant manager choosing to hire an ex-con. Despite the bad reputation, sometimes it’s gonna work just fine. But other times, you’re going to get shivved while closing up and your cash register’s going to be stolen. It’s all luck of the draw, really.

3) I just don’t care. For years, I have thought that the only two emotions I’ve been capable of are lust and hunger. But now, I’m realizing that lust is quickly dropping out of the running, and apathy is at the ready to take its spot.

(To clarify, I’m still capable of short spurts of lust/desire. For example, there was about three minutes this afternoon where I felt pretty riled up. But then I got a text or I got tired or something happened and it went away. Might have another such spurt tomorrow morning, but we’ll see. Meh.)

So while at first I had grand designs of finding the perfect apartment – the right mix of price, location and size – I soon saw that that was going to be way, way harder than I thought. And then it came down to what was livable: just give me something big enough, something downtownish, something that had a price I could deal with.

I was lucky enough to find two apartments that fit these criteria. The first was in Battery Park City, in a mega-complex with six buildings and 1700 apartments. The pros of this place were that it was large, it was in a full-service luxury building, and I could walk to work in about ten minutes. The cons were, well, it was in Battery Park City, where there’s not a whole lot going on.

The second apartment was in the Lower East Side, two blocks north of where I lived from June 2002 through June 2004.

Well.

When I first moved to NYC in the summer of 2001, two buddies and I moved to Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, more or less because it was cheap and because two college friends (including Site Guy Brendan) grew up in Bay Ridge, and pretty much convinced us to live there.

I hated it. The place was huge and the rent was cheap, but it took me at least ten minutes to walk to the subway. Then a train would take up to ten minutes just to show up. Then I had the 30 minute commute to the city. Great. For this and other reasons, I count that year in Bay Ridge as one of the worst of my life.

(The “other reasons”: I was working 60 hours a week, all my new friends at work lived in Manhattan, my girlfriend at the time was in Australia, etc. So it’s not totally Bay Ridge – I later dated a girl who lived there, right on the subway along 4th Avenue – and it was not bad at all to go out there or get to work. Still, summer 2001 to summer 2002 was not my favorite twelve months.)

When our lease was up, I was certain I wanted to live somewhere in the city. While my two roommates would not be moving with me, my buddy Brian was looking for a place in the city. So we decided to get a two bedroom somewhere – anywhere – in Manhattan.

I found an ad for a three-bedroom for $1900 in the Lower East Side. I had never been to the LES before, but I knew enough to know that it was pretty close to my office, and that $1900 was balls cheap for a three-bedroom. So Brian and I checked out the place, took it on the spot, and soon found a third roommate on Craigslist, a British girl named Clare.

The rest, as they say, is history. I have never gone out, drank and partied as much as I did as those two years in the LES. Our apartment was the pre-game center, where six or so buddies would come over and drink for hours before going out. I found Rosario’s, my favorite pizza place in NYC. I found countless other restaurants and bars that I still frequent. The girlfriend who lived in Australia finally came back to NYC and broke up with me in about six weeks (we lasted almost three years long distance, but six weeks in the same city); I was pretty crushed at the time, but it turned out to be one of those blessings-in-disguise moments. I started this blog, which subsequently led to over two blowjobs. All in all, great stretch.

And while this time around, for my return to NYC, I was focusing my search more on Chinatown (since you can get a lot of space for your money if you willing to deal with the ever-present fish smells and 140 year-old women spitting in your stairway), I told the broker I wasn’t opposed to looking in the LES. The first place she showed me was on Ludlow Street, in a new, completely renovated building, and it was love at first sight.

And so it is done: the check has been written, the lease has been signed, and on December 1, I’m back, right where my entire NYC experience started. Since I got the place, my friends and I have been debating if this is sad or awesome. Sad because, well, I’m 30 years old, and I’m moving to the same street that I lived on when I was 23 and 24, I’ll be drinking at the same bars, eating at the same places. But at the same time, again, I didn’t seek this street out, and I’m living there because the apartment is sick; whereas my old place was a tenement building that had a stove that barely worked and heat that had two settings (“off” and “on so, so fucking much”), this is a nice building, a nice apartment, fully renovated, totally adult.

Either way, I don’t give a shit. I’ve already discovered two places on my very street that have $3 pints of everything (including Guinness) until 8pm, EVERY DAY. I’ll be down the street from Katz’s, around the corner from Festival Mexicano, and, most importantly (and damningly), a mere stone’s throw from Rosario’s.

A better location for my re-introduction to NYC, I can think of none.