2010 was a pretty good year. Let’s discuss, shall we?

I moved back to NYC. Yes, if we’re being honest, I moved back on Thanksgiving weekend of 2009. But that month of December didn’t count, what with the holidays and all (I also didn’t have a bed, couch or internet/cable for at least the first two weeks, which meant a lot of masturbating in an empty apartment on bare hardwood floors, which sounds really sexy – and is, but only for the first five/six times). So it wasn’t until the start of 2010 that I really start reestablishing myself in NYC, by which I mean trying to pretend nothing had changed from the time I left the city in May of 2008.

Did it work? Not 100%, but it wasn’t too far off. Some friends had moved and some had settled down into marriage, but I fortunately have enough friends whose development has been retarded since age 25 and we managed to have some real fun. Also, I couldn’t help being in the mix, living as I did on Ludlow Street in the LES, just two blocks north of where I lived from 2002 to 2004. (It is at this time that I’d like to point out that moving at age 30 to the same street I lived on between the ages of 23 and 25 is in no way sad at all.)

I released a book. (Not sure if I’ve mentioned that or not, but I think I have, so I won’t go into it in great detail here.)


I got me a promotion. I still have – and plan to keep – my normal 9 to 5 job, doing whatever it is I do at a law firm. And finally, all of my personal phone calling and internet browsing was awarded with a well-deserved promotion early in the summer. I’ll stop talking about work now, because I like having health insurance and, you know, what to keep that.

I traveled the shit out of this country. The best part of releasing a book – aside from the money, fame, and the random, don’t-really-remember-but-I’m-pretty-sure-it-happened sex in women’s bathrooms (by the way, I was surprised at how unnerved I found myself at the lack of urinals in women’s restrooms; I mean, I knew there wouldn’t be any, but it just doesn’t look right) – was the traveling around the country and meeting readers. I was so moved by my week-long road trip that took me from Philly to Cleveland to Chicago to Milwaukee and back to Philly that I’ve decided that every year, I’m going to take a week off and drive around this great land. For 2011, I’m thinking either the South (Austin to New Orleans, then up through Mississippi to Nashville), the Rockies (Albuquerque up to Montana, though this would fly in the face of my “fear of driving in mountains” phobia) or The Great Expanse of the North (Minneapolis through North Dakota, into Montana, down through Wyoming into Colorado). For 2012, I’ve already started planning a two-week 2,400 mile mega road trip/tour for book #2 that would take me Philly – Cleveland – Chicago – St. Louis – Nashville – Atlanta – DC – Philly. Lord, I was born a ramblin’ man.

I got a nephew. Liam. He’s fucking legit.



I got a real-live girlfriend/roommate. Selena and I have known each other for a long-ass time, and dated off and on for just about as long. However, she lived in Los Angeles and I learned that I hated Los Angeles about forty-five seconds after moving there, so it seemed like there definitely was a ceiling with us, even if she had always planned to move back to the east coast eventually. However, she recently got a “dream job” in NYC, and boom – just like that, we were sharing my tiny-ass LES apartment, taking the “whole ass” approach.

So far, so good. We have yet to murder each other (a bonus in any relationship), and thankfully only spent a short time in the tiny LES apartment before deciding to move together to Brooklyn (see below).

That’s the short of it. I’ll tell you, having someone to help with the rent and also to (theoretically) be available for sex 24 hours a day isn’t so bad, even if the price to be paid is hours of Bravo and E! shows that clog up the DVR.

I sold another book. This one I actually knew about a bit before I made it public; if possible, I’d prefer to not only have signed the deal, but also both cashed and spent that first half of the book advance before letting everyone know what’s going on. But there it is – book two will be out sometime in 2012. Not sure of the title (or a few other things), but it’ll be like the first one, but even better (promise).

I made a triumphant return to London. I want to move to London. Seriously. If it wasn’t so difficult to pull off, I’d do it. Let’s hope I don’t get too ambitious.

I moved to Brooklyn. I lived in Bay Ridge in 2001 when I was 22 years old and I hated it. I was young and new to the city and because much of my salary was based on overtime and I usually worked 50-60-70 hours a week, I was relatively “well-off.” As such, I didn’t want to spend my limited free time drinking in dive Irish bars with old people (or at shitty Guido-filled lounges). I wanted to hit the bars along Second Ave, from the 80’s down to the 20’s; I wanted to do shots of whiskey and high five my buddies and quote Will Ferrell movies; I wanted to talk to girls and try to get laid – and, failing that, hit any of 100 pizza places within a three block radius that were open 24 hours.

Now? I want to spend my limited free time drinking in dive Irish bars with old people. That’s it. That’s all I need. There are only two 24 hour food options – a diner and a bagel/sandwich shop – and though both are quite good, they’re just within walking distance. My local pizza place closes at midnight on weekends. And, really, I’m ok with all of this.

And my apartment? It is at once the cheapest and largest place I’ve ever lived in, a four-bedroom, two-bath behemoth the lady and I refer to as The Compound. I think there are still rooms I’ve haven’t been in yet. But my commute to work is a 35 minute subway ride, rather than 14 minutes, door-to-door, which it was from the LES. And, really, I’m ok with all of this.

Really. I’m ok with this.

********************
As for 2011, no real resolutions, except for maybe TCB. TCB with the second book, and knock it out of the fucking park. TCB with saving some money, so I can, well, spend it. TCB with travel, and go to all sorts of fun places.

So that is it: 2011 is the year of TCB. It may not be able to top 2010, but I think it’ll be a fun ride.

I’m very, very happy to announce that I will be writing a second book with Harper Perennial. This probably says a number of things about the world, the publishing industry and the miracle-working abilities of my agent, but let’s just say that it finally and firmly proves that yes, it is possible to get lucky twice. This next book will be similar in some ways to the first (a few pictures, a lot of penis jokes, etc), but it will cover my incredibly strange, awkward and wonderful high school years – if you think the childhood was weird, boy, are you in for some shit now.

As a man of limited talents and four jokes (I’m fat, my bird is small, I don’t get laid, I like beer…and that’s it), I have no one to thank – or blame, perhaps – but you for all your support for the blog over the years and your pimpage of the book over the past few months, support and pimpage that has turned me into a real-live writer (and shit) and has plugged me into a world of sexual escapades (or sexcapades, if you will) of which I’d previously never dreamed imaginable.

So, I’d like to buy you a beer.

Come meet me at Iggy’s Keltic Lounge at 132 Ludlow Street, just north of Rivington Street, on the Lower East Side of NYC on Monday, December 20 between 6pm and 9pm. Bring a copy of my book, and your first beer is on me. That simple.

[Also, please note that I have one rule for the evening, and it is the same rule that I have for every book club that I sit in on: no stabbing. Of me, that is. You can stab the shit out of each other, if you are so inclined, but please do not stab me. This is important. Thank you in advance for your cooperation.]

But without getting all mushy, if you had told me a few years ago that I’d maybe not be able to make a living as a writer but certainly make enough from writing for a balls-out Vegas weekend or two and a down payment on this thing that I thought was a flame thrower but turned out to be a glorified leaf blower, well, I never would have believed you. So thank you. Thank you for every time you’ve passed on the link to the blog to bored co-workers and thank you for each time you’ve recommended the book to a friend with bad taste in literature (and that person bought a new/his or her own copy – gotta move those units). Thank you from the bottom of my ever-expanding, hoagie-flavored heart.

Now come out to Iggy’s on the LES on Monday the 20th so we can get drunk.

******

And I have to say: this next book is going to be really, really good.

You see, the prospect of writing a book is not unlike having the prospect of having sex. If you’re a writer, before you write a book, it’s all you think about. You’ve heard endless tales about it, you admire and even revere those who have done it, you masturbate while thinking about it (I did, at least) and you really, really want to do it yourself – you’re just waiting for that one chance, waiting for that first girl who’s had just enough to drink to be brave or for that one editor whose burnt out and his/her job and says, “Eh, fuck it – let’s do it.”

So the time comes and you’re very nervous and you do it and there’s a lot of sweat involved, and maybe some pain, and maybe even some crying, and the whole thing is pretty awkward and kinda clumsy – until the end. When then end comes, when you type that final period and click CTRL+S for that final save, there is a great rush. Believe me, there is a great rush.

But after that, while you’re basking in the glow of your own contentedness, smoking a cigarette and thinking about a sandwich, you have but one thought: I want to do it again. I want to do it again better. I want to do it again because I know I can do it better. This doesn’t mean that you’re not happy with the first time – far from it, really, because you have made it into an exclusive club, and, frankly, you feel like a bad ass for having done it at all – but boy, just gimme another chance and I can really show you something, baby.

And now, with this second book, it is time to shine and get some serious humping going. I am going to fuck the shit out of this book. And I am so glad to be able to share this with you all.

HD is back, baby.

“With the holidays just around the corner, what better gift to give a friend, co-worker, family member of lover than an autographed, personalized book from a real-live well-selling author? Well, kinda well-selling. Yeah – let’s go with ‘kinda well-selling.’”

This is the pitch I made at my wonderful NYC reading, and a funny thing happened: people actually listened, and I ended up signing a lot of books that people intended to give as gifts.

(This pitch worked better than the other made at the NYC reading: “I’ve always wanted to have sex in a women’s restroom, so if you’re game, please raise your hand.”)

(Kidding – I did not actually say at the reading.)

(Though I probably should have. Boy, if that had worked out, it would have been awesome.)

So after signing a number of books like, “Emily, Your friend Sara has excellent taste in gifts, but literature…not so much” or “Brian, From what I hear, you are a real piece of shit, but your buddy Tom is awesome” (that one was requested), I figured I’d open it up to you all, as I know what a complete pain in the ass buying gifts is and I gotta move some units to pay off what has been another profoundly disappointing gambling season. (Really, New Orleans -6.5 at Cincy? You couldn’t cover 6.5 points against one of the most dreadful teams in the league? I mean, really???)

If you are interested in getting a signed copy of the book, here’s how we do it:

- Send $19 via Paypal to eiwwme@gmail.com. Be sure to include YOUR ADDRESS and WHO THE BOOK IS FOR (sorry for the caps, but this is important). I’m also happy to write anything you like in there, so if you want that, just include it in the email. And of course, if you want more than one, I’m happy to send as many as your little heart desires, as my right hand is just and true and has been through the storm and back and does not tire (trust me on this).

- I email you back and confirm all details.

- I send your book(s) out right away via USPS.

- Most important: you get a gift to give to that special someone and it costs you less than $20, takes about 45 seconds of your time, and which you literally can purchase while naked. Boom.

Why $19? Well, I’m buying these books myself, it costs money to ship them (USPS Priority Mail will arrive in only 2-3 days after shipment!), and then Paypal takes a chunk. So in reality, I’ll probably end up pocketing less than a dollar on most copies and actually losing money on some, because I have the business sense of an otter. Also, if you went to a store and bought it at the $13.99 cover price, once tax is included, you’re in the $15-$16 range. Instead, I’m shipping them to you with a personalized message and you’ll have the book in only 2-3 days. So you can pony up $19, methinks.

[Fine print: I can only ship to US addresses; international peeps, email at the same eiwwme@gmail.com address and we’ll discuss. Like I mentioned, I’m thinking that all books will be shipped USPS Priority Mail. In order to have the books by Christmas, please submit the order by Friday, December 17, and sooner is always better. Otherwise, I can’t guarantee it’ll be there time for Christmas.]

So if you are shopping for a person likes to read, or likes to read memoirs, or likes to read funny memoirs, or likes to read funny memoirs in which the word “penis” appears over 80 times, than shop no further! (Also ideal for the person in your life who grew up in Philly or in a city or in a town or in a dwelling.)

If you have any questions, just let me know. Thank you as always, and happy holidays.

Below is a picture of two of the most important people in my life: my dog (well, my sister’s dog) Lucky and my nephew Liam.

I recently posted this picture on my Facebook wall, and Lauren in Ohio pointed out that it must be a Mulgrew family thing wherein babies and dogs have to face-off. Obviously, this appears to be true. Perhaps it is a way to toughen up the children of the Mulgrew family; if so, let’s hope it works better for Liam than it did for yours truly, who was alternatively devastated on missing Robyn’s NYC show in November (which a homosexual friend described as “the gay event of the year”) and then thrilled to learn that she’ll be back in February. Godspeed, Liam.

But anyway, when Lucky came to us, he was a young, skinny dog given to my dad and sister by my Aunt Ginny because she had just gotten hardwood floors and didn’t want the dog running around like a crazy person and messing them up. Within a few short months, Lucky went from being a thin, lithe, energetic dog to what he still is to this day: a fat dog whose belly rubs along the steps as he walks down stairs and who is capable of being energetic in only short, sporadic bursts. More or less, he’s become the dog version of my dad – wild in youth, reserved in age – and I’m certain that if he could, Lucky would also smoke 30-40 Marlboro Reds a day (and I guess it could be argued that he does, living with my dad).

Recently, Liam was given a stuffed dog as a toy, which Lucky took a particular liking to. After determining this stuffed dog (named Louise, by my sister) was not a threat, Lucky made it his girlfriend. Now, because we’re not goddamned cretins, Lucky has been neutered. But I guess dogs still hump after they’ve been neutered, as Lucky had done his fair share of humping, post-neutering, years ago (in his thin days) with his previous “girlfriend,” who was more or less humped to shreds (ex-girlfriends of mine have faced similar fates) (kidding!). After only a short getting to know each other period, Lucky started humping Louise.

Later in the evening of this first day of courtship, my mom, who was watching Lucky, called my sister, frantic. She explained that he wasn’t moving right, wasn’t eating, was overall lethargic and looking bad. As this was Sunday night at 11pm, the only thing to be done was to take Lucky to the vet first thing in the morning. My mom told my sister that that was fine, though she secretly feared that the obese eight-year-old dog might be on his way to doggie heaven.

And so the next morning, my sister loaded up the dog in her car, drove to the vet, and had Lucky examined. As the vet examined him, seemingly giving him a deep tissue massage, Lucky cried and yelped and winced. My sister, a nurse, was afraid that the vet was feeling for tumors and, unfortunately, finding them.

The vet stopped massaging Lucky, who appeared relieved, and asked my sister, “Has he been doing any exercise lately? Or overly exerting himself?” Why yes, my sister said, and explained about Lucky’s new girl toy.

That’s explains it, the vet said. Lucky, it turns out, was not dying. Nor was he covered in tumors. Instead, his back was filled with muscles spasms from sudden overexertion.

Fat ass Lucky had thrown his back out humping his new girl.

And so he lives another day, and, as I write this, he is lying on the floor next to my sister and Liam, doped out of his mind on painkillers. Louise has since been removed from the premises, as Lucky would almost undoubtedly hit that shit again, despite the back pain.

Lucky, if you’re reading this – and I’m sure you are – I feel for you, buddy. And I look forward to taking recovery tips from you when the same thing happens to me in a few short years (if I’m fortunate).

(And yes, I had “if I’m lucky” there originally, but I decided there was just no way I could end with that.)