Articles Archive for January 2011
Crazy few days, now off to Amsterdam.
See y’all when I get back. And yes, I’ll smoke a lil’ for you.
See y’all when I get back. And yes, I’ll smoke a lil’ for you.
Wait, I have to mention something about how incredibly sick I was about two weeks ago.
At 1pm on Thursday (January 6), my world was right: the day was half over, and my plan after work was to get a haircut, pick some some of my favorite Thai food (Spice/Sea Thai in the East Village, which I hadn’t had since moving out of the LES a few weeks back), and then head back to my empty Brooklyn apartment and gloriously and repeatedly manipulate my genital to ejaculation while watching strangers have sex on my computer, as my girlfriend had left that very morning for a ten day work trip of the West Coast. Yes, some serious Uncle Jason time was in order.
Instead, by 3pm, I was in a car, headed home with no haircut and no Thai food, because I was feeling so ill that I had to leave work immediately.
Thus began a six-day saga that was the worst illness of my life. I’m not being dramatic here – I’m the nerd who had perfect attendance in grade school and still brings this up at parties (and, obviously, in blog posts). I never get sick. Well, not “never,” but when I get sick it’s usually because I’m hungover or because of a 24 hour bug or because I more or less treat my body, specifically my intestines and colon, like a Dumpster.
But this was none of those things. It started with a mild cough on Wednesday night that I thought nothing of, but it came on like a tsunami at work the following work – more coughing, chills, sweats, exhaustion, etc. I just had never felt so whupped before, and so suddenly.
I emailed my manager, telling him that I might have to leave and work from home, and he asked that I hold on, telling me he’d be back in the office shortly (he was at lunch). I waited and when he came back he explained that within ten minutes of my email, he got an email from my colleague who sits in the office next to mine saying the same exact thing. It was like mother fucking Outbreak in that building. (The next day, four of my colleagues, all of whom sit around my office, called out sick.)
And thus I was sick on Thursday. And Friday (which was worse, so bad I couldn’t even read, because I was unable to focus). And Saturday (when I made my first venture out of the apartment, to the grocery store two blocks away, where I had to take a break in the middle of shopping for chicken soup and Gatorade to lean on the ice cream case, because I felt like I was going to faint). And Sunday (when the Eagles loss was almost ok with me, because I was practically delirious). And Monday (when I called out sick but worked from home, because if I didn’t do something productive, I was going to lose my mind). I went back to work on Tuesday, but even then, I wasn’t feeling great. Still, I toughed it out, and by the time I left for Vegas the following Thursday night, a week after initially feeling sick, I was probably up to 90% better.
So the first test of 2011 was a monster illness, which, thankfully, I have survived. Here’s hoping for a little less sickness – and while we’re at it, a little less goddamned snow – for the rest of the year.
At 1pm on Thursday (January 6), my world was right: the day was half over, and my plan after work was to get a haircut, pick some some of my favorite Thai food (Spice/Sea Thai in the East Village, which I hadn’t had since moving out of the LES a few weeks back), and then head back to my empty Brooklyn apartment and gloriously and repeatedly manipulate my genital to ejaculation while watching strangers have sex on my computer, as my girlfriend had left that very morning for a ten day work trip of the West Coast. Yes, some serious Uncle Jason time was in order.
Instead, by 3pm, I was in a car, headed home with no haircut and no Thai food, because I was feeling so ill that I had to leave work immediately.
Thus began a six-day saga that was the worst illness of my life. I’m not being dramatic here – I’m the nerd who had perfect attendance in grade school and still brings this up at parties (and, obviously, in blog posts). I never get sick. Well, not “never,” but when I get sick it’s usually because I’m hungover or because of a 24 hour bug or because I more or less treat my body, specifically my intestines and colon, like a Dumpster.
But this was none of those things. It started with a mild cough on Wednesday night that I thought nothing of, but it came on like a tsunami at work the following work – more coughing, chills, sweats, exhaustion, etc. I just had never felt so whupped before, and so suddenly.
I emailed my manager, telling him that I might have to leave and work from home, and he asked that I hold on, telling me he’d be back in the office shortly (he was at lunch). I waited and when he came back he explained that within ten minutes of my email, he got an email from my colleague who sits in the office next to mine saying the same exact thing. It was like mother fucking Outbreak in that building. (The next day, four of my colleagues, all of whom sit around my office, called out sick.)
And thus I was sick on Thursday. And Friday (which was worse, so bad I couldn’t even read, because I was unable to focus). And Saturday (when I made my first venture out of the apartment, to the grocery store two blocks away, where I had to take a break in the middle of shopping for chicken soup and Gatorade to lean on the ice cream case, because I felt like I was going to faint). And Sunday (when the Eagles loss was almost ok with me, because I was practically delirious). And Monday (when I called out sick but worked from home, because if I didn’t do something productive, I was going to lose my mind). I went back to work on Tuesday, but even then, I wasn’t feeling great. Still, I toughed it out, and by the time I left for Vegas the following Thursday night, a week after initially feeling sick, I was probably up to 90% better.
So the first test of 2011 was a monster illness, which, thankfully, I have survived. Here’s hoping for a little less sickness – and while we’re at it, a little less goddamned snow – for the rest of the year.
Last week, Snooki’s book hit the New York Times Best-Seller list.
Yesterday, I saw that my book got a one star review (and a simple “not funny” comment) from someone who gave a four star review to Jodie Sweetin’s book (Jodie Sweetin is Stephanie Tanner, in case you don’t know).
Next week, I imagine the slutty coat check girl my local strip club will suddenly show up at my office and make a better presentation at the annual partners’ meeting than I will, and a homeless man will stop me on the street and tell me what a shitty business development manager I am – and that Boner Stabone could obviously do a much, much better job.
This is why writers drink a lot.
Yesterday, I saw that my book got a one star review (and a simple “not funny” comment) from someone who gave a four star review to Jodie Sweetin’s book (Jodie Sweetin is Stephanie Tanner, in case you don’t know).
Next week, I imagine the slutty coat check girl my local strip club will suddenly show up at my office and make a better presentation at the annual partners’ meeting than I will, and a homeless man will stop me on the street and tell me what a shitty business development manager I am – and that Boner Stabone could obviously do a much, much better job.
This is why writers drink a lot.
It would be hard to describe our weekend brunch and bar crawl as a “success,” but it certainly had its moments. Some highlights:
- Incredible fucking dip (if I could choose a place to die, it would be in a tub filled with the onion dip).
- Incredible fucking cupcakes (the salted caramel made me pee a little bit, but only it wasn’t pee but clear and more sticky and kinda smelled like bleach and felt like a sneeze).
- A number of people saying, “Wow, your apartment is gigantic.”
- Good friends and good company.
It did, however, have some lowlights:
- There was no bar crawl, because everyone left. (Well, that’s not true – me, the lady and a friend who lives in Bay Ridge went to two bars, but the remaining 15+ people came just for the brunch and left.)
- Three of the 25 people I invited came to brunch (I am not speaking to a number of “friends”).
- No one ate my eggs (not surprising – they were not very good, especially not compared to the other options).
So the takeaway is that the brunch portion was a lot of fun, and I’m glad people came out. But at the same time, I feel bad – why the heck would anyone come waaaay out to Bay Ridge (see previous post) for a two hour brunch? Even while the brunch was going on, I was expecting us to hit the road and tear up the bars of the ‘hood well into the evening hours. But then this one had to go, and this one had to leave, etc.
Alas. I was looking forward not so much to the brunch, but showing people all the cool (and cheap) dive bars of the neighborhood and getting proper bombed all day. Instead, I was home by 6pm and cleaning syrup off my kitchen counter.
At least there are still some of those cupcakes left (even after I had two for breakfast).
- Incredible fucking dip (if I could choose a place to die, it would be in a tub filled with the onion dip).
- Incredible fucking cupcakes (the salted caramel made me pee a little bit, but only it wasn’t pee but clear and more sticky and kinda smelled like bleach and felt like a sneeze).
- A number of people saying, “Wow, your apartment is gigantic.”
- Good friends and good company.
It did, however, have some lowlights:
- There was no bar crawl, because everyone left. (Well, that’s not true – me, the lady and a friend who lives in Bay Ridge went to two bars, but the remaining 15+ people came just for the brunch and left.)
- Three of the 25 people I invited came to brunch (I am not speaking to a number of “friends”).
- No one ate my eggs (not surprising – they were not very good, especially not compared to the other options).
So the takeaway is that the brunch portion was a lot of fun, and I’m glad people came out. But at the same time, I feel bad – why the heck would anyone come waaaay out to Bay Ridge (see previous post) for a two hour brunch? Even while the brunch was going on, I was expecting us to hit the road and tear up the bars of the ‘hood well into the evening hours. But then this one had to go, and this one had to leave, etc.
Alas. I was looking forward not so much to the brunch, but showing people all the cool (and cheap) dive bars of the neighborhood and getting proper bombed all day. Instead, I was home by 6pm and cleaning syrup off my kitchen counter.
At least there are still some of those cupcakes left (even after I had two for breakfast).
This weekend, my lady and I are having a housewarming brunch and bar crawl in our new(-ish) apartment in our new(-ish) neighborhood, Bay Ridge (Brooklyn). The push-back about attending an event in Bay Ridge from both our groups of friends has been enormous; “Where is Bay Ridge, anyway? Isn’t that, like, near Delaware?”
In part, I don’t blame them. When I lived in Manhattan, I viewed Brooklyn like all Manhattanites do: as a place for poors and hipsters. A buddy once said of Hoboken that being able to afford to live in Manhattan but choosing to live in Hoboken is like going to see Led Zeppelin in their prime and spending the whole concert listening from the bathroom. Something similar, I felt, could be said of Brooklyn, and so I was especially confused when I saw my friends moving there and paying gigantic prices to live in Brooklyn Heights, Cobble Hill or even Park Slope. The point is that I’m not so far removed from being a Manhattan snob that I don’t understand where these reluctant friends are coming from when they express emotions ranging from indifference to disgust about coming to our little brunch/bar crawl waaaaaaaay out in Bay Ridge, which is really only about a 35-40 minute subway ride from almost anywhere in Manhattan.
But I will say this: I have a four bedroom, two bath apartment. That’s a master bedroom, a proper guest bedroom (with full-sized bed and closet), an office for me and a dressing room (with two closets) for the lady, in addition to his and her full baths. For all I know, my girlfriend could be keeping dead runaways in her dressing room and bathroom and I’d have no idea, because I never enter these rooms. We also have a real living room with gigantic windows from which I cannot touch the wall of the neighboring building, and a real kitchen with a six-feet long island (well, technically it’s a peninsula, but you get it).
There is a Welsh pub on my block and numerous Irish pubs ranging from “real dive” to “posh dive” within walking distance; a supermarket two blocks away and a bodega on nearly every corner; plenty of Laundromats and dry cleaning options; and terrific Italian, Chinese, Mexican and cheesesteak (!!!) places within a tennis ball’s throw of our place. If I wanted, I could own a car and either park on the street or pay a relative pittance to park in a nearby garage.
And now, the best part: We pay less than $2000 per month – I would even say “comfortably” less than $2000 per month. For non-New Yorkers, this still may sound like a lot money to pay for rent, but check out the prices for Manhattan one bedrooms on craigslist, and good luck finding even a one bedroom for less than $2000 (and again, we have four bedrooms) (and two bathrooms). At 31, I am paying the cheapest amount of rent I’ve paid since I was 24, and I am saving so much money that after my rent is deducted from my bank account, I do not know what to do with all the extra cash.
(Well, that’s not true – I’m doing pretty well spending it, mostly on trips and luxury items.)
So after seven years and most of my 20’s living in Manhattan, I am happy to have my little place in the relative hinterlands of NYC. I love my apartment and my neighborhood. And if you don’t, that’s fine. But please, don’t talk crap on my ‘hood, just because you’re bummed that every month you have to write a rent check that constitutes 64% of your monthly take-home pay.
And if you’re nice, next time we hang out maybe I’ll buy you a beer – Lord knows I need to find ways to spend all this extra cash!
[laughing maniacally]
[more laughing maniacally]
[coughing]
[clearing throat]
[sighing]
Well, anyway.
In part, I don’t blame them. When I lived in Manhattan, I viewed Brooklyn like all Manhattanites do: as a place for poors and hipsters. A buddy once said of Hoboken that being able to afford to live in Manhattan but choosing to live in Hoboken is like going to see Led Zeppelin in their prime and spending the whole concert listening from the bathroom. Something similar, I felt, could be said of Brooklyn, and so I was especially confused when I saw my friends moving there and paying gigantic prices to live in Brooklyn Heights, Cobble Hill or even Park Slope. The point is that I’m not so far removed from being a Manhattan snob that I don’t understand where these reluctant friends are coming from when they express emotions ranging from indifference to disgust about coming to our little brunch/bar crawl waaaaaaaay out in Bay Ridge, which is really only about a 35-40 minute subway ride from almost anywhere in Manhattan.
But I will say this: I have a four bedroom, two bath apartment. That’s a master bedroom, a proper guest bedroom (with full-sized bed and closet), an office for me and a dressing room (with two closets) for the lady, in addition to his and her full baths. For all I know, my girlfriend could be keeping dead runaways in her dressing room and bathroom and I’d have no idea, because I never enter these rooms. We also have a real living room with gigantic windows from which I cannot touch the wall of the neighboring building, and a real kitchen with a six-feet long island (well, technically it’s a peninsula, but you get it).
There is a Welsh pub on my block and numerous Irish pubs ranging from “real dive” to “posh dive” within walking distance; a supermarket two blocks away and a bodega on nearly every corner; plenty of Laundromats and dry cleaning options; and terrific Italian, Chinese, Mexican and cheesesteak (!!!) places within a tennis ball’s throw of our place. If I wanted, I could own a car and either park on the street or pay a relative pittance to park in a nearby garage.
And now, the best part: We pay less than $2000 per month – I would even say “comfortably” less than $2000 per month. For non-New Yorkers, this still may sound like a lot money to pay for rent, but check out the prices for Manhattan one bedrooms on craigslist, and good luck finding even a one bedroom for less than $2000 (and again, we have four bedrooms) (and two bathrooms). At 31, I am paying the cheapest amount of rent I’ve paid since I was 24, and I am saving so much money that after my rent is deducted from my bank account, I do not know what to do with all the extra cash.
(Well, that’s not true – I’m doing pretty well spending it, mostly on trips and luxury items.)
So after seven years and most of my 20’s living in Manhattan, I am happy to have my little place in the relative hinterlands of NYC. I love my apartment and my neighborhood. And if you don’t, that’s fine. But please, don’t talk crap on my ‘hood, just because you’re bummed that every month you have to write a rent check that constitutes 64% of your monthly take-home pay.
And if you’re nice, next time we hang out maybe I’ll buy you a beer – Lord knows I need to find ways to spend all this extra cash!
[laughing maniacally]
[more laughing maniacally]
[coughing]
[clearing throat]
[sighing]
Well, anyway.
A picture from a New Year’s Eve party, at which my buddy Dave, the host, got a pig (in case you couldn’t tell from the picture).
In exactly one week, I leave for Amsterdam for Dave’s bachelor party with a number of guys in this picture. I’ve only been to Amsterdam once, in 2000, and for about fourteen hours, and in that time my buddy Conor and I almost got robbed by a dude with a knife. Next week, I’m headed there for five nights with twelve dudes from South Philly, the large majority of which have never travelled anywhere but the Jersey shore, Key West or Cancun. The motto for our trip is “Thirteen Dudes, Eight Criminal Records.”
God help that city.
Las Vegas at dusk. No kidding, it’s unlike any place else on earth. Not just because of the natural beauty of the colors exploding across the sky as the sun sets over the mountains, but because of the anticipation; if the best part of sex is the walk up the stairs, dusk in Vegas, with all its endless possibilities, soon to be unfurled, is the best part of visiting the city.
(Well, would you look at me! I’m a photographer and a poet, apparently.)
This is a picture of me, in our suite in Las Vegas, dancing around and pointing an (unloaded) gun that belongs to a buddy (who is a federal agent) at my genitals, pretending to shoot them off.
I think this just about sums up my four nights in Las Vegas, a trip we called WidowMaker II. But a couple of other thoughts:
Vegas = high school. Sexually-speaking, that is. You see, I did not get laid in high school, because I was not physically attractive. However, I started getting laid a little bit in college and got laid at a pretty good clip (for my weight class) after college because, even though I’m still not very good-looking, I’m kinda rich and funny. Things like these matters when girls get older (thank god!), but they don’t mean dog shit when you’re 16 and would literally give up two of your fingers to ejaculate inside or even in the presence of an actual, complicit living woman.
However, in Las Vegas, it’s right back to the high school model of sex: if you ain’t good looking, you ain’t getting laid. Sure, being rich will get you laid in Vegas, but you have to be rich rich and not just kinda rich. The only people picking up other people in Las Vegas and making love to them have muscles/good physiques and expensive haircuts, as well as wardrobes that do not consist entirely of clothes i) purchased off the sale rack at Banana Republic; ii) bought at thrift stores in the Hermosa Beach area; or iii) more than eight years old.
Girls, girls, girls. I and another buddy landed on Thursday night, and our four remaining friends showed up on Friday (one buddy lives out there). That’s seven guys in total. By late Sunday night, we had determined that not one of us had spoken to ONE, SINGLE WOMAN who was not under the employ of a business that we were patronizing (e.g., blackjack dealers, bartenders, strippers, etc). True story. Seven guys, and not one conversation with a girl in which money did not immediately change hands either just before or just after.
(This spell was broken on Sunday night, when we went to the Hofbrau Haus for dinner and spoke briefly to the girls sitting next to us before they left and went to a club, and at least two of us went back to the room to poop.)
Bets, bets, bets. I did ok over the weekend, winning on the Steelers and Bears, but losing on the Falcons (-1! at home! Matty Ice!) and Pats (like the rest of the universe). However, I picked a couple of futures that I would like to share, if you don’t mind:
To win the World Series: Brewers at 40/1, A’s at 30/1. These were the most appealing to me, by far. I like that Brewers staff, three strong with Greinke, Gallardo and Marcum, as well as their offense and an owner who’s obviously going all in this year; I would think that 25/1 might be more likely for the Brewers, so I was really happy with 40/1. I like the A’s a little less, but the Giants just proved that it’s possible to win with good pitching and a bunch of shitty bats putting it together, so with the Anderson-Cahill-Gonzalez-Braden top four and a good bullpen, even a modest offense can get them into the playoffs in a weak division, and then who knows what happens.
An aside: best bet to win the 2011 World Series? That would be the Philadelphia Phillies, at 8/5. Boy, despite all the success that the team has had recently, that still felt weird to see that.
To win the Champions League: Arsenal at 20/1. I know I basically gave away $20 on this one, since there’s no way that Arsenal’s going to win the Champions League, but why not?
To win the NBA title: Knicks at 25/1. Actually, I did not bet on this – I was going to, but got distracted and then forgot about it. But I’m kicking myself here, because i) if the Knicks get Carmelo, that would significantly increase their chances and thus lower these odds and ii) I’m a Sixers “fan,” but one of the things that I’ve also felt I’ve missed out on living for the past decade-ish in NYC is a good Knicks team. Their revival this year, though modest, has proven that this is a great basketball city, and it would be exciting to see them do well in the playoffs.
Next up, Omaha. My friends and seem to joke about this every time we go to Vegas, but, well, do we really need to go to Vegas, when we spend most of our time sitting around our really nice hotel room, crushing Buds and smoking cigarettes, and talking about good times we’ve had or girls we’ve effed? For a lot less cash (and a lot more convenience), we could just as easily fly to somewhere in the middle of the country and have 82% to 88% of the fun we had/have in Las Vegas – I’m certain we can find ourselves a really nice suite in Kansas City or Omaha or whatnot.
But alas, I’m just as certain that this time next year, we’ll be in Las Vegas once again. In the meantime, there is talk of a fall trip to one of my favorite cities, New Orleans, the only city outside of Nevada in which picking up a prostitute is slightly more difficult than picking up a pack of cigarettes. Looking forward to it!
I went to the Apple Store over lunch to pick up a new iPod Classic (because my old one is dead and I have some long flights – Vegas, Amsterdam – coming up), when a guy in his mid-twenties approached me while I was walking around the store and asked, “Are you Jason Mulgrew?”
Now, this doesn’t happen a lot. But over the course of my “illustrious” “career,” it definitely has happened more than it should have (let’s say more than thirty times but less than fifty times). And I’ve never known the appropriate way to respond.
That is, until it came to me in the Apple Store.
“Me? Yeah, I wish!” [a beat] “No, but seriously, I am Jason Mulgrew.”
I think this is what I’m going with from now on.
Now, this doesn’t happen a lot. But over the course of my “illustrious” “career,” it definitely has happened more than it should have (let’s say more than thirty times but less than fifty times). And I’ve never known the appropriate way to respond.
That is, until it came to me in the Apple Store.
“Me? Yeah, I wish!” [a beat] “No, but seriously, I am Jason Mulgrew.”
I think this is what I’m going with from now on.
Real Talk: ManGroomer edition.
Because of this cold/flu/illness, I’ve left my apartment twice in five days. I’ve run out of things to read, watch, eat, clean and/or pretend I’m fucking.
Last resort? The grooming. I fear I may have gone a little crazy – I went from Uzbeki uncle to Greek kid who’s not quite hit puberty yet but is getting close – but hey, it always grows back.
Real talk.
Two nights ago, my lady and I ate at a place called Embers, which is a steakhouse in our ‘hood, Bay Ridge (that’s in Brooklyn) (the uncool/unhip part). I have two buddies who grew up in Bay Ridge, and they both agreed that this was the best steakhouse in the neighborhood.
Well.
Before we continue, you should know that I am a steak expert. Actually, I should clarify that: I am an expert on the steakhouses of Manhattan. Back in the halcyon days of (parts of) 2005, 2006 and 2007 when I was young, rich and single (thus the “rich” part), my friend Nicole and I would go to fancy dinners once a month and just blow it out. We’d alternate – she’d pick and I’d pay, then I’d pick and she’d pay – and we’d eat the shit out of some fine, fine foods. When I picked, I almost always chose steakhouses. So if you name a steakhouse in the city, I’ve been there.
[My favorite? Dylan Prime. A cool atmosphere that’s suitable for both dates and parents, a nice connecting lounge area for pre-dinner drinks, inventive dishes (pork belly tater tots and prosciutto bread pudding are two of my faves), a terrific Manhattan, and a steak that, coupled with the foie gras butter chapeaux, may bring you closer to heaven in life than you’ll ever get in death (in my case, at least).]
So I like going to steakhouses, and was looking forward to eating at one in my new ‘hood.
Well. (Again.)
The decor of Embers was not so much old school, which implies charm and care, as it was dingy, which implies ”we decorated this place thirty years ago and pretty much left it at that.” However, I was not bothered – I typically don’t put much stock in ambiance (food is first and foremost and only) and my date this evening was my goddamned live-in girlfriend, who I more or less stopped trying to impress the minute she said, “So, I’m going on the pill.”
Adding to the decor was the clientele, which consisted of a group of 60-somethings at the bar by the entry who spent most of our dinner screaming at “Wheel of Fortune” and a 60-ish couple who sat nearby and argued the whole time, going from agitated to calm and back and forth and back and forth. Because there was no one in the restaurant, we could hear their whole argument, including when the woman said, “I fucking love the sex with you!” Which is exactly what you want to hear from a 60-something lady Brooklynite before you put 11 oz of meat into you(r belly).
(And I’m not joking here – she actually kinda screamed “I fucking love the sex with you!” in the middle of the restaurant. Was the place dilapidated? Sure. Mostly empty? Yep. But what compels you, as a 60-something woman, to almost scream “I fucking love the sex with you!” in a public place. Stay classy, Bay Ridge.)
I started with the caprese and m’lady got the salad, both of which were in the B/B+ range; the caprese big hunks of mozzarella and fresh tomatoes drizzled with Italian dressing and the salad crisp and fresh. We both got filet mignons, which came with the veggie of the day (broccoli) and about four choices of potato – both of us opted for the potato pie, which was written about positively in reviews. While not so innovative with the sides, I would agree that the potato pie was spectacular – a crusty lump of mashed potatoes, but very moist and with chunks of ham (!!!) in it – and the broccoli was, well, broccoli.
The steak was solid, but unspectacular, better than what I expected when I first walked into the place. Nothing to praise, nothing to complain about. Just steak. (I’m tempted to write that a steak is a like a blowjob – even the worst is pretty good. But I can’t, because there are some terrible, terrible blowjobbers out there, and so that comparison wouldn’t be fair to steaks everywhere, now would it?)
But the best part of the whole meal? Three drinks (total), two apps, two steaks and four sides = $100. The filets themselves were $27 and they included the two sides, whereas a filet at my favorite place (Dylan Prime) is $39, and each side is $9. So it was less than half the price of what I’m used to paying.
All in all, not a bad experience. I got a decent meal at a bargain price, was reminded of how much I hate Wheel of Fortune, and thought about what constitutes terrific sex for people in their 60’s. You don’t get shit like that in Manhattan.
Well.
Before we continue, you should know that I am a steak expert. Actually, I should clarify that: I am an expert on the steakhouses of Manhattan. Back in the halcyon days of (parts of) 2005, 2006 and 2007 when I was young, rich and single (thus the “rich” part), my friend Nicole and I would go to fancy dinners once a month and just blow it out. We’d alternate – she’d pick and I’d pay, then I’d pick and she’d pay – and we’d eat the shit out of some fine, fine foods. When I picked, I almost always chose steakhouses. So if you name a steakhouse in the city, I’ve been there.
[My favorite? Dylan Prime. A cool atmosphere that’s suitable for both dates and parents, a nice connecting lounge area for pre-dinner drinks, inventive dishes (pork belly tater tots and prosciutto bread pudding are two of my faves), a terrific Manhattan, and a steak that, coupled with the foie gras butter chapeaux, may bring you closer to heaven in life than you’ll ever get in death (in my case, at least).]
So I like going to steakhouses, and was looking forward to eating at one in my new ‘hood.
Well. (Again.)
The decor of Embers was not so much old school, which implies charm and care, as it was dingy, which implies ”we decorated this place thirty years ago and pretty much left it at that.” However, I was not bothered – I typically don’t put much stock in ambiance (food is first and foremost and only) and my date this evening was my goddamned live-in girlfriend, who I more or less stopped trying to impress the minute she said, “So, I’m going on the pill.”
Adding to the decor was the clientele, which consisted of a group of 60-somethings at the bar by the entry who spent most of our dinner screaming at “Wheel of Fortune” and a 60-ish couple who sat nearby and argued the whole time, going from agitated to calm and back and forth and back and forth. Because there was no one in the restaurant, we could hear their whole argument, including when the woman said, “I fucking love the sex with you!” Which is exactly what you want to hear from a 60-something lady Brooklynite before you put 11 oz of meat into you(r belly).
(And I’m not joking here – she actually kinda screamed “I fucking love the sex with you!” in the middle of the restaurant. Was the place dilapidated? Sure. Mostly empty? Yep. But what compels you, as a 60-something woman, to almost scream “I fucking love the sex with you!” in a public place. Stay classy, Bay Ridge.)
I started with the caprese and m’lady got the salad, both of which were in the B/B+ range; the caprese big hunks of mozzarella and fresh tomatoes drizzled with Italian dressing and the salad crisp and fresh. We both got filet mignons, which came with the veggie of the day (broccoli) and about four choices of potato – both of us opted for the potato pie, which was written about positively in reviews. While not so innovative with the sides, I would agree that the potato pie was spectacular – a crusty lump of mashed potatoes, but very moist and with chunks of ham (!!!) in it – and the broccoli was, well, broccoli.
The steak was solid, but unspectacular, better than what I expected when I first walked into the place. Nothing to praise, nothing to complain about. Just steak. (I’m tempted to write that a steak is a like a blowjob – even the worst is pretty good. But I can’t, because there are some terrible, terrible blowjobbers out there, and so that comparison wouldn’t be fair to steaks everywhere, now would it?)
But the best part of the whole meal? Three drinks (total), two apps, two steaks and four sides = $100. The filets themselves were $27 and they included the two sides, whereas a filet at my favorite place (Dylan Prime) is $39, and each side is $9. So it was less than half the price of what I’m used to paying.
All in all, not a bad experience. I got a decent meal at a bargain price, was reminded of how much I hate Wheel of Fortune, and thought about what constitutes terrific sex for people in their 60’s. You don’t get shit like that in Manhattan.
I’m headed to Vegas in a few days and am practically shitting myself with excitement. My buddies and I are doing three nights at an incredibly sexual-awesome two bedroom/two bath suite at the Hard Rock that’s over 1400 square feet, has a wet bar, balcony, lounge, etc. Again, practically shitting myself with excitement.
However, I’m landing at 11:15pm on Thursday night, while the rest of my buddies are arriving on Friday. I figure I’ll just eat, gamble and go to bed, and thus I didn’t need anything fancy in terms of a hotel room for the one night I’m alone. But while looking on Vegas.com, I found the room above at the Hard Rock for Thursday night for $76. Yes, $76.
I’ll be alone, and I’m terrified of prostitutes, but I have to fuck myself about 15 times in this sexy room, don’t I? (Don’t answer that, because it’s going down either way.)
In May of 2009, a buddy forwarded me a link to the One Hundred Push-Up Challenge. Basically, you start with as many push-ups as you can muster, then follow a regiment based on your initial amount, and, within a few weeks, you should be able to do 100 push-ups straight.
Intrigued, I was. I remember as a kid my dad saying that Herschel Walker, then a beast in the NFL, got so jacked and by doing only hundreds of push-ups and sit-ups every day, and he had never, ever entered a weight room. That’s cool, I thought. And then it ended there, as it certainly didn’t inspire me to start doing push-ups or sit-ups, but rather to have another TastyKake (I presume).
Anyway, I decided to give this challenge a go, and when I started, I did (I think) four push-ups. Just four. Yes, this is a distributingly low number for a 29 year old man who was not physically handicapped about the arms, chest and shoulders. But here’s the thing: I wanted to do them right. I know I could have done a lot more if I had cheated – if I had done them quickly, bending my elbows just a little bit, popping slightly down and popping quickly back up. But I did four, real, actual push-ups, taking it slow, getting down all the way, waiting a second or two, and then slowly rising back up. Four consecutive push-ups.
Six or seven weeks later, after sticking with the program and doing them the right way, I did 77 push-ups in a row.
So while I didn’t get to 100 straight (I sort of hit a wall around the 77, and never got higher, and eventually lost interest), it was a major, major help in raising my level of fitness/strength. I remember sitting at a bar with a buddy a few weeks into the program and crossing my arms and feeling something unusual on the back of my arm that had never been there before, this mass that caused me to question whether someone had secretly crazy-glued a smooth rock to my arm while I slept. Upon further inspection, I learned it was an actual tricep muscle, one that, for the first time, felt more like muscle than mashed potatoes. And around this time, a female friend, who didn’t know I was doing the program, saw me in a bar, regarded me, and said, “You look, like, bigger – but in a good way” and then she rubbed my chest, which was slowly transforming from simply being a home for my man boobs to a Physical Wonder To Marvel At While You Are Lying Below It, Being Penetrated And Having Multiple, Compound Orgasms.
The short of it is that while I’m not big on New Year’s resolutions, I’m back in the saddle with the 100 Push-Up Challenge. I started two nights ago, and though I won’t tell you my initial number, it was certainly higher than four, and I’m hoping I’ll be able to hit that 100 straight in a few weeks.
And I suggest that you, dear readers, give it a try. (Note: I recommend this only for males, because chicks like guys with broad chests, and not for women, because someone once told me that excessive exercising of the chest muscles will shrink a woman’s boobies, and if I am for anything in this life, it is for the preservation, expansion and growth of all boobies everywhere.) It’s really easy to do, kinda fun, and, shit, you can’t start off much worse than I did. Happy push-uping.
Intrigued, I was. I remember as a kid my dad saying that Herschel Walker, then a beast in the NFL, got so jacked and by doing only hundreds of push-ups and sit-ups every day, and he had never, ever entered a weight room. That’s cool, I thought. And then it ended there, as it certainly didn’t inspire me to start doing push-ups or sit-ups, but rather to have another TastyKake (I presume).
Anyway, I decided to give this challenge a go, and when I started, I did (I think) four push-ups. Just four. Yes, this is a distributingly low number for a 29 year old man who was not physically handicapped about the arms, chest and shoulders. But here’s the thing: I wanted to do them right. I know I could have done a lot more if I had cheated – if I had done them quickly, bending my elbows just a little bit, popping slightly down and popping quickly back up. But I did four, real, actual push-ups, taking it slow, getting down all the way, waiting a second or two, and then slowly rising back up. Four consecutive push-ups.
Six or seven weeks later, after sticking with the program and doing them the right way, I did 77 push-ups in a row.
So while I didn’t get to 100 straight (I sort of hit a wall around the 77, and never got higher, and eventually lost interest), it was a major, major help in raising my level of fitness/strength. I remember sitting at a bar with a buddy a few weeks into the program and crossing my arms and feeling something unusual on the back of my arm that had never been there before, this mass that caused me to question whether someone had secretly crazy-glued a smooth rock to my arm while I slept. Upon further inspection, I learned it was an actual tricep muscle, one that, for the first time, felt more like muscle than mashed potatoes. And around this time, a female friend, who didn’t know I was doing the program, saw me in a bar, regarded me, and said, “You look, like, bigger – but in a good way” and then she rubbed my chest, which was slowly transforming from simply being a home for my man boobs to a Physical Wonder To Marvel At While You Are Lying Below It, Being Penetrated And Having Multiple, Compound Orgasms.
The short of it is that while I’m not big on New Year’s resolutions, I’m back in the saddle with the 100 Push-Up Challenge. I started two nights ago, and though I won’t tell you my initial number, it was certainly higher than four, and I’m hoping I’ll be able to hit that 100 straight in a few weeks.
And I suggest that you, dear readers, give it a try. (Note: I recommend this only for males, because chicks like guys with broad chests, and not for women, because someone once told me that excessive exercising of the chest muscles will shrink a woman’s boobies, and if I am for anything in this life, it is for the preservation, expansion and growth of all boobies everywhere.) It’s really easy to do, kinda fun, and, shit, you can’t start off much worse than I did. Happy push-uping.
One of my favorite pics not just from this New Year’s Day, but any New Year’s Day. This is me, feeding by buddy Eddie some of my sweet cherry (berry) wine, somewhere along Broad Street.
For those of you who have read my book, which I assume is all of you, Eddie is Screech or Eddie the Nugget, who appears several times throughout the book, most notably as the nephew of Uncle Petey, who made us eat the hot-ass peppers.
I went from wanting to jam-fuck this girl to kinda-getting-over-it-but-would-still-definitely-eff-her to wanting to do whatever’s in my power to destroy her career and possibly her home in the span of about six days. I mean, I’m sure she (and the hipster guy) in the awful fucking Hyundai commercials are lovely people. And I don’t fault them – it was probably a huge payday and no doubt an incredible amount of exposure. But if familiarity breeds contempt, seeing the same commercial (almost literally) during every, single commercial break during my weekend football watching breeds deep, relentless hatred that results in me taking the train into Williamsburg or Fort Greene and burning your goddamn little hipster loft to the ground.
“This [Chiefs-Raiders] game features a top-10 fantasy QB (Matt Cassel), two of the top-5 fantasy running backs (Jamaal Charles and Darren McFadden) and the best fantasy receiver (Dwayne Bowe), proving yet again that FANTASY FOOTBALL IS A COMPLETE F——— CRAPSHOOT AND WE ARE IDIOTS FOR DOING FOUR WEEKS OF MOCK DRAFTS TRYING TO FIGURE OUT WHAT THE F—- IS GOING TO HAPPEN BECAUSE THERE IS NO F——— WAY TO KNOW!!!!!!”
Thank you, Bill Simmons. Even though I am very, very serious about fantasy sports, for years I’ve been unable to even read fantasy football analysis – even while pooping at work (which should really tell you something) – just by virtue of the fact that it’s the fantasy equivalent of simply rolling a fucking pair of dice. It’s almost completely impossible to predict, and anyone who tells you otherwise is wrong.
We’re talking here about 16 game sample sizes for players, a number so small that it lends itself to flukes. (And no, I have absolutely no background in statistics.) Further, football is a true “team” sport, in that the performance of each player is heavily affected by the players around him: if a QB’s o-line stinks, he doesn’t have time to throw the ball; if a team’s defense stinks and gives up a lot of points, they’re going to passing a lot to play catch up, thus raising a QB’s numbers and lowering an RB’s; a WR can have all the talent in the world, but if the QB blows, well, you get it.
(And I’m sure there are better ways to articulate these points, but give me a break – it’s 10am on a Monday morning.)
Baseball, on the other hand…oh, baseball. First, we’re talking 162 games (or 30+ starts or 200+ innings pitched or 600+ PAs), so there’s a strong sample size from which to base conclusions. Second, of course baseball is a team sport and an individual’s numbers rely on his teammates (a ground-ball pitcher playing in front of a terrible defensive infield would likely take a hit in the ERA dept, etc), but for the most part it’s pitcher vs. hitter. And third, unlike football, baseball has a GINORMOUS amount of nerd stats that, as I said, allow one to fairly accurately predict the performance of an individual player.
A few of my favorite nerd stats (and I don’t want to blow my load here, as we’ll revisit this in March when prepping for the season):
- BABIP (batting average on balls in play). League average in 2009 was about .316. Therefore, if a player hit higher than that in 2009, it’s likely his batting average would be lower in 2010. If his BABIP was lower than .316 in 2009, it is likely that he would raise his batting average in 2010, as this number tends to normalize.
Examples: In 2009, Hanley Ramirez hit .342, with a BABIP of .384. In 2010, he hit .300, because his BABIP returned to a more normal .327. Alternatively, Paul Konerko batted .277 in 2009 with a low BABIP of .282. In 2010, his BABIP rose to .326, and he batted .312, nearly 40 points higher. Konerko was targeted as a “like” in my fantasy baseball preview last year, and while no one is ever going to stay away from Hanley Ramirez, the high BABIP was noted.
- For pitching, I mostly focus on three stats: BABIP (in this case, BABIP against), LOB% (left on baseball percentage) and what I call E-F, which is ERA minus FIP, or Fielding Independent Pitching, a fancy way of assigning a number to what a pitcher’s ERA would be minus the effects of defense, ballpark, etc.
In 2009, average BABIP was .297, average and average LOB% was 73.86%. In 2009, Max Scherzer had a 4.12 ERA and 1.34 WHIP, because of his BABIP (.323) and LOB% (68.7%) were far from league averages. In 2010, his ERA and WHIP improved to 3.50 and 1.25, respectively, because his BABIP (.295) and LOB% (74.9%) normalized. I “liked” him in my 2010 preview.
As for E-F, let’s take the case of Cole Hamels. In 2009, Cole posted an ERA and 4.32 and WHIP of 1.29. His FIP was 3.72, meaning his E-F was 0.61. This doesn’t seem like a lot, but it’s a red flag that means that this pitcher is targeted for a rise the following year. And what happened in 2010? Hamels ERA was 3.06 and his WHIP 1.18. Once more, I ”liked” him in my 2010 preview.
The point? If you want to use actual science and make some money, stick to fantasy baseball (I’ve been making about one rent payment a year for the past five years with my winnings). And next time you’re tempted to read a 3,000 word article written by a fantasy football guru about who’s going to perform well in Week 14 match-ups or in the big Monday night game, instead put it down and ask the opinion of your favorite toddler – they’re guess is just about as good as any fantasy football “expert’s.”
Thank you, Bill Simmons. Even though I am very, very serious about fantasy sports, for years I’ve been unable to even read fantasy football analysis – even while pooping at work (which should really tell you something) – just by virtue of the fact that it’s the fantasy equivalent of simply rolling a fucking pair of dice. It’s almost completely impossible to predict, and anyone who tells you otherwise is wrong.
We’re talking here about 16 game sample sizes for players, a number so small that it lends itself to flukes. (And no, I have absolutely no background in statistics.) Further, football is a true “team” sport, in that the performance of each player is heavily affected by the players around him: if a QB’s o-line stinks, he doesn’t have time to throw the ball; if a team’s defense stinks and gives up a lot of points, they’re going to passing a lot to play catch up, thus raising a QB’s numbers and lowering an RB’s; a WR can have all the talent in the world, but if the QB blows, well, you get it.
(And I’m sure there are better ways to articulate these points, but give me a break – it’s 10am on a Monday morning.)
Baseball, on the other hand…oh, baseball. First, we’re talking 162 games (or 30+ starts or 200+ innings pitched or 600+ PAs), so there’s a strong sample size from which to base conclusions. Second, of course baseball is a team sport and an individual’s numbers rely on his teammates (a ground-ball pitcher playing in front of a terrible defensive infield would likely take a hit in the ERA dept, etc), but for the most part it’s pitcher vs. hitter. And third, unlike football, baseball has a GINORMOUS amount of nerd stats that, as I said, allow one to fairly accurately predict the performance of an individual player.
A few of my favorite nerd stats (and I don’t want to blow my load here, as we’ll revisit this in March when prepping for the season):
- BABIP (batting average on balls in play). League average in 2009 was about .316. Therefore, if a player hit higher than that in 2009, it’s likely his batting average would be lower in 2010. If his BABIP was lower than .316 in 2009, it is likely that he would raise his batting average in 2010, as this number tends to normalize.
Examples: In 2009, Hanley Ramirez hit .342, with a BABIP of .384. In 2010, he hit .300, because his BABIP returned to a more normal .327. Alternatively, Paul Konerko batted .277 in 2009 with a low BABIP of .282. In 2010, his BABIP rose to .326, and he batted .312, nearly 40 points higher. Konerko was targeted as a “like” in my fantasy baseball preview last year, and while no one is ever going to stay away from Hanley Ramirez, the high BABIP was noted.
- For pitching, I mostly focus on three stats: BABIP (in this case, BABIP against), LOB% (left on baseball percentage) and what I call E-F, which is ERA minus FIP, or Fielding Independent Pitching, a fancy way of assigning a number to what a pitcher’s ERA would be minus the effects of defense, ballpark, etc.
In 2009, average BABIP was .297, average and average LOB% was 73.86%. In 2009, Max Scherzer had a 4.12 ERA and 1.34 WHIP, because of his BABIP (.323) and LOB% (68.7%) were far from league averages. In 2010, his ERA and WHIP improved to 3.50 and 1.25, respectively, because his BABIP (.295) and LOB% (74.9%) normalized. I “liked” him in my 2010 preview.
As for E-F, let’s take the case of Cole Hamels. In 2009, Cole posted an ERA and 4.32 and WHIP of 1.29. His FIP was 3.72, meaning his E-F was 0.61. This doesn’t seem like a lot, but it’s a red flag that means that this pitcher is targeted for a rise the following year. And what happened in 2010? Hamels ERA was 3.06 and his WHIP 1.18. Once more, I ”liked” him in my 2010 preview.
The point? If you want to use actual science and make some money, stick to fantasy baseball (I’ve been making about one rent payment a year for the past five years with my winnings). And next time you’re tempted to read a 3,000 word article written by a fantasy football guru about who’s going to perform well in Week 14 match-ups or in the big Monday night game, instead put it down and ask the opinion of your favorite toddler – they’re guess is just about as good as any fantasy football “expert’s.”
Yesterday, I spent the day drinking a liter and a half of cherry Passover wine (cost: $8) out of wine pouch while dressed in a costume, wearing face paint and dancing to a brass and drum band (I also peed outside approximately nine times). Today, I’m sitting on the couch reading over 80+ pages of documents researching different international arbitration cases.
Honestly, I’m pretty much exactly like Dexter. Save for all the hotness. And fitness. And I’m not sure whether or not Dexter prefers to masturbate with his thumb knuckle not quite in his ass but certainly around it. Otherwise, me and Dexter, we’re the same.
Honestly, I’m pretty much exactly like Dexter. Save for all the hotness. And fitness. And I’m not sure whether or not Dexter prefers to masturbate with his thumb knuckle not quite in his ass but certainly around it. Otherwise, me and Dexter, we’re the same.