I know that I’ve written about this before, but on Monday nights, I love going to Dempsey’s, an Irish pub on Second Ave in the East Village. When I describe the bar as “unremarkable,” it is not an insult; I don’t need all sorts of bells and whistles at my local bar, just a good and reasonably-priced selection of beers, a bartender who knows when to chat and when to stay away (and when to buy me back a beer), and a TV or two because, hey, I like sports. But that’s really it, aside from I also like that on Mondays, it’s not very crowded, so there’s no one to bother you or anyone nearby talking like a goddamn jerkoff. After all, man is no closer to God than when he is in a pub alone with his thoughts and his beer. Monday night at Dempsey’s is Uncle Jason’s private time.

But because I drink there alone, it begs the question: why the hell do I do with myself the whole time? I get there as soon as I can after work (earliest is usually 6:30pm), and sometimes I stay until 8:30pm. Sometimes I stay until midnight. Most of the time, it’s something in between. I’m not the type to read a paper or a book in a bar (and I’ll be damned if I do any “writing” in one – in that case, I might as well wear a t-shirt that says, “Hi, I’m An Asshole”), and there’s only so much staring at the bottles of liquor that one can do while on that road to inebriation.

And so this is why I appreciate that there are TVs with sports on. And this is also why Mondays work well, because of Monday Night Football, which is on for roughly a 1/3 of the year. Have a beer, watch the pre-game show, have a beer, game starts, have a lot more beers. It’s perfect, and even when you’re feeling most introspective, at least you have an option to entertain yourself with something besides thoughts like, “I know that it has a lot of positives, but I just feel like once you go down that craigslist ‘Casual Encounters -> M4M’ road, there’s no turning back.”

(This is to say nothing of the fact that drinking on a Monday is highly, highly underrated. A big reason why I go on Monday as opposed to another week night is that this is my time to steel myself against the upcoming week, sort of like, “Alright, I know what the week looks like, I know what I gotta do, and I know it’s gonna suck – but first, let me get drunk alone. Then, we tackle the work week.”)

But then January comes around, and there’s no more Monday Night Football. And baseball doesn’t start until April. So for me, there’s a sort of sports void (as I’m not big into pro or college basketball or hockey). And so just this year, having moved back to NYC in December, when January came around, I found myself watching something new on those solo Monday night booze sessions at Dempsey’s: English Premier League soccer.

I have a long and complicated history with the sport of soccer. I did not play it growing up in the hard-scrabble streets of South Philly, save for a brief moment in 1994 when World Cup fever took over and my friends and I kicked around a volleyball and used the two poles of the basketball hoop as a goal for a few weeks before moving back to our more traditional sports (basketball, football, wiffleball, fighting, etc). Though I studied abroad in London for a few months in 2000, I never got into soccer, as I was too busy trying to figure out how to make the $1800 I had saved up last five months while still not only drinking, traveling and having a good time, but also eating, showering, and breathing. In the only fiction writing course I ever took in college, my first story was about how soccer was invented in England by cloistered armless lesbians during the Hundred Years War (I am sure, with my current juice, this will be optioned for a movie within the next year). So I’ve always been familiar with soccer – it’s been on my radar, at least – but at the same time, meh.

Making my relationship with soccer all the more complicated is that I have a handful of very good friends who love soccer (and have loved it for a few years now). Now, you would think that this is a plus for soccer in my eyes, that the very same people with whom I’ve discussed the Eagles’ inability to make the leap and the Phillies rise to powerhouse-ness over the past few years are big EPL fans. But this is not so. This is because these friends who are into EPL (the EPL?) are the same type of people who will go off for hours about their travels through Europe with only the slightest provocation, who will tell you in great detail about the best “unknown” restaurant in Copenhagen or a great hole in the wall pub in Rotterdam or their favorite lunch spot in Brighton. In short, they are Europhile douchebags, and I viewed their love of British football as just another part of their Europhiles d-baggyness. So again, meh.

(And truly, these guys are some of my best friends, so they know that I say this in jest.)

(And there’s this: U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A!)

But yet, week after week as I sat there alone at Dempsey’s on those dark, cold winter Monday nights, watching replays of EPL matches from earlier in the day or from that weekend (it’s an Irish pub, after all), something strange happened: I started getting into it. I didn’t know anything about how soccer worked (aside from get the ball into the net), nor did I know what teams were playing, but because I sat there watching a ball being kicked around for two 45 minutes halves, when a goal happened, I’d find myself cheering (and again, I didn’t know the teams; for all I knew, it could have been the local Neo-Nazi team trouncing the team playing on behalf of crippled orphans everywhere, yet if the former scored, I was yelping to myself in the bar). There was just something about the payoff, about watching the ball seemingly mindlessly being kicked around for 30 or 40 minutes, that when a goal was finally scored, I found it immensely rewarding. Not exactly the all-consuming instant rush of falling in love, but enjoyable nonetheless. I knew that the season was already well underway by that point, so while I continued to catch those games at Dempsey’s week after week, learning a bit more each time, I decided that come next season (August), I would give soccer a full-assed effort in order to see if it was for me (Europhile d-bag accusations be damned!).

And of course, with the World Cup approaching, the timing couldn’t have been better. Soon, America would be awash in soccer love, and it would be a perfect primer for someone getting to know the game. But at the same time, I wanted to approach cautiously. I am from Philly, where sports fandom is not a hobby, but rather a full-time occupation, on par with family and God (and to a much lesser extent, actual full-time occupation). As such, poseurs are not tolerated. So I would root for the USA, of course, but I would do so modesty, freely admitting that I didn’t know much about the team or even the sport, but, again: U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A!

World Cup soccer taught me two things:

1) Geez, these games are short. The average baseball game is 3.5 hours. The last two minutes of the half in a football game can take 15-20 minutes in real-time. A 90 minute soccer match, including half time, is less than two hours, and there are no commercial during action. Sure, I guess I knew this before from Dempsey’s, but I was drunk and alone and, you know, you sort of lose track of time when you’re drunk and alone (and it’s freezing outside). So actually realizing the brevity of the games for the first time was a plus.

2) Man, people are really, really into this. As corny as it sounds, it’s kinda cool to think about how in that semifinal match, likely 95% of the population of Uruguay – a country I couldn’t pick out on a map – was watching that game and cheering on their team; I had a picture in my mind of a dozen farmers sitting on burros in the one run-down shack with a television within 30 miles while corrupt politicians gathered in the lavish presidential palace (this is how I picture most of Latin America, because, well, I’ve never been there and I’m racist) all rooting for their guys. Again, corny (and racist), but kinda cool.

(Uruguay’s in Latin America, right?)

And so finally, fast forward to last week, the start of the English Premier League season. Over the summer, I had done some research and spoken to friends as part of the team-choosing process, each step along the way repeating that I reserved the right to transfer allegiances once I learned more about the sport. You might ask how this doesn’t fly into the face of everything that I just said about “Oh, I’m from Philly and we’re awesome and we love sports and we’ll fuck you up and a lot of us are fat but still awesome.” That is a good question. I can only answer that I want to do this correctly, but I also want to have a vested interest from the start, a vested interest that I intend to cultivate during the course of the season. However, should I fall organically in love with a different team, then, well, so be it. As part of the process, I also consulted the Sports Guy’s excellent article on how he chose his EPL team. Among his six criteria, there were three that especially struck me: don’t jump on a bandwagon, pick a city that you might actually vacation to, pick a team that’s successful enough to not be relegated/get maximum exposure on TV here in the US.

So my pick: Arsenal.

Arsenal meets all of the criteria above. They have a cool nickname (“the Gunners”). They are the favorite team of two of my Europhile d-bag friends (so I can more easily discuss them). They are not Manchester United. Their stadium is in North London, and I lived in North London, just over a mile away from their stadium. Therefore, based on what I know right now, it makes sense that Arsenal is my adopted EPL team. Time for bloody soccer, baby.

I have to admit, week one was tough. Trying to dive head first into a sport about which you know little about is difficult, even though I had seen maybe a dozen games before. I watched the game at home, having a beer (at 10am!), and was certainly into that. But following the action, trying to figure out the players’ names (god, I sound like a woman) and generally getting a feel for the action was more difficult than I thought. It didn’t help that the game was a rather bland 1-1 tie with Liverpool. We were getting into “meh” territory.

However, undeterred, I approached this week with vigor. All told, I’ll have watched four matches: Arsenal – Blackpool, Wigan Athletic – Chelsea, Fulham – Man United, and Man City – Liverpool. The first two were exciting (for me), as Arsenal and Chelsea both won by scores of 6-0, and The Man City – Liverpool match I’ll watch tonight, either on DVR or at Dempsey’s. But it was the Fulham – Man U match that sealed the deal, a stunning 2-2 draw that in the last ten minutes of action featured a Fulham defender accidentally scoring on his own goal, then a Man U penalty kicked that was blocked, then that same Fulham defender scoring the equalizer on a header. Maybe it was the hangover that I was washing away with multiple pints of Guinness on that Sunday morning, but I was enthralled, hooked.

And with that, I have to say, I think I’m into this whole EPL thing. A love affair that began slowly on those lonely winter nights in Dempsey’s, started and stuttered with national pride over the summer, and now is being cultivated over early morning beers in my apartment (though I hope to go out for some games next weekend), and here we are, in the early stages of what could potentially be a sensational, long-term relationship. A veteran of such wars, I know not to get my hopes (too) high. But early indications are good.

(Now if I could just figure out this whole transfer market stuff…)

Six Songs

“Gentle on My Mind” Glen Campbell
I dip my cup of soup back from a gurglin’ cracklin’ cauldron
In some train yard
My beard a rustlin’ coal pile
And a dirty hat pulled low across my face
Through cupped hands ’round a tin can
I pretend to hold you to my breast and find
That you’re waitin’ from the back roads
By the rivers of my memory
Ever smilin’, ever gentle on my mind

I mean, they just don’t make them like this anymore.

“Dancing on My Own” Robyn
The amount of naked dancing I do alone in the apartment to this song is, frankly, dangerous.

(Yes, dangerous. If you were to see this naked dancing, you’d understand completely.)

“Where’d All the Time Go?” Dr. Dog
This whole album, Shame, Shame, is so incredible (and not just because it is the subtitle of my next memoir) that it’s hard to pick just one song to recommend. But this one gets the nod, if only because I love the line, “You know I get so forgetful/When I look in your eyes” (you guys know I’m a sucker for the sweet stuff). However, if you’re looking for something with a little more oomph to put a pep in your step, check out “Stranger.” Either way, lots of goodies, and a fun summer-listenin’ album through and through.

(See? Look at that value – two recs for the price of one!)

“My Sympathy” Kurt Vile
What a weird, lovely little song by someone whose name makes him sound less like a folk musician and more like a WWE villain.

“Atlas” Wood Brothers
I have no idea how this song ended up in my iTunes, and I feel like I should hate it, mostly because these are almost certainly the type of guys who wear fedoras. But, alas, I dig it. I dig it lots.

“Learnalilgivinanlovin” Gotye
Likewise, no idea where this one came from – never heard of this band, or anything that sounds like this (kinda Motown-ish wherein the singer’s just beltin’ it out). Great music listen to while washing the dishes, making a stiff drink before a big night out, or if you’ve just done something really, really terrible and immediately want to forget about it. Especially good for that last one.

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Finally, tomorrow, I will turn the incredibly unexciting age of 31. I’m pretty bummed about it, if for no other reason than because I put a lot of effort into getting my long-time birthday wish – a threesome – as a 30th birthday present, but to no avail. Something tells me that “Hey, I’m turning 31 and really want to have a threesome!” isn’t going to get it done. So that sucks.

But in lieu of a threesome, there is one thing that you could get me for my birthday to make it magical: buy my book, if you have not already done so. In this scenario, everyone wins – you get a book, I get a book sold, and, well, I guess that’s it. But that’s a pretty good outcome.

And if you have already bought the book, fear not! You can always buy it as a gift, or at least give it a nice review on Amazon/Good Reads/etc or take a minute to recommend it to friends via email/Facebook/Twitter/etc. As I’ve said before, there are no major marketing campaigns for books, and so they depend almost entirely on word of mouth. So far, I have you to thank for spreading the word about the book. But with football season – and its incumbent gambling losses – just around the corner, it’s more important than ever to keeping pimping out the book.

So next time a friend asks you if you’ve read any good books lately, remember to say, “Well, not really, but I did read this book that was cheap and pretty short – and it had some funny pictures…”

[Have a good weekend]

To me, summer means many things: the relentless heat, humidity and stink rising from the streets of NYC up to my fifth floor Lower East Side apartment; the obscene travel prices; the awkwardness of being the only guy at the beach with both a shirt and sweatpants on (I have really skinny legs); and, of course, summer reading.

Being a well-selling author and all, people constantly ask me for book recommendations. And I find it really, really annoying. So I figured I’d put all of my recommendations in one place and you could pick and choose which ones you like so I don’t have to keep repeating myself fifteen times a week. For more information, click through to the Amazon pages to read fuller descriptions of these books, which are listed alpha by author (and, coincidentally, by order of best handjobber).

ROCK AND ROLL WILL SAVE YOUR LIFE by Steve Almond
Yes, Steve Almond, my old writing teacher, provided a blurb for my book. But he also said that had I not taken his class pass/fail in college, he would have given me a C-. So we’re even. I’m recommending this book to you not because of the blurb, but because as someone who loves music, falls easily into obsessive behavior (just ask the Kings County Circuit Court), and enjoys a good laugh, I loved this book. If you match even two of the these traits, you will, too. And if you match all three, we should have a beer.

STARVATION LAKE by Bryan Gruley
The other night, I went to dinner and when I got home at 10pm, the thermostat in my apartment read 91. 91 fucking degrees at 10pm. So a book like this – a murder mystery set in a small town in northern Michigan that prominently features hockey – is, in my opinion, a terrific way to help forget the brutal summer heat. A true page-turner that I read in about four sittings.

(Also, Gruley’s next book, THE HANGING TREE, comes out in early August . Joy!)

HOW I BECAME A FAMOUS NOVELIST by Steve Hely
Yes, this Steve also provided the cover blurb for my book. But here’s a true story for you: I knew Steve through a friend of a friend, and it was through that friend that I got a copy of my book in Steve’s hands for review. At the time I sent my book to Steve, I hadn’t read his. But then I did, while he was reading mine. And after reading his book, I was embarrassed to have sent mine to Steve, because his was so well-written and goddamned funny – it was like writing a crappy song about how your wife left you because of your drinking and sending it to some guy named “George Jones” so that he could have a listen. So, get there.

CONFEDERATES IN THE ATTIC by Tony Horwitz
As I get older, I find myself getting more and more interested in the South, mostly because of its food and its women. I guess the history isn’t bad, either. I picked up this book – a journalist’s account of following Civil War reenactors and visiting Civil War sites – recently in an airport, and it made my cross-country flights (both ways) fly by.

I ONLY ROAST THE ONES I LOVE by Jeff Ross
If you’re like me, you like Jeff Ross, because he may be the funniest man alive and you’re not a fucking idiot. Well, he’s written a memoir, and it’s fantastic – a blend of personal history, anecdotes from his illustrious career, and tips on how to roast your friends and family. A must-read for any fan of Jeff’s, or any fan of the standup comedy/roasting, or any fan of anything.

I SHUDDER by Paul Rudnick
Speaking of must-reads, this is easily one of the funniest books I’ve ever read. Yes, strong statement, but boy, did this series of essay with a very New York (read: gay, Jewish) slant make me LOL. (And yes, my reviews are so sophisticated and cerebral that I feel comfortable using “LOL.”)

BLUE BOY by Rakesh Satyal
Speaking of gay and funny, if there were tags to this book, they would be: HILARIOUS, COMING OF AGE, TALENT SHOW, WHITNEY HOUSTON. Ain’t cha hooked already?

Honorable Mentions (not so much beach reads, but worthy nonetheless)

EAT YOUR FEELINGS by Heather Whaley
While I’m not exactly well-versed on the subject (seeing as I’ve turned on my stove twice since I moved into my apartment in December), I have to think this is one of the funniest cookbooks out there. Maybe some Drunk And Disorderly Donut Pudding? Or Jalapeno Poppers for When Your Only Friends are People You Met in a Chat Room? Or even some Caught Mom and Dad in the Act Tater Tot Casserole? I think you get it. Say hello to the Christmas gift for every woman/cook in my life.

TEXTS FROM LAST NIGHT by Lauren Leto and Ben Bator and MORE INFORMATION THAN YOU REQUIRE by John Hodgman
Yeah, I know they’re pretty different. But of all the books that I could read while pooping, I choose these two, which have been my toilet reads for months now. I know that complimenting a book this way may seem strange or just plain gross, but trust me – in my world, such praise is on the level of “you complete me.”

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

Finally, there is my book. Just sayin’.

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

That should hold you over for a little while. Check back in a few weeks for my winter reading recs.

We’ve got some new book-related events coming up. Holla.

If you haven’t been to one of my readings before, how it works is that I show up (usually with a pretty solid buzz), I read a story or part of a story (usually one that I wrote, but who knows?), then we do a Q&A at the end. Everyone goes home happy, except me, who ends up masturbating in some strange hotel room while watching Pornhub clips on my iPhone. It’s a real experience, for sure.

At any rate, if you live in the following cities and are looking for something to do, come on out. Note that events in Cleveland, Chicago and Milwaukee are not so much “readings” but more “I’m taking a week off and road tripping/getting drunk in each of these cities, but in order to write off the entire trip come tax time, I have to say it was in support of my book, so if anyone asks, I did a reading.” This also means that there will be no books for sale at these events – we’re meeting in a bar, after all – so you should buy a copy in advance and bring it with you (if you show up at my event without a copy of the book, I’ll fucking strangle you) (and not even in the sexual way) (probably). Finally, the NJ Shore reading (and LA reading, which I’ve mentioned before but I’m reminding you about again) should last about an hour and you should try to be on time, whereas the bar ones will last longer and be more loose with time, because, well, I’ll be getting pretty drunk.

Full details (with links to Facebook events) are as follows:

Los Angeles
Thursday, July 22 at 7pm
Borders
14651 Ventura Boulevard
Sherman Oaks, CA 91403

Jersey Shore (Surf City)
Wednesday, July 28 at 7:30pm
Ocean County Public Library
Long Beach Island Branch
217 S. Central Ave.
Surf City, NJ 08008

Cleveland
Monday, August 9 at 6pm
Flannery’s Pub
323 E. Prospect
Cleveland, Ohio 44115

Chicago
Wednesday, August 11 at 6pm
Cortland’s Garage
1645 West Cortland Street
Chicago, IL 60622

Milwaukee
Thursday, August 12 at 6pm
The Irish Pub
124 N. Water Street
Milwaukee, WI 53202

Note that we’re still waiting on details for NYC and Boston, as well as (potentially) Seattle, Denver and DC, should I get around to it. This shit is a lot of work.

But in the meantime, if you live in/near one of the places listed about, hope you can make it (and bring your friends! all of them! seriously!).

(via nataliedee.com)

A lady love of mine emailed me this picture today, because it sent her into hysterics. I’ll explain.

As you might imagine – and I’m sure many of you imagine this quite a lot – I am a very, ahem, unique lover. Not so much in the actual execution of the love-making – I’ve written before that my process of seduction is i) start making out, ii) count (in my head) to 30, and iii) stick it in – but rather in everything surrounding the love-making, including how to make it happen. Which, I guess for our purposes, we’ll call my Arsenal (with a capital A, of course).

For example, one of my perhaps less-endearing go-to’s in my Arsenal is derived from the theme song of the Monday Night Football, which climaxes (get it?) with Hank Williams, Jr. bellowing, “Are you ready for some football???” (If you are not familiar with the song, you can go to the 45 second mark in this video to hear the line in question. Also, welcome to Earth.)

When I am in the mood for sexual intercourse, I will often announce this to whatever lady love I am involved with by imitating Hank and scream-singing at her (wait for it), “Are you ready for some fucking???” There is also almost always a dance involved, sometimes in the nude, and occasionally I will add lyrics after this line (“We’re gettin’ ready to do it!” or “We’re gonna get really naked!”). Then, hopefully, the love-making. This song has been my mating call for almost the entirety of my sexually active life. Charming, I know.

(And ladies, please try not to swoon at the thought of a chubby, bearded guy seducing you by dancing around naked and singing, “Are you ready for some fucking?” And they say romance is dead.)

Anyway, back to the picture. One of the characters I’ve been doing for a number of years is Babushka. For those not familiar with the term, a babushka is both a scarf tied under the chin like the one in the pic above, and it’s also the Russian word for “grandmother.” Now, I hate to use the word “character” – there is nothing worse than a funny person discussing the characters they do; it’s so douchy, it’s cringe-worthy, but just roll with it – but ever since college (or thereabouts) what I’ll do is grab a towel, tie it around my head like a babushka, and go up to friends impersonating a gypsy or old Russian woman, saying “Babushka? Babushka?” over and over again in a beseeching/imploring tone, and more or less claw at them like I’m begging for money. This can last for a really, really long time, and usually only ends with them walking out of the room or pushing me away or saying, “I get it! It’s not funny anymore! Fucking knock it off!” I do this to everyone; everyone knows I do it; it’s just one of my things. I think it’s hilarious; others, sometimes not so much.

How does this relate to my Arsenal, you ask? Let me give you a scenario. Say I’m at a wedding or something with a lady love and we are in a hotel room. Say for whatever reason, I become aroused and want to have sex. Instead of initiating sex by, say, kissing the lady love or even walking up to her and poking her in the back or leg or arm with my semi-erect penis, I’ll instead walk into the hotel bathroom, strip nekkid, take a (dry) hotel washcloth, wrap it around my penis as a babushka would wrap around one’s head, and walk out of the bathroom with my babushka bird in my hand, and then start the imploring/beseeching “Babushka? Babushka?” pleas, as if my penis were begging for money or help or some lovin’. Then, hopefully, the love-making.

(And I know what you’re thinking – I should never, ever be monogamous, because I owe it to God, earth and all of womankind to provide this experience to as many females as possible.)

So today, when this lady love came across the above picture, she cracked up pretty good because, well, I mean, it looks like a penis wrapped up in a babushka. And so, like many women before her, she thought of my bird, and she laughed. A lot. Hysterically.

What are you gonna do.

[Happy Friday!]

Hear ye, hear ye: the 12th Annual Flood-Mulgrew “Drink Until You Shit!” tour will take place on Saturday, July 10 in North Wildwood, NJ. We will start at 3pm at Casey’s at Third and New York and go from there, before we end our pub crawl where so many pub crawls in the greater Philadelphia area end: Wawa. As in years past, t-shirts will be available for purchase. As in years past, they’re fucking awesome.

I gotta be honest – it’s gonna be tough to top last year’s DUYS. At the time, I was living in LA and the tour was around my 30th b-day, so I convinced about ten or so friends to come down from NYC and join the tour. Thusly, we took over almost an entire floor of a beachfront motel and really ripped it up. However, this year, familiarity breeds contempt: my NYC buddies see me all the time, and so they are no longer inclined to brave the weekend shore traffic just to watch me get drunk by the beach. Also, this year’s tour is a week before my 31st birthday. Not sexy at all (both the birthday and me).

However, as the case every year, I’m still looking forward to DUYS. I mean, how often do I get the chance to get drunk with many of my oldest friends and my family, nearly all of whom are wearing a t-shirt with my name on it? Let’s just hope that this year my now-preggo sister doesn’t drink during the tour (fingers crossed!).

[Speaking of, I was home a weekend or two ago and found my dad’s pot in a coffee cup in his cupboard. He and I and my sister were then later talking about pot (though I didn’t admit to finding his stash) and though he’s aware that my sister shouldn’t drink while pregnant, he’s emphatic that yes, she absolutely can smoke pot whilst knocked up. Like, not even joking, totally thinks it’s fine. I tried to tell him that it wasn’t, and my sister, the nurse, tried as well, but to no avail. So in Dennis Mulgrew Sr.’s book, you can smoke pot while pregnant. So if you’re knocked up and in his presence and feel the urge to light up, he won’t judge.]

Not to mention that, though the regrettable subtitle to the DUYS tour is the “Quasi-Celebrity Drinking Tour,” this is the first year that we’ll have a real-live author joining the tour. Namely, me. I’m trying to tie in some promotion wherein I’ll do something special for those who bring a copy of my book on the pub crawl, but I don’t know if I’ll be able to handle the emotional damage when I’m walking home at the end of the night and I see a dozen or so copies of the book strewn about the streets of North Wildwood, having been dropped or lost by their drunken owners and now crushed, muddied and stepped on by all the foot traffic. That’s just not gonna be good for the ol’ ego.

Any and all are welcome to attend. If you are interested in doing so and require more information, email me at jason@jasonmulgrew.com (I was going to do the “jason_at_jasonmulgrew_dot_com” thing to reduce spam, but really, I don’t care). Though there will no longer be an official motel – last year’s headquarters, the North Wind, is all booked – I’m still looking for places for myself, since every year on this thing there’s a 50/50 chance that I piss myself while sleeping, and I really don’t want to do that to my Aunt Maureen and her lovely couch. Also, I’m sure that at least two of my NYC buddies will email me Friday at 3:48pm the weekend of the crawl and say, “Dude, are you still doing that shore pub crawl? I WANT IN!”, so I’m going to need a place to sleep.

Hope you can make it, but if you can’t, just come to a reading and buy me a beer when I’m in/near your town and we’ll call it even. If you are coming, you’d better start practicing your drinking and your shitting now.

[If you’d like to join the DUYS Facebook group, you can do so here.]

As part of the SUMMER OF EVERYTHING IS WRONG WITH ME, I’ve got some updates on two readings/signings that I wanted to pass along to y’all.

The first (which I’ve already pimped to those of you on the Facebook and the Twitter) will be on Wednesday, June 23 at 7pm at the Borders in Eatontown, NJ. This one could be interesting because I’m taking the day off, renting a car, driving to Eatontown (which is only about 30 miles away from NYC on the Jersey shore), dicking around on the beach, and then doing the reading. So at the very least, I will be sunburned and possibly even drunk (note: I will not be drinking and driving, which is no laughing matter, but I will make a friend come with me and drive me around – these are the perks of being a real-live author). The other good news is that I don’t really know anyone that lives in or near Eatontown, so if you come out for this reading, there’s a good chance that I don’t read from a podium but actually sit next to you, look deep into your eyes, and read you a story about my tiny penis. If this isn’t just about the perfect way to spend a summer evening, well, I dare you to find a better way.

The second will be on Thursday, July 22 at 7pm in Los Angeles, at the Borders in Sherman Oaks. Ah, yes – I’m returning to my old stomping grounds (even though I’ve been back, like, three times since I moved away). That should be a fun one, and if at any time you hear booing, know that it is most likely coming from my agent, Joel (or, for that matter, his wife, Liz). I’d like to say that if you make it to the reading in Sherman Oaks, there will be tons of celebrities in attendance, a veritable who’s who of the Hollywood scene, but again, probably mostly Joel and Liz. And my buddy Dan, mouthing the words “You suck” at me from his seat. Then we’ll all get drunk after and high-five each other. Again, just a perfect summer evening.

I expect to have details finalized in short order for Cleveland, Chicago and Milwaukee, and I’m still waiting on NYC and Boston, and eventually Denver and Seattle (and possibly DC).

And thank you all again for making the book a success. Please keep recommending it to friends, writing about it on your blogs, status updates, Tweets, etc, and generally pimping the shit out of it. And remember, it’s summer! So when a friend asks, “Hey, do you know of any good beach reads?,” feel free to say, “Why, yes – yes I do.”

Finally, to summarize:

Eatontown, NJ
Wednesday, June 23 at 7pm
Borders
135 Highway Route 35, Monmouth Plaza
Eatontown, NJ 07724

Los Angeles
Thursday, July 22 at 7pm
Borders
14651 Ventura Boulevard
Sherman Oaks, CA 91403

Somewhere, probably in a bachelor apartment in Silver Lake or Hollywood, a 30-something with an MFA in Writing for Screen & Television from USC is grilling his last bologna sandwich on the hot plate in his kitchenette, putting food in his cat’s bowl one last time, burning all of his spec scripts, and preparing to hang himself in the bathroom.

I had never been to a book club before my book came out. Is that bad? To be fair, I don’t know many guys in their late 20’s/early 30’s who prefer canned domestic beer and AC/DC over coffee and Gabriel García Márquez and who are more likely to name the two starting quarterbacks in Super Bowl XXXV than two non-Hamlet characters in “Hamlet” that are in book clubs. Though I can probably nail the Hamlet question (I did play Laertes in a seventh grade production of the play, a performance called “stunning” by the Our Lady of Mount Carmel Gazette), this is me. And these are the people I roll with.

It’s not that my friends and I are not smart. One of us is a doctor, so that’s pretty impressive. And it’s not like we don’t like to read, either. I read a ton, and particularly am an expert on the works of Robert Ressler and John Douglas, two former FBI agents who have written extensively about criminal profiling and serial killers. So that’s good. And a look at my friends’ Facebook pages finds that, yes, many of them have gone so far as to fill out the “Books” section (though three of them list Motley Crue’s THE DIRT as their favorite book).

But for whatever the reason, book clubs were an enigma to me. And then, my book came out.

On or around the day of my book’s release, my friend Erin sent me an IM, asking me if I would sit in on her book club if they read my book. Sure, I said. Anything to help get the word out and sell a few more copies (and I mean anything – wink wink). But because I was unfamiliar with book clubs, I didn’t know what to expect. I mean, do we just sit around and discuss the book? Would people ask me questions? What if it was awkward and the discussion slow-moving? What if someone said, “You know, I thought it sucked?” What if this was all a big ruse that Erin had created just to get me to an unfamiliar location to stab me? (This one was a big concern, actually.) And at any rate, my understanding was that my book was not particularly book club-ish; I always thought that book clubs read heavier books, like that Afghanistan kite book or the one about the woman who gets divorced and then travels a lot or whatever Oprah tells them to read. Was my memoir, “a touching and hilarious story of a precocious young boy growing up amidst the chaos of his Irish Catholic family in South Philadelphia in the late 70’s and 80’s” (- Jason Mulgrew), really book club-worthy?

So in preparation for the book club, I did everything I could to ready myself. This included, among other things (telling multiple people where I’d be, picking out a very thick shirt, doing push-ups to strengthen myself in order to fend off a possible attack, etc), creating a list of questions and discussion topics for my book. I figured this was the least I could do, and would help move the discussion along if it happened to drag. Also, right before I showed up, I had a couple of drinks at a nearby bar. That helped. A lot, actually.

And then it was show time. And as soon as I walked into Erin’s apartment, I knew everything would be just fine. I was seated on a couch, a glass of wine was placed in my hand, and then we started chatting. There were questions about the stories in the book, questions about the style of the writing, questions about why and how I wrote the book, questions about the publishing process, questions about the subjects in the book and what they’re doing now – questions, questions, questions. Though I didn’t need to, I then passed around my questionnaire, which we used as a springboard for more discussion. Some of the topics we touched upon:

- Why is it that I was the first born, but my younger brother Dennis was named after my father? Please be brutally honest in your assessment.

- What is the tenth word on page 143? No looking, please.

- Early in his career, Elvis Costello said that he wrote all his songs for two reasons: guilt and revenge. Why do you think I wrote this book?

And I was loving it. We were laughing and chatting and laughing, and maybe chatting some more. It was, by all accounts, a resounding success – book clubs and me, it was love at first sight.

Since that night, I’ve sat in on probably eight or nine book clubs, both here in NYC and in LA when I’ve been out there, either those of friends’ or of friends of friends’. And somewhere between book clubs four and five (or thereabouts), it occurred to me that I may have found my life’s calling: to sit around with a group of women and homosexual men while drinking wine and eating dip and discussing all things me.

And so I present this offer: if you live in an easily-accessible part of the NYC area (read: somewhere I can get to without a car or a gazillion subway transfers and does not require me to get on a boat) and your book club reads my book, I will sit in on your discussion. We will talk, you can ask questions, I will sign books, we will have fun. I have only one rule, which is no stabbing (of me). In return, I will not steal anything from your apartment – but if the club meets at a bar, I can’t promise that I won’t steal anything from the bar (sorry).

An offer that you can’t (but probably should) refuse, to be sure. But don’t worry, you’re in a good hands. I’m book club regular.

Last night was the premiere of a show that I had been looking forward to for some time, “Expedition Great White.” It is pretty much what it sounds like: scientists and fisherman go on an expedition to capture great white sharks to study them. Even better, to capture them, they basically wrangle them onto this underwater hydraulic lift off the side of a boat, raise the hydraulic lift above the water, and study the shark, right there, as it sits on the lift above the water, the big ass shark flopping around while humans stand and poke and prod it. It’s pretty awesome, in no small part because as a viewer you can’t help but look at this shark, flailing around helplessly with humans all around him, and think, “Well, you ain’t so tough are you now, eh, bitch?”; in some respects it’s like watching a bully get browbeaten by his mother.

Two things you should know before we continue:

1) My DVR has become my best friend over the past few weeks. Uncle Jason has been extremely busy as of late. Not only has my regular day job been crazy, but since the book came out, my dance card has been filled with a number of things, like sitting on NYC book clubs who’ve read my book (more on this tomorrow), having drinks with various peoples, working on two (yes, two!) new projects, planning a road trip for events in Cleveland-Chicago-Milwaukee and events in Denver and Seattle (still waiting to hear on readings in NYC, Boston and LA), etc.

Are these good problems to have? Absolutely. Should I be complaining about them? Nope. And I’m not, really. To be honest, in many ways, I couldn’t be happier – I’m meeting great people, creating stuff that I genuinely like/think is good, etc. Things are awesome right now.

But still, it’s jam-packed, non-stop, go, go, go (and I don’t have a cocaine problem, sadly). So when I have some free time, I love nothing more than blasting the AC, crashing on the couch, consuming an obnoxious amount of calories, firing up the sweet, sweet DVR, and just drifting away into complete intellectual and physical passiveness. It’s glorious.

2) I now apparently love fishing (or at least, shows about fishing). One of my new DVR staples is “River Monsters,” a show on Animal Planet in which a British sliver fox travels the globe, meeting local peoples and fishing for, well, river monsters. Fascinating show, both because of the fish and the look into native cultures. And of course, the silver fox doesn’t hurt, either.

So when I saw the ads for “Expedition Great White,” I immediately added it to the DVR list. And so last night, after watching the Flyers get crushed and realizing that I care about the Celtics-Lakers series about as much as I care about Yankees-Red Sox rivalry, I fired up “Expedition Great White.”

And I was really, really disappointed. Sure, the sharks are pretty cool and huge and whatnot. But seemingly all the characters are rather unlikeable – the main fisherman who butts heads with the doctor is especially so. But that wasn’t my main problem.

What they’re doing in the show is attaching this radar sensors/trackers to the dorsal fins of the great whites before releasing them. When the dorsal fin comes above the water in the shark’s day-to-day cruising, the sensor shoots data to a satellite (in space!) and records the shark’s progress. This is, I think, to determine the shark’s migratory patterns, which is something important to learn about, because, well, I guess it’s important because they’re great whites and they’re cool.

And this is where I felt not only disappointed, but really, really fired up.

To be clear, I do nothing, in any way, shape or form, to help either the earth or humanity. My life is solely about me. During the day, I work. At night, I work, but on more fun stuff. On the weekends, I get drunk and try to finger girls. Somewhere in there is an insane amount of sports consumption, as well as laziness. But that’s pretty much what we’re looking at. I am dedicated to me and me only.

But if, by chance, I was to dedicate my life to some cause – if I were to throw myself full-bore into something I was passionate about, something that I thought could really make a difference, something that I’d spend many hours a week and weeks a year and years of my life doing at considerable personal/financial/emotional cost, I’m guessing a cause to which I would not dedicate myself would be FUCKING SHARKS.

Really? We need spend millions and millions of dollars on a giant boat with a hydraulic lift, on a hundred or so of these trackers, and on a goddamn satellite (in space!) so that we can study the migratory patterns of sharks? Are these patterns going to cure cancer? Or HIV? Homelessness? Poverty? Lead us to a pot of gold? Lead us to just regular pot? Anything?

I’m not knocking those with passion. I wish I had more of it (that is, passion for anything aside from VH1 Classic). And I don’t mean to get all lefty on you, but twice in the span of a one hour walk a few days ago I saw two homeless men take out their penises and pee in public, the second one doing so right in plain view of a few people drinking at an outdoor bar. Now, of course, I set out that day to actively locate homeless men’s exposed penises, but that’s not that point here. The point is that with all the ills in society, ills that affect actual living human beings, someone, somewhere, thinks it’s ok to dedicate their lives figuring out where sharks swim. And what’s worse, someone (or some body or institute) is willing to foot the mighty expensive bill for all this.

[I’m not kidding about the homeless guy’s birds, either – that really happened. Certainly a fun highlight to a late spring evening’s constitutional.]

Again, I know this is a simplistic view of things, but facts are facts: millions of bucks to figure out where sharks swim while homeless dudes all over America are taking out their birds and peeing in public. So – crazy idea – instead of spending the money on the stupid shark shit, why don’t we take that money, use it to round up all the homeless, and throw them in the ocean? (I’m kidding – that was too easy.)

This got my so fired up – and into a related tangent with a friend over IM about how NASA’s shit just seems to break all the time – so much so that even though I DVR’ed a second episode of the show, I can’t watch it. The fact that someone is spending all this money on sharks has completely turned me off to the show.

So what does this mean? A couple of possibilities:

- I have, at 30, already entered the “grumpy old man” stage of my life, and thus am looking to complain about anything.

- I am really biased against sharks. (For example, what if all this money and energy was spent discussing the merits of different Elvis Costello songs? Would I be so pissed then?)

- I am absolutely, totally correct here.

- All of the above.

I think it’s the last one. And in the meantime, to hell “Expedition Great White” – I’ve still got “River Monsters,” as well as a massive amount of murder shows from the ID channel. At least these shows aren’t trying to do anything but entertain and possibly educate me; Uncle Jason doesn’t like to get his hackles raised in his down time.

I thought I was going to marry my college girlfriend. Was this because I considered her my soulmate? Not necessarily. Rather, I thought that that was just how it was done: you date in college, you graduate and live in the same city, you get engaged, you move in, you marry. Done and done. Simple.

(And yes, I actually thought like this, whereas now I see marriage as the death of the best part of one’s life. Uncle Jason’s really grown up a lot since then.)

This was not something that I obsessed over or even really thought about when I was 22 and 23 when we were dating; it’s not like I was looking for engagement rings or reading up on wedding chapels. In fact, what’s remarkable about this was the almost complete lack of thought involved. We were on a path, it was a normal path to be on, and eventually, almost without our input, it would lead us to this destination. Again, simple. Jus’ the way it is.

Unfortunately for me (at the time – boy, did this ultimately work out), my girlfriend didn’t think so and she broke up with me. I was pretty devastated. I had never really been dumped before, so there was a certain ego bruising involved, but my initial reaction was not “How could you do this?!?,” but rather, “Wait – that’s not how it’s supposed to happen.”

After about a week of wallowing around my apartment, thinking things to myself like, “Crap, I’m going to have to meet a whole new girlfriend’s family and stuff” and “Now it’s right back to my family thinking I’m gay again!,” I decided to focus on certain more pressing matters: I needed to get laid. Immediately. But before I could throw myself back on the market, I first needed to take care of a nasty little secret that had developed over the course of my and the ex’s relationship: genital warts.

Just kidding! It was back hair.

That I had started getting back hair during my junior year of college was not a total surprise. I had developed all my hairs (pube, pit, face, chest) rather early (I was probably about 5’9” and 180 pounds as a freshman in high school), but I wasn’t really “hairy.” Yeah, I could grow a beard, but it was modest, thin; yes, I had chest hair, but it wasn’t a rug – it’s not like I was Greek, here. I just had some hair. Because I’m fucking man, baby.

When the back hair started coming, the college girlfriend was, shall we say, dismayed. But I was in college – I wasn’t going to go to a fucking salon to get my back waxed. And who cares, anyway? Does it make that big of a difference? I’m a man, men get hairy, and you’re my girlfriend. Again, this is just the way it is. So let’s just roll with it.

Over the course of the relationship, the girlfriend would complain here and there about the back hair, though it wasn’t a constant thing. So we rolled with it. And then we broke up. Are the two things related? Probably not. But now that I was single and planning to meet and (likely unsuccessfully) attempt to bring to climax all sorts of new women, new women who might not be so ok with that back hair, it had to go. So what to do…

To me, there were three options: I could shave it, wax it myself, or have it waxed. 1) Shave it: Shaving was the easiest option because I could do it myself, in-house. The only problem was that I was hardly a Yogi over here, so my flexibility was (and is) pretty limited. Thus, there were certain areas of my back that I couldn’t reach on my own; I could do the top of the back by going over each of my shoulders, and I could the bottom by going underhand left and right, but there was that middle section that I couldn’t reach. So in a stroke of genius, I took my razor, some rubber bands and one of those old-school wooden rulers that we had in grade school and fastened the razor to the ruler with the rubber bands to get to the hard to reach spots. And it worked. I could easily shave my entire back with my little device, something so technologically ingenious it served as a testament as to why humans rule the earth. Man had, once again, triumphed.

But shaving the back was not ideal. For one, it didn’t feel good to me to have prickly stubble growing out of back, rubbing against a t-shirt or undershirt. Further, I thought shaving would only encourage more hair growth, causing it to grow back thicker. But the death knell for shaving occurred a few weeks after my break-up (and into my back shaving phase) when I was playing the role of gay best friend with a few female friends at brunch when the subject of hairy guys came up and one of them send, “Ugh, I don’t mind hairy guys too much, but there’s nothing worse than when you touch a guy’s back and it’s all prickly and stubbly.” The four other girls at the table agreed.

So shaving was out.

2) Wax it myself: This was not a good phase. I started with Nair, and then something stronger, and both were disasters. For those of you who don’t know, this really isn’t “waxing” per se – basically you layer this shit (kinda like a cream) on a hairy area, wait a few minutes, then wipe it (and the hair) off with a cool, damp towel. Sounds simple, right? Well, if by “simple” you mean “breathtakingly painful,” then yes.

I’ve blacked out most of the few times I tried this, but I’m at least glad I still don’t have the third degree burns on various sections of my back. I don’t know if I waited too long each time or didn’t wipe the stuff off thoroughly enough but, man, ouch. I only did this maybe three times, but each time ended with me yelping in the bathroom and then jumping under the cold water of the shower to cool off. And then, of course, masturbating (I was very into sex and pain at this time).

I guess technically it did work, as parts of my back where definitely hair-free and perfectly smooth. But those small parts of my back were also now beat red and sensitive (in a bad way) to the touch. Needless to say, this was very, very unsuccessful.

3) Have it waxed: This was honestly never even really an option. I can’t express this enough: there is no greater sin to me than vanity in men. Yes, I realize the hypocrisy of this statement when I’ve spent 1000 words describing my quest to rid my back of hair. But being broken-hearted, lonely and trying to remove your back hair with a godddamn razor attached to a ruler so that you can find some female affection is not the kind of vanity I’m talking about. (Straight) Guys who tan, who tweeze their eyebrows (not including unibrow), who spend hundreds of dollars a week on clothing, who spend more than 18 seconds on their hair, who use shampoo that can’t be found in your local CVS, who wear any sort of jewelry other than a wedding ring, who go to a fucking dentist’s office on a monthly basis to get teeth-whitening treatments, who carry around moisturizer or (worse) hand sanitizer – these are people that I want removed from my life, and possibly the entire planet earth. I’m not claiming I’m some sort of Ultimate Manly Man who hunts wolverines with rocks and eats eggs and steak for every meal and has sex only in missionary position (because that’s the way God intended and it’s damned fine as is and don’t need no tinkerin’), but the only circumstance in which I could ever see myself going into a salon to get my back waxed is if Jenna Jameson ca. 1998 showed up at my apartment offering to fuck me and give me $100,000 cash and the deed to the Philadelphia Eagles. In short, I’d rather keep the back hair, thanks.

So I was stuck. But then I had another stroke of genius.

I had (and still have) a beard. For as long as I’ve had the beard, I joked that the beard served as a warning to women, kinda like, “Do you see this hair on my face? Well, there’s a lot more where this came from, honey.” I had (and still have) a beard trimmer. What if instead of affixing the razor the ruler and cleanly shaving my back (and subsequently having to deal with stubble) I affixed the beard trimmer to my back and just trimmed it – trimmed it as much as possible, but not so far down that it was prickly?

This would ultimately become the method I’d use to control my back hair for the next eight years.

The reason why it worked is that it allowed me to reach all of areas of my back AND not let the prickly stubble grow back. Instead, I maintained a fine sheen of back hair, only slightly visible and soft to the touch, kind of like petting a chihuahua. Every Friday (or Thursday, if I was going out that night), it became part of the weekly ritual: vodka red bull in the shower while listening to music, dry off, quickly trim the back, and boom – fathers, lock up your daughters. I was ready to go.

(I knew the beard trimmer/ruler combo was successful when a few short months after the break-up, the ex and I got together for a “drink” for some “catching up” and possible “closure” and we ended up “getting bombed” and “having sex” (though I was “too drunk to ejaculate”) and when touching my back mid-coitus she said, “Oh, your [chihuahua-haired] back…it feels nice.” Win.)

(Also, I’ve become a big fan of the “our relationship is over, but how about one more for old times’ sake?” thing, which I’m fortunate to have done with a bunch of my ex’s. If it’s done right, boy, it’s a lot of fun. I remember dating a girl and telling her that I often did this “one last time” with my ex’s, and she assured me that no, if/when we ended our relationship, she would not sleep with me again. A few weeks later, it was over. A few weeks after that, we were bombed and back in my bedroom practically ripping each others’ arms off in order to get our clothes off as quickly as possible. Good times.)

(And just for the record, how great is booze, for making things like this possible? I don’t think we appreciate it enough, folks. Honestly.)

I’ve had the same wooden ruler and the same beard trimmer for all of these eight years, and we’ve bonded more than a little bit. The beard trimmer/ruler shaver has outlasted girlfriends, moved with me through five different apartments in NYC and back and forth across the country, and always, has been reliable. It’s a both a relic and a tool; a constant reminder of the good times in the past on those nights when I’d do my back before hitting the town at 23 (in the LES) or 25 (on the UES) or 27 (in Little Italy), and a fixture in my life now – I set up the iPod speakers in my bathroom, make that vodka red bull and hop in the shower, knowing that I’ll do my back on that small, hopeful chance that that night will lead to some sexual indiscretions.

But even those most scintillating and steady relationships falter and eventually die out (another thing I’ve learned: love always dies). With me and the beard trimmer/ruler, it was slow, and not entirely either of our faults. The thing is, I’m getting old. Which means two things for our discussion. The first is that I don’t care as much about how I look, specificially in terms of the back hair, anymore – or at least, I’m not interested in trying as hard, in continuing with that little “vanity” I once had. When it comes to women, nowadays it’s kinda like, look, I have a good job, can make you laugh, and am not too weird, sexually-speaking. If that’s not enough, then your loss, sister. The second is that I’m a 30 year old man, and guess what? A lot of 30 year old dudes have back hair. While I was in the small minority at 20 or 23 or even 25, a lot of guys my age are getting hair in places where it didn’t exist ten years ago. So, to me, my slight furriness is not as much of a big deal.

And the “fun” of getting out of the shower to do my back has decreased, and is more like a chore. Though it allows me to reach those middle sections that I wouldn’t otherwise be able to get it, I still have to do a fair amount of stretching, moving and even shimmying with the beard trimmer/ruler to get those middle areas (perhaps I’m getting less flexible as I age, too). I can still nail the top and the bottom of the back with the beard trimmer/ruler, but sometimes I’ll half-ass the middle section and leave patches and…ugh. Just ugh.

So while I couldn’t give up entirely on doing the back (I can’t imagine what six weeks of neglect might look like, but it’d be, you know, not good), the current system, the one that I had used for years, was untenable – it was too difficult, took too long, and just wasn’t getting all the spots. So I recently made the decision to purchase something I’ve been getting emails about from you all for years. I went ahead and bought The Mangroomer.

Well.

I am not here to shill for this product. But I will tell you this: so far, it works. Really works. Like, a lot.

But this is not about how well the Mangroomer (an idea that I really should have patented years ago) works. Instead, it is a sad story. After using the Mangroomer for the first time and being amazed at the results, I opened my medicine cabinet and saw my “works,” my trimmer, ruler and rubber bands, sitting there, undoubtedly sad. Because it knew, and I knew, that it was over. We’d had a good run, but…it was just over.

I’m tempted to make some sort of analogy about breaking up with your old girlfriend for a new girlfriend who is brutally efficient in the sack, but that wouldn’t be fair. As I said, my beard trimmer/ruler outlasted girlfriends; our relationship is bigger than that, so I won’t cheapen it. And there is no real end to this story. The wounds are too fresh, and as such, I do not have time for the proper perspective through which to view our eight years together.

But instead, I know that tonight and in the coming weeks, I will be trimming my back hair with a heavy heart, remembering all those good times, but with an eye towards a bright future. And I can always hope that maybe, just maybe, sometime a ways down the road we’ll get together for just one more, just for old time’s sake.

[Have a good weekend.]

On Sunday morning, I woke up with a very, very bad hangover. It was a rough weekend, as I’d hit it hard Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights, putting in a solid three night bender, something I haven’t done in a long, long time.

(Honestly, I can’t remember the last time I pulled three “out after 2am” nights in a row, including one on a school night. And yes, this means that I’m getting old. But yet, this weekend was nice in that it proved that yes, I still do have my fastball. Maybe not every time out, but I can still dazzle, baby.)

Anyway, when I wake up hungover, I want one thing and one thing only: two eggs, cheese, bacon or sausage (depending on my mood) on a plain, untoasted bagel from Heaven’s Hot Bagel, a place near my apartment that does a pretty solid job of clogging my arteries (further) but lessening my hangover. However, because I live five flights up, I have to psyche myself up to leave my apartment, not so much because I feel like I’m going to fall down the stairs on my way out, but I know that that walk back up the stairs, especially with a pounding headache and a half-functioning liver, may just end me.

So after laying around for an hour or two and doing a significant amount of farting and masturbating (yes, sometimes both at the same time), I was finally ready to head out of get my breakfast cure – I put on a t-shirt, jeans and my sneakers, grabbed my cell phone, and went into my bedroom to get my wallet and keys from their normal resting spot. But they weren’t there.

No biggie, I thought, they’re around here somewhere. So I looked on the floor next to my bed. No dice. I checked the jeans I wore the previous night. Nothing. I checked other likely areas in my apartment, but still, nothing.

And I thought it was funny. “There you go,” I thought, “I must have had a big Saturday night if I can’t find both my wallet and my keys.” True, it was fun, with my buddies Bill and Jeremy coming over to my place, sharing a pizza and crushing beers, and watching basketball, baseball, and a replay of the recent Barcelona – Inter Milan Champions League match (I’m trying to get into soccer, but more on this later) before switching over to VH1 Classic and an old Bon Scott-era AC/DC concert that has achieved “Save Until Manually Deleted” status on my DVR and which makes an appearance at least once a weekend. So the three of us spent a lot of time in my apartment before heading out after midnight or so.

But while it was funny at first, it became quite the opposite (unfunny?) when I seriously could not find my wallet and keys. I knew I had them when I came home, since I otherwise wouldn’t have been able to get into my apartment. And my apartment, though a one-bedroom, is not much larger than a hotel room and it is, aside from the empty beers cans and pizza box that were currently junking it up, very uncluttered. I had to find this fucking wallet and keys.

So, like a madman, I started looking over everything, checking the floor of the entire place, the bathroom and medicine cabinet, between the empty beer cans, under the couch and in its cushions, flipping my blankets and pillows off my bed listening for the tell-tale rattle of the keys hitting the floor, even looking in my refrigerator and kitchen cabinets. Nothing. These was not only getting me pissed off, but also very worried (not to mention, it was not helping my hangover).

But then, just when I was about to crash on the couch and feel sorry for myself, out of the corner of my eye, I spied the one thing I hadn’t yet checked: the empty pizza box, sitting on my kitchen stove. And:



Yep, the wallet and keys were in the pizza box. Of course. Off to Heaven’s I went, and we all lived happily ever after.

[Author’s Note: for the first time in six-plus years of blogging, I finally figured out how to post pictures in posts very easily. Therefore, I might do a “picture of the weekend” post every now and then. I don’t want to say every weekend, because, let’s be honest, I’m lazy and also there just may not be picture-worthy things each weekend. But I figured this was a good one to start with.]

I don’t want to steal the Sport Guy’s “Yup, these are my readers” shtick, but I thought this email, from Brad in Milwaukee, deserved special attention:

I went through 750 Yahoo! Personals ads for Philadelphia today. I found six broads whose pictures I saved for some retro 1995 whacking off to still photos. Six! That’s .8% of the ads I looked at. Starting to wonder what those hookers you were hunting looked like.

And of course, the photos were attached.

So, yeah, these are the people who read my internet diary.

[Have a good weekend]

For the past several years, my buddy Brian and I have had a running private joke about Paul Stanley of Kiss, particularly Paul’s daily struggles to repress his extreme homosexuality. It is our contention that Paul is one of the world’s most closeted homosexuals (I mean, have you seen the guy in the past, oh, thirty years?) but in order to maintain the rock image of his awful band, he must put forth his own image of an ultra-heterosexual womanizer, which he, obviously, does not do very well.

Now, to be clear: we do not have this joke because we are making fun of Paul for being gay. Brian and I are not – in any way, shape or form – homophobes. I personally love the gays. Hell, I might even be gay (I guess I’ll find out soon enough). The crux of the joke is that we want to help Paul let it go, to free himself, and to come out to the world. Because it’s ok, Paul. You have nothing left to prove. You win, Paul. Now win your true self.

I can’t begin to get into how complex this joke has become over the years – there’s a gay panic room in his home that Paul retreats to when he’s feeling threatened; there are pre-show conversations between Gene and Paul about how Gene coaches Paul on how to say straight things (“And then say, ‘How many ladies want to get licked’ – they’ll love that”); there is a gay intervention led by Judas Priest singer Rob Halford, who shares his story about being a gay metal god, etc – at this point, the joke is more complicated than the “Da Vinci Code.” But, needless to say, Brian and I have gotten years of enjoyment out of it, and after three or so beers, it’s only a matter of time before we start talking about it.

One pivotal role that Brian, he of oodles of free time at work, has played is searching the internet for and then emailing me the absolute gayest pictures of Paul Stanley ever photographed. I’ll be in my office, on the phone, and see a picture of Paul Stanley in a pink outfit licking his lips (with a caption provided by Brian, something like “Being true to yourself is the ultimate freedom, Paul”) suddenly pop up in my inbox, at which point I’ll have to close my office door to hide my laughter. The picture searching and emailing has only developed in the past few months, but I’d say that about once a week for the past six or so months, Brian has sent me an extremely gay picture of Paul Stanley, failing to repress his homosexuality. That’s a lot of gay Paul Stanley pictures.

About a month ago, after sending me one such picture, Brian and I were talking on the phone when he said, “I just realized something – could you imagine if I got laid off, and the tech guys found dozens of these Paul Stanley pictures on my computer? I could picture the tech guy sitting at my computer, finding the folder with all these pictures, and saying to everyone in the office, ‘Uh, you guys might want to have a look at this…’”

Well, guess what happened?

Two weeks ago, Brian got laid off. Yep. His company was downsizing and they eliminated his position. He took it pretty well, so he and I were discussing his next steps over some beers when I said, “Well, with all this free time, maybe you can write a play about Paul Stanley’s journey. You know, to raise awareness and ultimately help Paul?” Brian laughed, and then looked at me, alarmed, and said, “Dude – the pictures!”

Fortunately, Brian was allowed to get back into his office and get access to computer to remove his personal files. He can’t say for certain whether anyone at his work had discovered the folder, but at least no one stopped him in the elevator and said, “So, dude, are you, like, in love with Paul Stanley or something? Because what you had on your computer was really fucking weird.”

Rather than save the Paul Stanley photos to an external hard drive or something (that seems like a ton of work), Brian sent me some of his favorites in an email titled simply, “Keep the dream alive.” So in honor of Brian’s non-employment and, as always, to help Mr. Stanley, below are some of the best of the best gay pictures of Paul Stanley.

Freedom is just three little words away, Paul. Say them, Paul, just say them. It’s time.

A couple of book-related developments that might interest you (or perhaps not, but just roll with it):

- I did an interview with Glamour.com! The lovely Rosemary Brennan, who writes the “Smitten” column for Glamour.com, and I talked about my book, love, life and all sorts of goodies. Don’t be scared by the “Getting Intimate with Jason Mulgrew” title – nothing weirdly sexual is required to read the interview. I think, at least – what you do in the privacy of your own home in front of your computer screen is your own business.

- I was on the radio! I did a fun phone interview with the Elliott in the Morning show, which broadcasts each morning in the DC and Richmond areas, and who definitely, definitely read my book (I was astounded at how good and thorough their questions were). The best part – over ten minutes long and I didn’t curse once!

- I was on TV! I was a guest on the 10! Show in Philly on the day of my reading there, and host Lori and I were joined by my old high school classmate Justin, who now works on the show and is a reporter in Philly. As Justin mentions, he and I were probably the fattest kids in our homeroom senior year. Justin is now skinny, whereas I just grew a beard to cover up my fatness. So we’re both making it work.

- I did a reading/signing in Philly! Something tells me that these readings are going to be fun. I didn’t know what to expect – do I just show up, read, sign books, then get drunk with everyone afterwards? Um, yeah, that’s pretty much exactly how these things go. I had originally planned to read the chapter about my penis, but when I looked into the audience and saw my mom, her dozen friends, my dad, my sister, and a few cousins, I called an audible at the last minute and went with something more tame. Then during the signing portion, two dudes brought me a Bud bomber (which I drank in the store, because I’m a fucking writer), and two girls asked me to sign their body parts (which I will leave to your imagination). Finally, many of the people who attended the reading joined me at nearby bar where I drank more free shots in one night than I ever have in my life, including on my 21st birthday, and learned an important lesson: you must eat before these readings and subsequent drinking sessions. I held it together pretty well at the bar, but at the end of the night I thought that the hotel staff was going to call the police after they told me that room service was closed for the night (again, I’m a fucking writer) (also, I would have just gone to Wawa, but it was pouring rain that night).

I’m still waiting to hear about details on additional readings, which I will post here or on the Facebook group for the book.

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

While we’re on the topic, I’d like to again thank everyone who has emailed or messaged me or otherwise sent me kind words and good vibes about the book. It may sound terribly corny, but I’m a little drunk and feeling sensitive right now: any and all “success” I have is directly a result of the continued support and pimpage of you guys. Again, it’s hard to get a little ol’ book off the ground, as books rely almost solely on word of mouth and recommendations by readers to others. And things, so far, are going great. So thank you for continuing to spread the word; for posting about the book on your blogs, through Twitter or on messageboards; for recommending the book to others (but no sharing copies, please – Uncle Jason’s gotta eat); for writing positive reviews on Amazon or other sites (I’m aiming to get 50 positive reviews on Amazon – only about two months in, and we’re doing pretty good!); and any and everything else. I promise you, we’re all gonna get laid.

Let’s get some music for the weekend, shall we?

Six Songs

“Forever” The Explorers Club
Just in time for summer, baby! The Beach Boys are either dead or old or whatnot, so instead I offer you this band. You’re probably thinking, “C’mon – how much can they really sound like the Beach Boys?” Um, a lot. Trust me. Completely enjoyable and fun.

“I Didn’t Understand” Elliott Smith
Speaking of fun, I got drunk the other night and read the autopsy report for Elliott Smith, which was a bit fuzzy about whether the stab wounds he suffered were self-inflicted or not and classified his mode of death as “undetermined” (just the report, mind you, not the photos – I’m not that creepy) (well, in this regard, at least). The medical examiner pointed to three things that were inconsistent with suicide: there were no hesitation wounds (I guess when people stab themselves, there’s a little bit of slow-down as they realize “HOLY CRAP I’M ACTUALLY DOING THIS!”), there was some evidence of defensive wounds (though this wasn’t thoroughly explored in greater detail, aside from a mentioning the few nicks or scrapes on his arms), and Elliott was stabbed through his clothing, which is not typical of suicides (I guess when people commit suicide by stabbing, they lift their shirts or take them off or whatever).

Not surprisingly, all this made me incredibly depressed, so I started listening to this song, one of Elliott’s sadder ones, and it made me even more depressed (though saying this song is one of Elliott’s sadder ones is like saying it was worse when your girlfriend fucked the entire Knicks team than when she fucked the entire Nets team – it’s all pretty rough).

The moral of this story: if it’s Friday night and you’re drinking stouts that are 9% ABV, don’t start reading autopsy reports and listening to Elliott Smith. No one’s going to win there.

(Good god, now I’ve made myself and you all depressed. Let me try to turn this around.)

“ONE” Yeasayer
I have a playlist called “Dance, Hipster, Dance!” This song is on there. Big time. There aren’t many circumstances in which I could see myself wearing glitter, but I would imagine that in any possible (entirely hypothetical) scenario, this song would be playing.

“Bittersweet Memory” Blue Merle
Because sometimes all you really need is a healthy dose of sad-indie-country.

“Honey In the Sun” Camera Obscura
I can’t prove this, but I am pretty sure that Camera Obscura had a band meeting before writing this song and said, “You know what? I think we should really knock Jason Mulgrew’s socks off with our next song – just totally blow him out of the water, really make him swoon. Thoughts?” Um, good job, guys – you nailed it.

(Really, this whole album, My Maudlin Career, is ruining my life, causing me to lust after Scottish broads who are mostly sad and melancholy but occasionally sound pretty happy and bubbly. Good thing the streets of NYC are crawling with these types of girls. Jackpot.)

“Tighten Up” The Black Keys
I know this song has been out for a few weeks now, but we here at JM.com do not claim to be on the up-and-up when it comes to the newest/hippest music. And there’s this: this song is FUCKING HOT. The last minute of it causes me instant flashes of slow-motion montages featuring things exploding, people diving while shooting guns, and barely-clad women gyrating in sexy-ass clothes.

Speaking of, well, sex, many years ago I endeavored to create a playlist called, “Dirty Hipster Stripper,” which, as the name implies, would be a collection of sexy-ass indie songs that a stripper might, well, strip to. But I eventually realized this playlist was fruitless when a former lover and I were hanging out, listening to the Black Keys (I think it was “Midnight in Her Eyes”), and she turned to me and said, “You know, if you ever wanted me to, like, dress up and dance for you to this song, I would do it.” It was then I understood that my “Dirty Hipster Stripper” playlist could just as well have been called “Pretty Much Every Black Keys Song.” Any way you cut it, great, hot song.

(Not that the girl who offered the dress-up-and-dance was a hipster; she was rather corporate.)

(Funny, I had almost completely forgotten about that whole episode until now.)

(Man, we had some good times together.)

([looking off into distance])

([sighing])

(We really did.)

([continuing to look off into distance])

([sighing again])

(I think I should go for a walk.)

[Have a good weekend.]

I am a creature of habit, especially when it comes to eating and drinking.

Every Monday (work permitting), I head to Dempsey’s in the East Village, where I hit up the happy hour before heading to nearby Spice Thai (formerly Sea Thai), where I get the same exact thing every week: tup tim fritters and chicken pad thai. Every time I’m in Boston, I go to Anna’s, where I’ve been getting the same burrito for ten-plus years: super steak, extra cheese, pinto beans, lettuce, no tomato, sour cream, no hot sauce, side of guacamole, medium orange soda. When writing my book, it took me a little while, but I figured out the perfect drink combination that would keep me writing without getting me too bombed or sexually aggressive: two pints of vodka cran (good for the kidneys), followed by 15,000 pints of Guinness. And every Friday night, if I know I’m going out on a big one, I’ll pre-game the exact same way: two vodka (sugar-free) red bulls followed by as many Bud bombers as I can drink before I need to go out (my friends used to joke that my “Friday Night Special” was when I’d hit up the bodega on my way home from work and pick up the two sugar free red bulls and a six pack of bombers – and I wonder why I ejaculate maybe 30% of the time when I have sex while drunk).

I could go on and on about how this desire for order or routine extends to other parts of my life – how I walk to and from work the same way every time, how if I don’t get upgraded on flights I sit in the same seat each time, how when I masturbate I put the same knuckle not necessarily in my ass but certainly very close to it, etc – but I think you get the point. I love me some routine. I don’t think it’s because I’m superstitious or OCD. And it’s not like I’m unwilling to try new things. But I like what I like, and there is something comforting in knowing that every time I go to Dempsey’s, it’s going to be good; that every time I get the pad thai from Spice/Sea, I’m going to enjoy it. You know? I’m not crazy. Swear. (At least not with this stuff.)

But of all the eating and drinking I do here in NYC, there is one institution that stands above the rest: Rosario’s, the pizza place on the Lower East Side that I’ve been frequenting since I first moved to the neighborhood in 2002. I don’t know what first drew me to it – likely the proximity to my apartment, and nothing else – but it’s actually really, really good pizza. Not only that, they have an appealing variety of foods that taste especially good while drunk, like various types of pizza (the bianca slice with spinach and ricotta; the sofia slice with tomatoes, basil and mozzarella; the barbeque chicken pizza; and even the bacon cheeseburger pizza), all sorts of rolls, the frankie and cheese (a hot dog wrapped in a slice of cheese and baked in a crust), and, of course, the Jamaican-style beef patty (not a picture of an actual Rosario’s beef patty).

With this variety of options, just like with the drinking while writing the book, it took me a while to figure out the perfect combination of Rosario’s food that, when drunk, can nearly bring me to climax without so much as going near my genitals: a plain slice plus a beef patty, the latter with cheese and a side of sauce. Yes, maybe going with the plain slice instead of one of the more exotic (or more fatty) slices is a wuss move, but a) I think the simple plain slice is exquisite and b) the beef patty is no joke. As it exists in its regular form, the beef patty is ground beef enveloped in a flaky crust. That, in itself, is unappealing to me, as it’s too dry. So I have the gentleman behind the counter open up the beef patty (sort of take the top off), throw in a fist-full of mozzarella cheese, and let that melt for a while. Then, we add the side of pizza sauce in which to dip the now cheese-packed beef patty. Approximate total calories in the place slice: 400. Approximate total calories in the beef patty with cheese and side of sauce: 31,691. Approximate number of orgasms achieved after consuming both: zero.

(I’ve said before that I have little tolerance for those who when drunk want to fight – either verbally or physically – or otherwise cause trouble. After a certain point of drunkenness, I want to do one of two things: eat or make-out. Rosario’s has long been a more than suitable consolation prize when no female looking to get back at her dad or her ex or who lost her friends and doesn’t really know where she is can be found during the course of the night.)

I’m 30 years old now, and I’ve come to realize that I don’t think I’m capable of love. But I think I can get pretty close, as long as “close” is a Rosario’s slice and beef patty around 3:38am after having an appetizer of ten to fifteen Anheuser-Busch products. To me, this is heaven. But just like heaven, there are some problems. In heaven’s case, it’s the abundance of minorities who have been persecuted for hundreds of years on earth and who now walk around thinking that they only the goddamn place in the afterlife. In the case of the Rosario’s slice-beef patty combo, not only is this food extremely heavy, but the beef patty is one of those things that tastes much, much better while drunk.* So therefore, when I hit up Rosario’s during the week while sober – something I do only rarely, as I know I’m going to eat the slice-beef patty combo once a weekend – I don’t like to get it, and instead get something else. But, as I said, I hit up Rosario’s mostly on the weekends when drunk for the slice ‘n patty.

(*I’m tempted to make the “kinda like female genitalia” joke here. Also tempted to make the “also like male genitalia” joke as well, but I have no experience with that. No experience drunk, I mean. All my experiences have been sober. Stone, cold sober.)

Every weekend that I’ve been in NYC since I moved back here in December, I’ve gone to Rosario’s drunk at least one night for the slice and beef patty. Each time, I’ve tipped egregiously – usually three or four bucks on the $4.75 bill (I like tipping, I like the food, and this is one meal in NYC that’s not totally overpriced). And now, proudly, I have developed a regular: every time I walk into Rosario’s, even if the line is fifteen people deep, any one of three guys who work behind the counter will look at me and nod, I’ll nod back, and they’ll start making my order. It is, in short, badass.

Having a regular is very, very good. Sure, it saves me a bunch of time, but it also makes me feel cool – I am a part of something, a family, a fixture in a place where everyone knows my name, or at least my order (not to mention that it amazes my friends to no end) (obviously, it doesn’t take much to impress my friends). As you can imagine, once I discovered that I had a regular there, I only frequented Rosario’s more, on the weekends, while drunk, when the beef patty was appropriate. Now, it’s more automatic than ever – I walk in, and they start my meal right away.

But what if I don’t want the slice and beef patty? What if I’m not drunk out of my mind, sending misspelled texts messages to various friends and acquaintances, swaying back and forth? What if it’s a weeknight and I want something less heavy, like two sofia slices? I mean, I love my regular order, but it’s about the equivalent of eating of eating half a cheesecake – fun every so often, especially when drunk, but every time you have a slice of one? Not so much.

And herein lies the problem.

Recently, I stopped into Rosario’s on weekday to NOT get my regular, but something else, something “lighter.” As soon as I entered, they started making my order, but I had to stop them, saying instead that I wanted something else. It was, as you might imagine, incredibly awkward, as the Mexican-type guys behind the counter looked at me, crestfallen, disappointed, as a child might look after being told there is no Santa. Then I felt bad, and was nearly compelled to say, “No – it’s ok! I was kidding! Throw some cheese on the beef patty and let’s do it!” But the moment was spoiled. I ordered outside my regular and something, somewhere deep inside of each of us, changed.

And I wanted to make it right. So that weekend, I went in, searching for eye contact with any of the employees that so tenderly prepared my regular for each week before. Once eye contact was made with one of the employees (we’ll call him Juan), Juan looked at me, and, rather than nodding, furrowed his brow in confusion. From the back of the line, over the roar of a dozen or so drunks looking for their late night grease fix, I said, “No, it’s cool! Beef patty!” He didn’t hear me and shook his head, and instead grabbed a beef patty with his spatula and hoisted it into the air, as if to say, ”Yes?” I nodded and gave him the thumbs up – and all was made right with the world.

But now I am trapped by my “regular.” I don’t want to run the risk of losing it again, so for the rest of my life, every time I walk into Rosario’s, I have to keep it real and get my slice and beef patty; if I want something different, I have to eat elsewhere (and, as of this writing, I have done so twice).

Is this ideal? No. Would I like to enjoy some of the other foods Rosario’s has to offer? Absolutely. But would I ever betray Juan and my other friends again by straying from my regular? Not a chance.

(And now I’m starving.)

To celebrate the recent release of the reasonably-acclaimed memoir “Everything Is Wrong with Me: A Memoir of An American Childhood Gone, Well, Wrong,” the entire JasonMulgrew.com family cordially invites you to view the second installment of “A Life in Pictures”.

To order the book, visit your local bookstore or click any of the links below:

In honor of the release my book, the second edition of the “life in pictures,” and all the unfortunate and embarrassing photos of childhood out there, the JasonMulgrew.com team and the good folks at HarperPerennial are joining forces to present the official “Everything Is Wrong With Me: Your Life in Pictures” contest (or EIWWMYLIP, pronounced “Eww, my lip,” for short). Here’s how it works:

1) Join the flickr group and submit your unfortunate childhood photos.

2) A SECRET COMMITTEE chaired by yours truly will then judge how bad/embarrassing/unfortunate your childhood photos are.

3) The ten best photos will be posted here on the site, along with captions provided by me, in order from “incredibly unfortunate” to “this is the worst thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

4) All winning photos will get links to whatever page or blog they wish (free traffic, baby!).

5) The top three photos will win all sorts of goodies, including signed copies of my reasonably-acclaimed memoir, “Everything Is Wrong with Me: A Memoir of An American Childhood Gone, Well, Wrong,” which has some seriously embarrassing childhood photos.

6) The winner of the EIWWMYLIP contest (the person who submits the absolute worst photo, likely something on par with the lesbian picture in my book) will get the signed copy of my book, a boatload of some of HarperPerennial’s other finest titles, and a Polaroid of me using the restroom.*

[* I don’t think I can legally do this, but let’s discuss offline.]

The winners will be unveiled on the site in early May, so get your unfortunate and embarrassing childhood photos in now. Remember, there is nothing that can be done about how retarded you looked in the past, so you might as well just make fun of it.

Good luck and godspeed.

This past weekend, my buddies came to town for our annual boys weekend of watching the start of the NCAA tourney and having our fantasy baseball draft. Some highlights:

- On Friday, we broke our personal record and ordered $145 worth of Italian meats and cheeses (ten and a half pounds total, plus three pounds of roasted red peppers). We then spent about 13 hours, starting at noon (everyone took the day off) at my buddy’s place in Brooklyn eating, drinking, gambling, watching basketball, playing drinking games and being perfectly typical red-blooded American males. Clichéd? Yes. Glorious? Fucking A.

- A handful of us went out to a nearby bar around 2am, and that’s when things got fuzzy. Conservatively, I would estimate that I had the equivalent of 30 beers in the course of the day (this is a serious guess). This would explain why I sent the following text messages at 4:17am to my lawyer friend, a girl I made out with once years ago whose last name is similar to my lawyer friend’s (and who I’ve had minimal contact with since), and the letter “Y”:

“We need to talk tmrw”

“Legal no worries”

I have no idea why I would need legal advice at 4:17am on Friday night. The letter “Y” was totally useless in this department, though.

- We had our fantasy baseball draft at Foley’s in Midtown on Saturday (specifics below). I had, I would say, one of the top ten hangovers of my life, and before meeting the guys at 2pm for the draft, I’d drained my entire apartment building’s supply of hot water TWICE by taking long, hot showers, trying to recover. It didn’t work. Rough day for ol’ Uncle Jason.

- Foley’s was fun, but approximately 82 degrees. Between the hangover, the heat, the greasy food, and the beers, there were at least three separate occasions during which I thought I was going to have a stroke. Again, rough day.

- Just as the draft was winding down, Foley’s two celebrity bartenders for the evening showed up. One was Jenn Sterger, who is famous for something (my guess: the boobies), but who is also in that rarified air of being so-hot-that-it’s-not-safe-to-be-that-hot (I mean, really, she can’t walk the streets alone). The other was Jay Williams. No, not the chauffeur murderer, but the former Chicago Bull and Duke All-American. What’s interesting is that two buddies of mine in the fantasy league know Jay Williams from growing up in NJ, so Jay was talking to us the whole draft (the end of it, at least). Not only that, because Jay was there, Jenn figured we were safe and also spent our draft with us. So I was drafting Francisco Liriano while Jenn Sterger and Jay Williams sat two seats away from me. I probably should have offered to sign something for them, ideally Jenn’s boobies, since I’m famous and all, too. But boy, I was in no shape to mingle, as the “hair of the dog” approach totally let me down and left me run down. I’m definitely getting old.

- Speaking of, we had to take a buddy (who shall remain nameless) from the bar at 10pm, as he was spitting on the floor with his eyes half-closed and mumbling incoherently. This is what happens when you have kids. Weak sauce.

- Everybody left early Sunday morning and I spent my day planted on the couch, masturbating like a mental patient, before meeting some friends for evening drinks, which kept me out until 2am and made Monday not so fun.

So pretty much it was a dynamite weekend. The next boys weekend will be the weekend of September 18 in New Orleans. I should be recovered by then.

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

[If you don’t care about fantasy baseball, skip to the next section. I don’t think there’s a single joke in here, and if there is, it ain’t worth it.]

So far, I’ve done two of my four fantasy baseball drafts, including (as mentioned above) my main league last Saturday. It’s a four player keeper league, so I already started with Chase Utley, Hanley Ramirez, Evan Longoria and Chris Carpenter (holla! – though I don’t love Carp). It’s standard five categories for pitching, but OBP instead of AVG and TB instead of HR. My team is below (parens indicate the round in which the player was drafted, but remember, there were four keepers, so when I say “4” it’s really the 8th round of the universe of players). I had the third overall pick in the draft.

C: Matt Wieters (4)
1B: Derrek Lee (5)
2B: Chase Utley (K)
SS: Hanley Ramirez (K)
3B: Evan Longoria (K)
OF: Grady Sizemore (1)
OF: Bobby Abreu (3)
OF: Torii Hunter (6)
Util: Nyjer Morgan (9)
Util: Michael Cuddyer (12)
B: Placido Polanco (15)

SP: Chris Carpenter (K)
SP: Josh Beckett (2a)
RP: Francisco Cordero (7)
RP: Jose Valverde (8 )
P: Leo Nunez (17)
P: Cole Hamels (2b)
P: Jorge de la Rosa (10)
P: David Price (11)
B: Max Scherzer (13)
B: Ben Sheets (14)
B: Francisco Liriano (16)
B: Dice K (18)

The team follows my four basic tenets of drafting:

1) Look for speed guys that contribute in other categories (Five guys – Utley, Hanley, Sizemore, Abreu and Hunter – could each go 20-20+; I’d put the over/under for those five guys, health permitting, at 115 HR and 110 SB);

2) Always target high OBP guys, as that’s hard to make up (Lee, Utley, Hanley, Sizemore, Abreu each have career OBPs of .380+ or thereabouts);

3) Always target high K pitchers (I don’t think any pitcher on my staff has a career K/9IP of 7.5, except for Carp, who is not totally lacking here); and

4) Try to get at least two closers who will not lose their jobs (Cordero’s making a fortune to close, Valverde was acquired to close).

Some general thoughts:

- I had to overdraft pitching by taking Beckett and Hamels with my two picks in the second (I’d had an extra from an in-season move I made the previous year), but Carp is a real unknown to me. Love Beckett: contract year, great team, ground ball-ish pitcher with improved team defense. Love Hamels, although all the spring training hype required me to draft him a little higher than I would have liked. Overall, I’m pretty comfortable with those three at my top, and I like de la Rosa’s potential (and think that Rockies team is going to be just dynamite this year).

- I don’t necessarily love Wieters, because he broke my heart last year. But this is a keeper league. In non-keeper leagues, Wieters is going in the 9th round. I got him in a keeper league at the end of the 8th. Great, great value.

- Speaking of, I will likely be keeping Utley, Hanley and Longoria forever. Not so much with Carpenter. This means I’ll have to keep a different fourth guy next year. This is why I drafted Sizemore, Wieters and even (believe it) Hamels. I’m assuming that one of those guys will be my fourth keeper next year.

- Check out the poo-poo platter at the end of my pitching staff: Price, Scherzer, Sheets, Liriano, Dice-K. Yikes. My thinking is that if at least one of these guys work out, I’ll be happy (and I knew Dice-K would start the season on the DL, so for the last pick in the draft, as someone I can put on the DL and free up a roster spot for on day one, not a bad pick). You’ll see a theme among these five: all of them have shown flashes of tremendous talent before, all are high K pitchers, all (with the exception of Sheets) are pitching on good teams. Sheets and Dice-K have been awful this spring, Price and Scherzer ok, and Liriano is filthy. I predict that by season’s end, two of these guys will be at least SP3-caliber pitchers, two will be abominable, and one will be ok – all for SPs I took after the 14th round overall.

- Best pick: Placido Polanco. Career .303 hitter. Batting second in the best lineup in the NL, between Jimmy Rollins and Chase Utley. Will have 2B and 3B eligibility five games into the season. In the past three years, has averaged 145 games, 92 runs, 9 homers, 66 RBI, 7 steals, and a .311 average (with a .356 OBP). I’m calling it right now: 110 runs, 14 homers, 74 RBI, 11 steals, .310. At 2B and 3B. In the 19th round. Yes, please.

- Worst pick: Max Scherzer. The nachos had just come out, I had to pee, and I had just yelled at everyone for taking too long (and now people were yelling at me), so when this pick came up, I was in a bad place. I mean, I like Scherzer, but not in the goddamn 17th round overall. But, I can live with it. Still, if there’s one guy that I’d cut if I had to, it’d be him (also, not huge on Price at 15th round overall, but I’m more ok with that).

- Guy I wanted most but didn’t get it: Tommy Hanson. Not because I necessarily think he’ll be a monster this year – I think he’ll be good, but I think his innings might capped and his ERA will be comfortably above 3 – but because I had him last year. I followed his every start for the Gwinnett Braves, and when he came up, he dominated for me. So I felt like he was my special project. But, alas, it is not meant to be. But this “love” for a player is what happens when you have a keeper league (I was on Longoria before 99% of the fantasy baseball universe realized he wasn’t Eva’s brother).

Overall, I feel confident going for my third consecutive title in this league. God, I can’t wait for baseball to start.

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

Six Songs

“Bang Pop” Free Energy
I know I pimped these guys on the last Six Songs, but between now and then, I saw them at Mercury Lounge here in NYC. And I’m calling this one, too: they’re going to be big. And remember, the last time I saw a musician at Mercury Lounge and said he was going to be big, it turned out pretty good for him. Point: I know what I’m talking about. Hop on the train now before there’s no room left. If you like parties, and you like rock, and you like fun, you’ll like Free Energy. Truth.

“Light My Fire” Will Young
Two nights ago I was cleaning my apartment (ok, I was eating the reuben mac and cheese from Macbar while waiting on hold with Time Warner because my cable had been shut off due to a $290 past due balance because I haven’t opened up a piece of mail that doesn’t say “IMPORTANT TAX DOCUMENT ENCLOSED” in about five years), when this song came on over the iPod speakers. And it is just a lovely little cover. I’m not going to say it’s better than the original, even though I hate the Doors and think they’re one of the most overrated bands of the 20th century, because a cover has to be really, really, really, really good to be better than the original. But still, just a lovely little ditty.

[I may hate the Doors, but the anger I feel toward them is nothing compared to the wrath I feel toward KISS. So, let me get this straight: you guys play bad music dressed as demon clowns; one of your lead singers is the most repressed/closeted homosexual in recent memory; and your other lead singer has never had a drink in his life and has sold the band’s likeness to essentially everything in the universe – I work at a mega law firm and would not be surprised if one day I picked up a piece of our bond paper and beneath our firm’s name, there’s the Kiss logo. I’m convinced that Gene Simmons got into music not for the love of rock and roll or even for the women, but because it was a money-making opportunity, not unlike one would get into coal or semiconductors. He is the anti-artist, and if you don’t realize this, you’re a jerkoff.]

[…]

[…calming down now…]

[…]

[Ok, I’m better now.]

“Keep the Lights On” Wave Machine
And then this song came on after “Light My Fire” and I started dancing. Likes: bass grooves, falsettos. Dislikes: Doors, Kiss.

“Head Over Heels” The Go-Go’s
In addition to being almost overwhelming sexually attracted to Belinda Carlisle, this song makes for some fun. Don’t judge.

“Airplane” The Local Natives
Intense, elegiac. I wish I could write more, but I have to save up my energy for the next one.

“Keep On Running” Spencer Davis Group
Let’s look at the lyrics to this song:

Keep on running
Keep on hiding
One fine day I’m gonna be the one
To make you understand
I’m gonna be your man

Keep on running
Running from my arms
One fine day I’m gonna be the one
To make you understand
I’m gonna be your man

Everyone’s talking about me
Make me feel so bad
Everyone’s laughing at me
Make me feel so sad

[Break, repeat second verse]

Is it me, or are these lyrics to this song, well, kinda scary? “You run and you hide but one fine day, I’m gonna to make you understand that we belong together”? “Everyone’s talking about me and laughing at me, causing me anguish and pain”? “But you just keep on running from my arms, my arms that are reaching out to you, because one day, one glorious day, I’m going to make you love me”?

Were these lyrics written by Steve Winwood over a pint in a London pub, or by some large, bald-headed mentally-challenged man, scribbled in crayon on the wall of his bedroom in his mother’s basement, shortly before he masturbates to the shrine he’s created of the cute neighbor girl who’s too afraid to even say “hi” to him? Especially if you replace “sad” with “mad” in that last verse, I mean, this is the type of stuff that serial killers write before they go out on the hunt.

And so we bear witness to the power of music. Next time you’re rocking out to your favorite catchy tune, be sure to listen to the words.

[Next week we examine “Baby It’s Cold Outside” as a date rape anthem.]

[Have a good weekend]

Check out an interview I did with one of my favorite sites, The700Level.com.

And boy, do I miss the Cartoon Network. Others have come after it, but they just can’t compare.

I’m proud to announce that the 2010 Fantasy Baseball Super Sheet is now available. If you just want to know how to get it, you can skip the next four paragraphs and start with the one that begins, “But we’re going…” Otherwise, we’ll get there.

As many of you know, I am (almost clinically) addicted to fantasy sports, specifically fantasy baseball. Not only does it enhance my love for the sport, but it also helps pay my bills (last year I won just about a month’s rent playing fantasy baseball, and remember, I live in NYC). So I love it. And I’m good at it. So I love it more.

Every year in preparation for my baseball drafts, I had routinely prepared what was known among my friends as the Fantasy Baseball Super Secret Sheet (not a great name, but hey, at least you know what it is). The sheet consisted of four tabs: one for hitters, one for pitchers, and one each for NL and AL depth charts. It also contained all sorts of stats for the players in the MLB universe, as well as my personal tiered rankings. And I didn’t share with anyone – even friends who were in different leagues – because I spent about 100 hours of my time creating it, formatting it, updating it, and ranking the players. So get your own damn rankings.

Last year, for the first time, I decided to offer the sheet to you guys for the small sum of $5 (even though I had some serious gambling debts to pay off). I figured it was a bargain, because most fantasy baseball magazines are published and researched in January and cost $10. So for half the price, I was providing completely up to date rankings lists (and depth charts), all in an easily sortable Excel spreadsheet, which one could manipulate on his/her laptop during his/her draft.

And the response was overwhelming. And I mean “overwhelming” in the most literal sense – those who bought it not only wrote expressing their thanks and complementing my research and the ease of use of the sheet, but my inbox was inundated with these emails and other asking follow up questions, discussing certain players, talking strategy, etc. It was crazy. And so being a true capitalist, I thought that this year, I’d up the price to $10. The thank you emails (pre- and post-draft) made this an easy choice. As did my even more significant gambling losses during the most recent NFL season.

But we’re going to do something a little different this year. Simply: if you can prove to me that you’ve bought my book (currently $10.07 on Amazon), I’ll send you the sheet for free. Using my alternate email address – eiwwme@gmail.com – you can send me a phone pic of you with the book (or you with a receipt for the book) or forward me the email from Amazon or Borders.com or BN.com confirming your purchase, and the sheet is yours. Alternatively, if you don’t want to buy the book, you can send me $10 via Paypal to eiwwme@gmail.com and I’ll send you the sheet. So to recap: about $14 will you get you the sheet and my much beloved book (awesome!), or $10 will get you just the sheet (what – you don’t like reading and fun?). Your call.

(And if it looks like you’re taking the cell phone pic while holding the book at a bookstore, I reserve the right to refuse to send you the sheet. Jerkoff.)

A little about the sheet this year:

- There are the standard four tabs (hitters, pitchers, NL and AL team depths charts).

- 231 hitters are ranked, and 134 pitchers (that’s a total of 365 ranked players, though stats for a few hundred more are in the sheet).

- There are 41 columns/statistical metrics for pitchers and 26 for hitters (hitters are easier and require less work)

- We added some additional stats this year, most notably BABIP (both for hitters and pitchers); left on base percentage (LOB%), FIP (Fielder Independent Pitching on an ERA scale) and F-E (FIP minus ERA) and for pitchers; line-drive percentage (LD%) and home run to fly ball ratio for hitters (HR/FB), and several more. If you get the sheet, I’ll send an email explaining the importance and use of these stats.

- I’ve also noted which players are in a free agent (FA) or option year (Op) in their contracts, in order to highlight those guys who might have a little extra incentive this year.

- And of course, you get the standard Jason Mulgrew touches: sortability by multi-position eligibility, my tiered rankings, and my “I LIKE” column (a sampling of guys I “liked” in last year’s sheet, on my way to two wins and a second place finish in my leagues: Bobby Abreu, Shin-Soo Choo, Carl Crawford, Raul Ibanez, Justin Upton, Jayson Werth, Joey Votto, Ryan Zimmerman; Jonathan Broxton, Matt Cain, Chris Carpenter, Tommy Hanson, Ubaldo Jimenez, Josh Johnson, Clayton Kershaw, Javier Vazquez – go ahead, those of you who bought the sheet last year can look it up).

Still don’t think it’s worth it? Like me break you off a little knowledge.

Do you know who I really, really don’t like this year? Matt Cain.

I know, I know – I just pointed out above that I liked him last year. And I did. But while Cain was good last year, he was even more lucky. For example, his BABIP (Batting Average on Balls In Play) against was .268. The league average was about .297. That implies that Cain got some breaks or some help from his fielders. Further, Cain’s strand rate (or LOB%) was 81.6%, whereas league average is about 73.9%. Again, luck, and some mighty good middle relievers helping him out when he left games. Finally, Matt Cain’s was FIP was 3.89. FIP is, as mentioned above, Fielder Independent Pitching on an ERA scale. As the name implies, it’s a number that equates to ERA form independent of the caliber of fielding behind a pitcher. Cain’s actually ERA was 2.89. This difference of -1 further proves that Matt Cain was a lucky little SOB last year; he pitched like a 3.89 ERA pitcher, but his actual ERA was 2.89.

Now, is Matt Cain dog shit? Of course not. But is he a top 15 pitcher? Oh lord, no. As for someone who might be a top 15 (or even top 10) pitcher, there’s a guy I like who had an unfortunate BABIP of .336 last season (remember, average was .297). His strand rate was 61% (average = 73.9%). And his F-E (FIP – ERA) was an absurd +1.71; he pitched like a 3.35 ERA pitcher, but ended up with an ugly 5.06 ERA. The guy? Ricky Nolasco (who also averaged over a K an inning, to boot). I’m not saying that Ricky Nolasco is going to finish as a best pitcher in the league, but rather I’m only pointing out a few things that might make you bump Nolasco up on your draft boards.

(And I know that these are rudimentary explanations using big name pitchers. But I’m trying to be gentle here, as not everyone is as good at fantasy baseball as me and you, Fantasy Nerd Reading This Right Now and Huffing About How It’s Obvious That Everyone Likes Nolasco and Who Is This Mulgrew Guy Anyway.)

But all this and more is in the fantasy baseball draft sheet. Once again, send proof that you’ve bought my book to eiwwme@gmail.com and I’ll send you the sheet. Otherwise, fork over $10 via Paypal to me at the same email address and it’s yours.

And good luck this season.

I will be doing a book signing and reading in Philly on Thursday, April 8. It will be at 6pm at the Barnes & Noble in Center City at 18th and Walnut. There will also be some boozing done after the signing at a location to be determined (I’ll let you guys know at the signing where we’ll booze afterward).

This is the first signing we have scheduled so far, but there will be additional ones, all of which I hope will follow the formula of read-sign-booze. Sometime in the next few weeks, we’ll get the dates for NYC, Boston and LA. I will also likely make it to Seattle and Denver. Then there’s a host of cities that I’m going to try to get to, but I can’t be totally positive about. Included in these are Chicago, San Fran, DC, Cleveland and Milwaukee.

What should be interesting about the Philly signing is that a number of the book’s “characters” are scheduled to appear, including:

- my dad!

- my mom!

- my sister!

- Floody and Jimmy the Muppet!

- and a host of others*!

(*Note: My brother is in law school in Virginia and will likely be unable to make it)

Therefore this will likely be the only signing that, if you should so desire, you can get both me and my dad (and potentially others) to sign your book (awesome!). So put it in your calendars, tell your friends, and hope to see you there.

(Shameless plug time) While I will (of course) post the dates and locations of the signings here on the site, a good way to keep up to date is by joining the book’s “fan” page on Facebook (if you’re a Facebook person) or by following me on Twitter (if you’re a Twitter person). You could always also be my friend on Facebook, as well.

Lastly, thank you for all the positive feedback you’ve sent me about the book. As I’ve said all along, the best way you can show your support is my recommending it to others, as a book’s success relies almost totally on word of mouth. So keep pimping that shit out, and if you come to a reading, I’ll buy you a beer.*

(* I probably won’t be able to afford to buy you a beer. But I’ll definitely give you a high-five. I think this is a fair compromise, no?)

My book is out today, now available everywhere. I am officially a real-live author. Terrific.

But, much like I have counted on you in the past for assistance (mostly related to make-outs, music recommendations, and fantasy baseball tips), I call upon you once more, my friends, as the battle is only half won. Yes, having a book actually in the stores and available from online retailers is a big, big step. A vital step, really. But as many of you know, my ultimate goal is nothing short of fame, fortune, a few (incredibly awkward) orgies, and a drug dealer with whom I have a “regular.”

(Wait, I kinda already have that last one. Although I think he’s dead or in jail or something because I haven’t heard from him in weeks.)

In order to help achieve this goal, I humbly ask for your help. There are two ways that you can make all of our dreams come true.

Buy a copy.
Seriously. This would help.

If you have the means, I would even suggest buying two, as the book makes a great gift for any person in your life who likes reading but not reading really hard stuff and enjoys seeing some pictures and maybe even laughing a little bit. Also, reasonably educated stoners. I bet they would like the book, too. And people who have “crazy” families.

So basically people who like to read but not read, like to laugh, like to look at pictures, possibly are stoners, and may or may not have a crazy family. It’s a wide demographic, really.

You pimp the shit of that book.
Few things need more help to succeed and “pimping” than a little old book. There are no TV commercials for books. No huge billboards on the side of the road. No sports sponsorships (“The 15th Annual Everything Is Wrong With Me Match Play Championship in Tucson, AZ”). Nothing. A book success depends almost entirely on those who read it and recommend it to others.

So if you:

- Have a blog

- Have a Facebook, Twitter or MySpace (other social network stuff that I don’t even know about) account

- Are in a book club

- Are an active member of an online community that uses messageboards

- Have a family, co-workers or friends

I ask that you consider recommending the book.

You can think of it in terms of a geometric progression (says the guy who scored so low in the math portion of his first PSAT that he didn’t get a number but rather the word “RETARDED”). Let’s say you recommend the book via email to ten friends. Of those ten, let’s say five completely ignore the email. Two read the email, but don’t buy the book, as they have severe drug problems and can’t afford it, even though it’s incredibly reasonably priced. And three actually buy the book.

Let’s say further that two of those three really enjoy the book (but let’s be honest, it’s going to be three of three). Those two then recommend the book to ten each of their friends. Then, the cycle repeats. Maybe one person who likes it uses it for his/her book club. Maybe another tweets it to his/her followers. Maybe another writes a review and includes the cover of the book in his/her blog. More geometric progression. More people. More success and thus more potential for orgies with, like, a ton of smoking hot ethnic chicks.

So I ask you, friends, to pimp the shit out of my book. Put it on your blog and your Facebook, Twitter and MySpace pages. Suggest it for your book club. Write about it in your messageboards. Write a quick email to your friends, family or co-workers (or, if you got one from me today, forward it on). These are small, easy steps that you can take that can have a profound effect.

I know that it may sound corny or fairytale-ish, but this is really how this stuff happens. To wit, two weeks into its existence I emailed this here blog to a dozen or so buddies. Six years and about 200 million hits later, here we are. So you gotta trust me when I say that word of mouth is the igniter of revolutions, the launching pad for careers, and the starting point for the aforementioned orgy parties.

(One thing that’s important, if you so choose to pimp: please be sure to include the link to order the book, which is here: http://tinyurl.com/eiwwme. The goal is to make the book as easy to purchase as possible, and you can’t make it much easier than including a link that takes you right to the Amazon page.)

And what, you might ask, is in it for you? As of now, I can only offer you two things. The first is my thanks and heartfelt gratitude. Not great, I know, but it’s all I have right now. I’m working on other stuff, but you live so far away.

The other thing I can offer you is a promise. A promise that, if I should get any real fame or celebrity out of this, I will be the best effing famous person I could possibly be. I have all key elements to make it work: self-destructive, mildly socially anxious, very fertile (extremely fertile, actually), occasional displays of sociopathic behavior, dangerously low self-esteem – yet while still being (dare I say) humble and (some would say) a nice guy. The one tiny thing that’s lacking is, you know, the fame part. But we’re working on that.

So, friends, godspeed. Together, we are unstoppable; we always have been, and we will continue to be. Now let’s start pimping the shit out of this book and start putting together a solid orgy playlist. (I’m not sure if it’s more of a Sigur Ros thing or an Andrew WK thing. Suggestions welcome.)

From the “I’m a temporarily a publicity whore/Have I mentioned my book comes out March 2?” file, here’s an interview that I did with the New York Press that covers the book, Lent, celebrity sightings, cocaine and Rosario’s. So, some things I like, some things I really like, and some things…meh.

(And hey, if I’m going to keep pimping myself and the book here, give me credit for at least trying to make it as interesting as possible, right?)

(Right?)

(Forget it.)

Let’s just get into some music on this Friday, eh?

Six Songs

“Free Energy” Free Energy
Holy shitballs.

Seriously, holy shitballs.

It’s only February, but I’m almost ok with declaring this my 2010 theme song. Balls out party rock at its finest (and they’re from Philly! – though I don’t know them). They have a three-song EP on iTunes right now. I suggest you buy it, then email me immediately to say it’s the best $2.49 you’ve spent in years, and possibly ever. Because if this stuff doesn’t get you out of your seat, clapping your hands and pumping your fists (though not at the same time – that would be impossible), you, my friend, are dead. Both to me and probably literally.

“Don’t Forget Me” Neko Case
I’m a little biased, because I love Neko Case. But dang, this song, a Harry Nilsson cover, is just so purdy. I don’t know many lyricists or singers who can drop “cancer” in a line and pull it off, making you feel all warm and happy and love love love.

“Secret Heart” Ron Sexsmith
I knew this song, and was vaguely aware of this guy, but never really got into him until recently – and early returns are very good. Sensitive, slightly effeminate, and Canadian – all things that I love or aspire to be.

(And yes, I just watched the “Elvis Costello: Spectacle” episode featuring, among others, Neko Case and Ron Sexsmith.)

(Also, what’s the origin of the name “Sexsmith”? For example, I think that a “smith” in someone who works in or with something, kinda like a goldsmith works in gold or a silversmith works with silver. So does a sexsmith work in sex? Or, better, a blacksmith work in blacks? Inquiring minds…)

“I Can Drink Any Woman Pretty” Todd Snider
Because I live in what is more or less a hotel room, all of my guitars are stored at my dad’s house in Philly. However, this humorous country ditty (whose title is pretty much self-explanatory) makes me want to go back there and get one so I can play this song to my friends when we’re sitting around someone’s apartment fucked up. Favorite lines: “Now I admit at first I didn’t even want that woman near me/Hell, she looked like she’d been beaten up with a rake/But as I gulped down another round, I said, hey woman hang around/You’re getting’ better looking with every drink I take.”

“Long Hot Summer Night” Jimi Hendrix
Speaking of guitar, there were three things that I would have given ten years of my life to be able to do back when I was in high school. They are:

1) Have sex with any one of the approximately 4600 girls that I fell deeply in love with between 1993-1997.

2) Play the guitar fill that starts 1:45 into this song, right after Jimi sings, “And the telephone keeps on screaming!”

3) Seriously, even if I could have just kissed one of those 4600 girls that I fell in love with in high school, or got a good five minutes during which I could smell the hair of any one of them, I would have lopped at least four years off the end of my life, no doubt.

Alas, #1 and #3 never came to pass (the hair smelling in #3 came close, but I’m still not ready to talk about that particular sleepover party). And neither did #2, but I was closer to that – by far – than the other two.

“Little Secret” Passion Pit
Another fun anthem that’s becoming my go-to song when it’s the weekend and about 9pm and I’m in the shower, washing up and guzzling a vodka red bull (have I mentioned that I’m 30?). Looking forward to doing this very thing in just a few hours.

[Have a good weekend.]

My dad was a longshoreman and a mechanic. That’s what he did for a living before getting hurt at work and put on permanent disability (which now causes him to maintain a steady diet of pain pills; I’ve written it before, but you haven’t lived until you’re driving across the country with your dad in a giant Lincoln Town Car, he’s doing 85 on some desolate stretch in New Mexico, and he asks you to hand him an Oxycontin and Percocet, which he pops like Tic Tacs while he’s driving). My earliest memories of my dad are of him fixing cars, using tools, smoking cigarettes, answering knocks at the door from neighbors and friends having car troubles, smoking cigarettes, fixing more cars, repeat. His entire adult life (and I would guess, much of his life, period) has been dedicating to fixing things: taking them apart, learning how they work, and putting them back together – and getting his hands dirty in the process.

I, on the other hand, have never displayed any type of mechanical proclivities at all. I recently found a pre-K report card of mine, and it said I was bad at tying my shows, but good at expressing myself and during music time. To this day, I still tie my shoes with two loops (the “bunny ears” method) and don’t know the one loop standard method. About four weeks ago, I tried to learn how to tie a double-windsor knot. After an hour of finding instructions via Google and pouring over them, viewing countless YouTube clips, and an extremely frustrating ten minute phone conversation with a buddy (not to mention about 1500 expletives, most of them hybrids involving “cock” and “fuck-ass”), I failed, and got myself so enraged in the process that I don’t think my blood pressure has yet quite recovered. And though my hands are not quite feminine, due to my long, creepy fingers, they are always immaculately clean.

…read more…

First, thanks to all the kind words about the new site design. The consensus seems to be that, well, it’s lovely. And I agree. Like I said, there are some kinks that we’ll work out, but again, all thanks and praise to Site Guy Brendan and Kyle. They really brought it.

As for the book, here’s my lame attempt to answer some of the most common questions that I’ve gotten about it so far:

- Canada (etc): This has been a popular topic, as the book is listed on the Amazon.ca site, but without an official release date (as of this writing). However, I can confirm that the book will be out in Canada on March 2, just like in the US, so our neighbors to the north can feel free to pre-order as they so desire.

(For those of you who asked about it in the UK, I’m still looking into this, though it’s listed on the Amazon.co.uk site without a release date, as well. To be continued…)

- Kindle: A Kindle edition is “in the works,” but that’s all I know. If you check out the Amazon.com page for the book, below the picture of the cover there’s a link to click to tell the publisher you want to read the book on Kindle. So if you want to read it on Kindle, click there. Power to the people, baby.

…read more…

I’m headed to LA this afternoon, having moved by flight up seven hours to try to beat this snow. I’ll be there for a week, trying to press our interests there and eating a lot of Taco Bell (it’s really a shame that there aren’t more Taco Bells in NYC, and quite puzzling).

I’m rushing out of work now, but for a little light reading on this lovely Friday, go to TheRumpus.net to check out this interview I did with my former writing teacher (yes, I had a writing teacher) and excellent writer, Steve Almond, who, much to his surprise, ended up providing a lovely blurb for my book. See? It pays to not burn bridges with your old teachers, even if that tell you that, if they could have, they would have given you a nice C-.

[Have a good weekend.]

Dear Neighbor,

I know that we have not yet met, so allow me to introduce myself. My name is Jason Mulgrew, and I, too, am a resident of Ludlow Street. As a matter of fact, I live in the building right next to yours, and we share the same air shaft, that two foot space between buildings that gives some NYC apartments their distinct “view” (read: a brick wall that one can reach out of his or her window and touch).

And though we have yet to actually meet, we know each other. Or at least, we know of each other’s presence. I know you as the girl who sings at the top of her lungs several nights a week, at any time between 7pm and midnight, and really belts it out – very, very poorly. And you know me as the guy who opens his window, several nights a week, at any time between 7pm and midnight, and screams, “SHUT THE FUCK UP!” at you when you’re doing your singing (or what you believe is singing but what most people would call “making noises with your mouth and throat and lungs that sound really fucking awful and annoying”).

…read more…

Guys, I need a favor.

(Please don’t roll your eyes when I haven’t even asked yet, especially when it’s very simple.)

Friends of mine in Philly, Rose and Carl, are in the running for a free $90,000 wedding. Actually, to say they are in the running is not total complete; they are among the top ten finalists. And to win the grand prize, they need as many votes as they can get.

I know, I know – it’s unbecoming to beg. I normally wouldn’t ask, but there are a few things that make this situation unique:

1) There were 400-something couples that started in this process. There are now, as I said, ten left. So they have a real shot to actually win this thing.

…read more…

So, I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before, but I have a book coming out.

Yep, it’s there, over there on the right. And yes, that’s me on the cover. I know, I know – I had really great hair. And much better taste in clothes than I do now. So much promise, so very, very long ago.

(It should be noted that as I write this, I’m sitting on my couch in my boxers, staring at the wrapper of a carrot cake cupcake, having just recently beat off to a clip from RedTube entitled, “Sarah becoming mistress of fuck-fighting.” So there’s that. Poor kid.)

(And if you think I’m lying about any of this, come over my apartment right now and check. I’m not going anywhere.)

(And I’m realizing now that my editor’s going to be pissed. When I told him that I was about to introduce the book on the site, he said, “That’s great, Jason. But promise me you won’t use the phrase ‘fuck-fighting’ anywhere in the introduction.” Whoops.) …read more…

When I moved back to NYC, I was looking at all sorts of areas in which to live. Because I like to walk to work and because I mostly go out around there (and because I’m a snob who likes to look down on people based on where they live), I wanted something downtown-ish, which, like most New Yorkers, I considered anything below 14th Street. But as for which specific neighborhood, I didn’t really care. First, I had my sights set on Chinatown, because you can get a lot of space for your money there. However, of course, you’re surrounded by Chinese people, ranging in age from 0 to 186, all of whom love to walk slowly, spit in public and eat things that look like little monsters and smell like genitals (of either sex) after a long workout followed by a six hour shift at the grill at Chili’s followed by a bath in recently puked up French onion soup. So that made me less interested in Chinatown.

After being downtown, my second criterion for an apartment was one that I live in one that was owned or operated by a responsive landlord or building manager. You may remember that when I lived in my Little Italy apartment, the apartment I lived in for three years before moving to LA, on eight separate occasions I either awoke in the morning or returned from vacation to find that my toilet had overflowed and there was shit and shit water and used toilet paper covering 20% of my apartment. I mentioned this to my landlord each time, and each time he “cleaned it up” (read: removed the water, but left bits of dried toilet paper and what I hoped was lettuce on much of the floor).

(It was not lettuce.)

(And worse, it was not even my lettuce – it was the entire building’s septic system’s.)

The coup de grace came on that eighth and final shit-spew. I was so used to the toilet overflowing when I went away for any stretch of time that I called my landlord, a real wop asshole, from LAX after being out in SoCal for a week:

Me: “Hi Vince, it’s Jason. Listen, I’ve been out of town for a week, and I’m assuming that the toilet has overflowed.”
Vince: [in real wop asshole voice] “Yeah, it’s my understanding that it did.”
Me: [sighing] “That’s fine. Can you just make sure it’s cleaned up – like, really cleaned up – this time? I have a six hour flight and don’t land until after midnight, so I’d rather not deal with that when I get home.”
Vince: [in real wop asshole voice, but trying to be conciliatory] “Oh yeah, yeah, Jay – no problem.”

When I returned home that night at around 1am, I saw that the landlord had done the standard cleaning job – bits of dried toilet paper and “lettuce” and brown streaks everywhere – but I also found poo/poo water on my $120 electric toothbrush and (wait, it gets better) saw that my two bath mats, which were thoroughly soaked in the poo water and covered in lettuce, were picked up off the bathroom floor and placed in my kitchen sink.

By 5pm the next day, I had sent a letter out via registered mail, initiating the process of suing him.

Ultimately, I didn’t (it turns out that suing someone is a lot of work). But I did get 100% of my security deposit back. Friends, lawyer friends among them, insisted that I push for more for all the damages, but I was moving cross-country and didn’t want to deal with it. (See also: laziness.)

So for my new apartment, I didn’t want an absentee landlord. This didn’t mean I needed to live in a white glove doorman luxury building with a fleet of supers on the premise, but, c’mon – if shit spews on my floor and I didn’t cause it, I want someone to show up promptly, clean it up thoroughly, and apologize to me profusely. I don’t think this a ton to ask in a city where most security deposits could represent a significant down payment on a house in 99.1% of the rest of the country.

The other not-really-apartment-but-apartment-related criteria I had was a simple one: no brokers. In NYC, your standard broker’s fee ranges from one month’s rent to 15% of the annual rent. I knew that this was a renter’s market, due to the depressed economy, so there was no way I was going to tack on a few extra grand just because some jerkoff had a lot of keys on his keychain.

Fortunately, this wasn’t that big of a deal. First, because there are a number of websites that list no-fee apartments. And second, because many brokers (and their fees) were being paid by landlords. So, not an issue.

Ultimately – and not to repeat myself (because I’ve written about this before) – I found, through a no-fee broker, a one bedroom apartment on Ludlow Street, just two blocks north of where I lived when I first moved into Manhattan in 2002 (after spending a year in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn). As I’ve said, I did not seek out the street on which I lived some of my favorite and funnest years, but rather was shown the apartment, was impressed and ultimately decided to take it.

(To clarify, it is in no way, shape or form sad that I’m back on the same street as a 30 year old that I lived on when I was 22. No, sir. Not sad at all. Just a total coincidence.)

Now just about two months into living there, the apartment and I have had something of an interesting relationship – not quite tumultuous, not quite peaceful, not even something in between, really. Just…interesting.

(Boy, that was a horrible paragraph.)

The obvious is that this is the nicest and most conveniently located apartment I’ve lived in. I’m the first to live there, as the entire building was recently gut renovated and fitted with nice and shiny appliances and such, and it has digitally controlled heat like in a hotel room (no small amenity in NYC, where in two of my previous apartments I ran the air conditioner in my bedroom in the winter, as the heat had two levels: “Off” and “Fuck yeah, it’s hot in here”). It’s also, as I said, on Ludlow Street, smack in the middle of the LES, which still has retained some of its charms despite the influx of, you know, phonies. And it’s around the corner from Rosario’s, where I’ve already developed a regular order (more on this another time).

But in addition to being the nicest and most conveniently located apartment I’ve ever lived in, it’s also the smallest and most expensive. Just as it has digitally controlled heat like a hotel room, well, it’s just a bit larger than a hotel room. And after living in LA, where I paid 2/3 the price and had 2x the space, man, it’s hard to write that rent check every month.

(Let’s just move on.)

But there are other issues. For starters, I am (likely clinically) addicted to showering, and spend upwards to two hours a day in the shower. What I do in there is (surprisingly) not related to the manipulation of my genitals to the point of ejaculation, but rather something more akin to meditating or, at the very least, relaxing. Mostly this means that I sit in the shower and read, doing so by pointing the showerhead down at my feet and allowing the tub to drain so that everything above my knees stays perfectly dry, thus allowing me to hold and enjoy a book or magazine. I also sometimes play poker on my iPhone or otherwise just veg out. But one thing I never, ever do is jerk off. The shower is my happy place, a clean, sterile environment where I can relax, not a place to sully up spraying semen everywhere (and then it doesn’t go down the drain properly, so you have to scoop it out with a wad of toilet paper – I mean, who wants that?). I figure that I have so many masturbation zones in my apartment (the couch, the bed, the floor while doing a one-armed push-up to simulate missionary position sex, etc) that I can leave the shower alone.

(However, the shower is not a sex-free zone. If the opportunity to make love presents itself – or the opportunity presents itself for me to do what I consider “making love,” which most other people would consider “some sort of thrusting, then there’s, like, this shrieking noise that starts off quiet but gets louder, and then there’s a wail and it’s still for about three-four minutes, then the whole process repeats itself and finally ends with what sounds like what you’d imagine an elk or a buffalo sounds like right before it dies” – then I have to take advantage of that opportunity, no matter where I am.)

In order to properly enjoy this shower experience – which my college roommates long ago dubbed “fantasy showering,” or “fanting” for short – I need me some hot water, since the goal is to relax and not give myself hypothermia. And – surprise – there’s not enough hot water for me to pull off fantasy showering in the new apartment. This hasn’t precluded me from trying – I’d estimate that three times a week I completely drain the whole building of hot water, usually around 20-25 pages into whatever I’m reading – but it has prevented me from enjoying it. So, strike one.

Another thing that’s not really a problem but something strange is the issue of safety. Now, I always feel safe in NYC, since there are usually about 1500 people within screaming distance no matter where you are. But a month ago a friend of a friend (a girl), who lives very close to me, was home alone, drunk, at 4am, when she heard the doorknob to her apartment start jiggling. It was someone – or someones – trying to break into her place. She screamed like a banshee and fended them off. When the police arrived, they told her that there was a gang of bad people going around breaking into apartments ALONG MY STREET.

Well.

I consider myself a fairly bad mother fucker. Not totally bad, but bad enough that I’m confident in handling myself, breaking up fights, doing one-armed push-ups while masturbating, etc. And so if one dude broke into my apartment, I could probably take him. But if it’s a bunch of dudes, well, that’s another story. So during the second week of living in my apartment, I slept with the following “weapons” by my bedside: a bottle of Miller Lite, a half a bottle of Johnny Walker (red, so it’s ok), a plastic fork (I had no real utensils yet, and figured a fork in the eye, even if it’s plastic, might do some damage), and a phone cord, perhaps to use as a strangulation device a la Dexter. This only lasted about a week, until I realized that if I ever did bring back a woman to my apartment and she saw beer, whiskey, a plastic fork and a phone cord sitting neatly next to my bed, I could be charged on the spot with attempted R. So while not strike two, certainly a fun development.

And finally, we have the most interesting issue of all. Several nights a week, I have been and continue to be awoken by noises in the apartment. Noise in an NYC apartment, especially one in the LES (though mine faces the back, thankfully), is nothing new: one has to deal with the clicking-clacking of high-heeled shoes, the conversations of neighbors, the sirens of squad cars, and myriad other nuisance noises. But the noises that kept waking me up were unlike those normal nuisance noises – it sounded like things were falling, things falling actually in my living room, when I knew that couldn’t be the case (I still own hardly anything, something that will not change for the foreseeable future, I think).

I mostly ignored them, rolled over, and went back to sleep. But last week it went from slightly annoying to full-on obnoxious. Monday’s noise was loud, Tuesday’s noise was louder, and finally, in the middle of the night on Wednesday, there was a noise from my living room that not only woke me up but caused me to jump out of bed – it sounded like the thwack of a moderately-thick glossy-covered book falling on a finished wooden floor. I had long ago returned my weapons to their rightful places, so had to go at it alone. Still in a daze, I half-expected to see someone in my apartment when I opened by bedroom door, quickly turned on the light, and…nothing. No one. No book on the floor. Nothing at all.

But at that moment, I got this sudden insight, clear as day, so obvious that I couldn’t believe I didn’t think of it before: my apartment is haunted.

I know, I know, it sounds crazy. Though my ancestors come from Ireland, I enjoy imbibing the water of life, and I am lyrical, sensitive, and (at times) beautifully poetic, even I think it’s crazy. But this is a century-old building that was once a tenement, housing each of the waves of immigrants to the New World, holding within its confines their lives, their stories, their loves, their losses. And this building, with all its history, was gutted, cleaned out, stripped of its charm, and fitted with stainless steel appliances and granite countertops, marble bathrooms and polished floors, all so that yuppies like me can overpay rent in order to get drunk at the “cool” bars on the street below. So I submit: if you watched the room where your lived most of your life, where you loved your wife and raised your children, completely torn out and remade for the sake of charging as much rent as possible, and then you watched this room occupied by a 30 year old fat man with a beard who sits in the shower for hours and hours and, well, masturbates on your floor, wouldn’t you haunt this place and this son of a bitch?

That next evening, I was hanging out with my friend Meredith, who had only seen my apartment the first day I moved in. Meredith is very intuitive (except when it comes to men – zing!) and before I even told her the story about my epiphany, she asked, “How’s your apartment? By the way, I kinda got a funny feeling about it, but…it’s nice, so that’s good.” And with that, the case was officially closed: I am living in a haunted apartment.

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

The noises still continue. Two nights ago, there was another huge thwack that woke me up. However, I was heavily under the influence of Xanax at the time, so there was no jumping out of bed and preparing for a fight. Instead, half-asleep, I yelled in the direction of the living room, “Dude, we’re gonna have to make this work!” And I went back to sleep.

Am I happy living in my apartment? Sure. Do I really believe it’s haunted? Maybe not totally, but it’s sort of looking that way. But I can live with it (I’ve already stopped jerking off on the floor, though I can’t promise that I won’t do that ever again). Life, like the apartment, is not perfect. But at least I’m around the corner from Rosario’s.

I like being outside. I understand that this might sound strange, coming as it does from someone who reads a book and a half a week because he spends two-plus hours a day reading in the shower. So this statement does come with a qualification; namely, I like being outside without doing much of anything, including but not limited to running, hiking, jumping, and generally moving at any speed more than 3 miles per hour (and with frequent breaks for resting and/or ice cream).

Believe it or not, being outside was part of what I missed about NYC when I lived in LA. Yes, LA has far better weather, but I enjoyed walking to and from work each day in NYC, passing about 10,000 people on each thirty-minute walk, taking in the sights and sounds. Once a weekend I’d put on my iPod, head out of my apartment, and just walk – from my place in Little Italy to the (way) West Village or up to Central Park or through Alphabet City and up the east side, stopping along the way to have a beer in a random bar or grab a bite to eat. It was wonderful – I could walk in NYC every day for 20 years and on each walk, find or see or experience something totally new.

(I’m sorry – did I just slip into my Carrie Bradshaw voice there? Further: do you think less of me because I made a Carrie Bradshaw reference? You should. I am ashamed.)

Of course, LA offers a number of things to do outdoors, but, as alluded to above, they were not my speed. That is, they were too fast for me. In LA, you can drive to a place to go hiking, or you can drive and run along the ocean, or you can drive and, I don’t know, find some other outdoorsy things to do, but you can’t put on your goddamned headphones and go for a nice (yet exciting) walk.

So when I moved back in NYC, in addition to eating and drinking at a number of different places and seeing and hanging (and potentially making) out with a number of different people, I was greatly looking forward to my walks. Hell, when looking for an apartment, I limited myself to downtown, so that I could walk to work each day. I was going to walk all over this damn town. Walk, walk, walk.

And after moving here just after Thanksgiving, I did. Sure, it was cold – but I love the cold! I hadn’t had real, lasting cold in eighteen months! So bring it on! After all, I have certain genetic and physical advantages over most normal human beings that allow me to thrive in the cold (beard, layer of body hair, layer of body hair under that layer of body hair, etc), so I did not shy away. Though the temperatures never really dipped below 40 or so, I still trudged to and from work each day, 1.9 miles and 40 minutes each way. Love it.

But then, just before the holidays, the wind shifted. Literally. Long gone were the reasonably cold winter days, replaced with a string of bitterly cold days and nights, complete with snow and wind. A passing phase, I thought, as I prepared for Christmas and splitting my time between NYC and Philly then NYC and Philly then NYC again. The cold spell would break in no time, and we’d be rewarded with a nice stretch of 50 degree days in there somewhere.

But that was each ago. And – guess what? – it’s still really fucking cold out.

And it’s definitely getting to me. I feel like I spend my days going from my apartment to the subway (two blocks away) to the subway to my office (two blocks away). The other day, I tried to walk to and from the East Village to get my Sea Thai, but I had to take a cab back, as it was too cold. Tonight, I wanted to hit the grocery store after work, which is about nine blocks/just about a mile away (actual shopping list from the “Notes” app on my iPhone: Pam, yogurt, cake(s), bread, funnel, plunger). Instead, I came home and ate a burrito. So I guess I made out ok there. But you know what I mean.

(I can see the emails now: “Hey, nancy, I live in Canada. Do you know what the fuck temperature it is here right now? -132. Yeah, -132. So why don’t you take your positive wind chills and barely-freezing air temperatures and bring them into the tub with your candles, vibrator and US Weekly, and just make a little party out of it, ok?” That’s fair. But there’s this: I don’t care. I don’t live in Canada, and I’m cold. So, shut up.)

And the cold is just generally making me feel down. It’s a strange thing, because I love my place, love my job, love being back in the city, and had an enjoyable holiday, but…meh. I’m tired. I’m cranky. And I’m realizing that I’ve seen just about every single fucking episode of The Office, Family Guy, Dateline and 48 Hours: Hard Evidence, so I probably shouldn’t even bother DVRing them anymore.

But still, though I feel almost as though I’m in prison in my little LES apartment, I remain hopeful. I realize that full-on warmer weather is still several (several) weeks away, but I don’t care about that – I don’t need 72 and sunny to make me happy, or else I would have stayed in LA. Instead, I have much more modest goals. For example, maybe a 48 degree day in the near future? Maybe even two in a row? Maybe even something a little colder thank 48 but that allows me just to walk home from work once or walk to and from the grocery store without feeling the need to take a steam afterwards? Maybe?

(Saturday’s forecast: Sunny, with a high of 25 and a low of 14.)

(I guess I’ll have to wait a little longer.)