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.)