As a music lover, one of the things that drew me Tumblr was the ability to post songs (whole songs!) instantly (instantly!), right there on the blog, straight from my iTunes collection. Joy.

So instead of doing a traditional “Six Songs,” I figured I’d link back to the Tumblr blog to all the songs I’ve posted so far this year (and the things I’ve written about them). Some of these I’ve written about on here before, but you can now actually take a listen, if you so desire.

“The Ghost of Genova Heights” Stars

“Sweet Lady” What Made Milwaukee Famous

“Because It’s Not Love” The Pipettes

“Spit On A Stranger” Pavement

“I Throw My Toys Around” No Doubt and Elvis Costello

“We’ve Never Met” Neko Case with Ron Sexsmith

“Texaco” Blitzen Trapper

“In the Midnight Hour” Wilson Pickett

I think that, going forward, this is how we’ll approach Six Songs – once I’ve posted six over on Tumblr, I’ll post something like this on here so that you can go on over there and take a listen. Sound good?

(And yes, I know there are eight songs listed above. Just deal with it.)

And just a general reminder that I do post (almost) every day on Tumblr, even if it’s just a little somethin’ somethin’.

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I want to thank everyone who’s recently signed up for the mailing list, having been prompted by my pleas (read: begging). Of course, I want you to come here every day, several times a day, and read over the entire blog at least once a month. But entering your email on the mailing list means you’ll be getting some funny at least every once in a while, and you’ll also have book (and new book! coming in 2012!)-related news and news about appearances/readings/drinking events in your area delivered right to your inbox. So for those who have signed up, thank you. For those who haven’t, c’mon already.

(By the way, I plan on getting a car soon, which will lead to road trips, which I will then spin as book promotions, which I will then write off come tax time. So, in short, there will hopefully be some fun readings and drink-ups in bars within, say, 700 miles of the NYC area in the next few months.)

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I’m going to try to get something longer up here, but a crazy, shitty week just keeps rolling on. If I don’t post something, have a lovely, lovely weekend.

I spent most of my weekend hanging out with these two, my dad and my nephew, Liam.

(My dad is on the right, and Liam is on the left.)

Needless to say, a very good weekend back in Philly. In addition to hanging out with the fam, I:

- Ate creamed chipped beef twice.

- Ate cheesesteaks twice.

- Drank for five-plus hours at my favorite bar in Philly (the Artful Dodger).

- Was recognized at the bar by a reader, the lovely Paula, who sent my lady and I over some drinks. At this time, I would like to apologize to Paula: I was buzzing pretty hard and was completely thrown off when she grabbed me, especially since I was about to head into the bathroom and had to pee soooooooooooo bad. But fortunately, I got less awkward as the night went on. Thank you again for the drinks, Paula.

- Had arguably the worst hangover I’ve ever had based on level of drunkness/hangover ratio. Don’t get me wrong, as I mention above, I had a bunch of beers on Saturday night. But – and I don’t throw this around lightly – I’d say that I had a Top Ten Worst Hangover on Sunday morning. It was unbelievable, especially since m’lady and I ate dinner, and didn’t have any drinks at least an hour before going to bed. That pretty much ruined Sunday. Getting old sucks.

- Made it back to NYC on a train that got into Penn Station at 11pm – and promptly hit the in-station Taco Bell. If you think you know desperation, I invite you to check out/patronize the Taco Bell at Penn Station at 11pm on a Sunday night. Not my finest hour.

- Had the most low-key yet productive day off in ages on Monday: out for breakfast, shopping, helped make dinner, deleted a number of porn clips made redundant/unnecessary by Redtube and Pornhub, and walked to the Little Cupcake Bakeshop for some dynamite sweets.

It was, all in all, a very nice, tame weekend (aside from the hangover), which should be quite a contrast from this weekend, when we will celebrate my buddy Brian’s “official” return to NYC by pretending that we’re 24 again (split a liter of export strength vodka and cranberry juice while pregaming? yes, please!). The weekend can’t come fast enough.

(Odds I’m back at Taco Bell, post-11pm, at some point this weekend: 5/2)

Last night, I came home from work to find the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition in my mailbox. The cover girl is Irina Shayk. In case you need more evidence than the photo above, she is stunning (all as safe for work as the photo above is). But while my first thoughts upon looking at the cover were sex-related, ranging from “Oh, the things I would do to her” to “But seriously, how long before I’d ejaculate?” (would it be when we were in the same room? when she took off her top? when I touched a boob? or would I make it all the way to actual penetration?), my next line of thinking was, “Geez, what in the hell would I talk to her about?”

For whatever reason, this is a question that always comes up for me when fantasizing about completely unattainable women. Don’t get me wrong, I am a red-blooded American male (potentially with diabetes) and speaking to a girl of Irina’s caliber would not be the first thing on my mind (see above). But my thought process in these fantasies always goes “Sex with her” -> “Make her my girlfriend so as to continue sex” -> “What do we do when not having sex?” In this example, I assumed – correctly so – that Irina was from some sort of small town in either Russia or Eastern Europe (she’s Russian). So what does a guy from South Philly talk about with a girl from Yemanzhelinsk – aside from “Have you ever had a cheesesteak?” and “Russia, huh? Pretty cold there, I hear” and “Do you normally have orgasms or is it, like, difficult for you?”

Make no mistake – I’m not trying to score points with the female readership here (“OMG! He cares about what a girl thinks and says!”). To be very, very clear, if someone like, say, Brooklyn Decker (who I’ve been on to for years, well before she blew up) walked into my office today and said, “I think you should break up with your girlfriend and go out with me,” my immediate response would be, “Do you have any preference as to how I dispose of her body?” So that’s not it.

Instead, I think the answer is pretty obvious: I am xenophobic when it comes to fantasies. When it comes to women I would really like to sleep with but would never in a million years sleep with me, I prefer American girls to foreigners, because my fantasy extends beyond sex and into relationships and thus I would like to talk about American stuff like football or Nascar, The Cosby Show or The Bachelor (not that I watch that), or mac & cheese and hot dogs with my wannabe lady when we have these conversations in my head.

Is it wrong to be so discriminatory? Perhaps. But hey, it’s my fantasy – I don’t tell you how to imagine yours.

(And Irina, if you’re reading this, this doesn’t mean we can’t hang out. I like vodka, and we can take it from there. Hit me up.)

This book presents the results of a years-long research project, conducted by the FBI, in which thirty-six murderers, most of whose crimes were sexually motivated, were interviewed, studied and classified.

(Is that right? “Most of whose crimes were sexually motivated”? That doesn’t feel right. Whatever.)

That’s pretty much about it. You either like this stuff, or you don’t. And it can be pretty graphic. Case in point:

“One murderer, after performing poorly in the service and being intimidated by his sergeant, went AWOL on a drinking binge. While out on the street, he beat a drunk to death after the man grabbed him. The murderer felt justified in his actions and was unaware of the intensity of his rage or the impact of his blows. He then beat to death a second man. Finally, he abducted a female acquaintance. When he awoke the next morning, her dead body was beside him with a broomstick thrust into her vagina with such force that it had penetrated her lungs. Although he believes he killed her, he claims no recollection of the incident.”

You know, I’ve had my fair share of bad nights after some heavy drinking, but THAT, my friends, is a bender. Can you imagine being this guy’s buddy?

INT. DECREPIT TRAILER IN TRAILER PARK – EVENING

BUDDY and MURDERER are sitting on beat up couch and arm chair, respectively, listening to .38 Special, drinking beer, and passing bong back and forth. It is a warm mid-summer night.

Buddy: “So what’d you do last night?

Murderer: “Man, you won’t believe it.”

Buddy: “C’mon – try me.”

Murderer: “So my sergeant really pissed me off, so I thought, ‘Fuck this – I’m going to get drunk.’ So I head over to O’Malley’s, and really, really tie one on.”

Buddy: “Nice.”

Murderer: “Yeah, no kidding, I really needed to get drunk. You know what I mean?”

Buddy: “I hear you, brother!”

[Buddy and Murderer high-five. Buddy hands Murderer bong.]

Murderer: “So anyway, I leave O’Malley’s around 6pm or so, thinking of heading over to Burger King to get a Whopper, when this drunk guy grabs me and starts fucking with me!”

Buddy: “No shit!”

Murderer: “Yeah, he’s all like grabbing me and speaking gibberish and shit!”

Buddy: “Fuck that! What’d you do?”

Murderer: “I beat the shit out of him!”

Buddy: “Nice!”

[Buddy and Murderer high-five]

Murderer: “No kidding, I think I killed him!”

Buddy: “Nice, man, nice!”

[Murderer hits bong]

Buddy: “Wait, you mean, like, really killed him? Or just fucked him up good?”

Murderer: “No, man! I’m 99% sure the mother fucker’s dead!”

[Murderer hits bong again]

Buddy: “Oh…”

Murderer: “I fucking love this song!”

[Murderer turns up stereo. “Hold On Loosely” gets louder. Murderer hands Buddy bong, then plays air guitar.]

Murderer: “So anyway, I eat the Whopper – they still have that two for one special going on, by the way – and I’m headed back to O’Malley’s and, I shit you not, the same thing happens again!”

Buddy: “What? You mean you get hassled by another drunk?”

[Buddy hits bong]

Murderer: “Yeah! It was like ‘National Drunk Dudes Fuck With Me Day’ or some shit!”

Buddy: “So what happened?”

Murderer: “Pretty sure I beat that dude to death, too!”

Buddy: “…Oh. Really?”

Murderer: “Yeah, man! He was all on the ground like, ‘Stop! You’re killing me! It hurts!” and I was all like, “Fuck that and fuck you! It’s on!’ and like kicking him and shit!”

Buddy: “Well, that’s uh…that’s really something.”

Murderer: “Wait, it gets better.”

Buddy: “Better?”

Murderer: “So now I’m all worked up – having killed those two drunks and all – and I’m getting sober, so I head back to O’Malley’s for a few.” [motioning to bong] “You gonna pass that shit or what?”

[Buddy passes Murderer bong]

Murderer: “You know that girl Cheryl?

Buddy: “I don’t think so.”

Murderer: “Yeah, you do. She’s that fine piece of ass that’s always hanging around O’Malley’s? That redheaded broad with the serpent tattoo on her titty?”

Buddy: “Oh, yeah! That bitch is fine!”

[Murderer takes bong hit]

Murderer: “Well, guess who woke up in my bed this morning?”

Buddy: “Get the fuck out of here!”

Murderer: “WITH A BROOMSTICK IN HER COOCH!”

Buddy: “Wait, what?”

Murderer: “Yeah, man. Shit musta got wild, because when I woke up, there she next to me, broomstick in the cooter, dead as shit. I mean, I guess I did it – I think it was too far up there for her to have done it herself – but I don’t really remember nothing. Musta been a wild night!”

[Murderer puts down bong, raises hand for high-five, which Buddy reluctantly and fearfully reciprocates.]

Murderer: “So anyway, I’m thinking we should not hit O’Malley’s tonight. I should probably keep away from that place for a few days or something.”

Buddy: “…”

SEXUAL HOMICIDE: PATTERNS AND MOTIVES by John E. Douglas, Ann W. Burgess, and Robert K. Ressler

Yesterday, I sent an email to a xx,xxx people. Didn’t get one? Bummed about it? Well, good news – you can get the next one by signing up here or by putting your email address in the box under “Sign up for the monthly email!” (even though the email is not monthly).

This is the best way to get info on book-related news, including signings and drink-ups in your area (yes, your area!), as well as some funny. I promise to not over-email you (I have to bother Site Guy Brendan each time I send one of these, because I don’t know how to do it, and he’s usually hungover and surly, so I’ve sent five in the past year), and I promise not to sell your email address (not that I have anything against this, but I just don’t know how to do it).

Also, I would consider your signing up a huge personal favor to me, because the size of one’s email list is about as important as the size of one’s bird. I can’t brag about the latter, so help me brag about the former.

Thank you. You are the best.

“Would you be interested in a girl if she and your brother had had a thing for each other and spent time together even though nothing really happened?”

This is an email from a female friend, using me as the male sounding-board/gay best friend. This is a role that I have played for this particular friend for years, and I’m aware that not all of her questions relate to herself – in many cases, she’s asking for friends (and I know this one is not about her, because she’s with someone). Which is fine. I’m the HMIC (Head Male In Charge) and I know all about this shit.

The answer is no. Not because I have a competitive relationship with my brother (he wins: fitness, brains, and, eventually, wealth; I win: funny, hairyness, and, um, other things that I can’t think of right now), but because there are a lot of ladies in the world, and I don’t want one that’s been all flirty-flirty with my brother. Shit’s gross.

(But I might be a little extreme here, because I won’t go after a chick that’s been with a buddy or one that a buddy has expressed serious interest in, both out of respect for that buddy, but even more so because, again, shit’s gross (if there was any sexytime involved, that is). I know the kind of weird sexual shit I’m into, and if any of my buddies are anywhere close to my level of sexual creepiness, I mean, no thanks.)

But the answer is no, female friend, I would personally not be interested in this lady. Of course, there are exceptions: if I truly felt that I loved her, or if she was Brooklyn Decker, I could probably make it work. But I’m guessing that’s not the case here.

(Also, I would need a little more clarity on “nothing really happened.” What the fuck does that mean? “Well, they didn’t fuck in a bed, but they fucked in a kitchen. During a party. While high-fiving party guests. I don’t even think they kissed, so it’s not like it was, like, intimate or anything.”)

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Back in the old days, when I was blogging regularly, a cheap and easy source of material a fun source of inspiration was email questions from you all. So if you need me, I’m here and I’m lazy ready: jason@jasonmulgrew.com.

I wanted to (officially) let y’all know that I’ve started a Tumblr blog at www.jasonmulgrew.tumblr.com.

So here’s the story.

If you’ve been reading here for a while, it had probably become apparent to you that I could no longer continuing blogging the way I had in the past. The demands of my 9 to 5 job, as well as the commitment required to write (and later promote) a book, left little time or energy for 10,000 words a month about poop/my bird/being fat/drinking a lot. Throw in the complete lack of inspiration I had in Los Angeles (since I went out about fifteen times while living there for eighteen months) and boom – we were in a bad spot here at jm.com.

This bummed me out, but there wasn’t much I could do about it, I thought. I never wanted to stop doing the blog, but after six years and 1.7 million words (!!!), I wasn’t sure what the next step was. So recently, a friend suggested a start a Tumblr blog.

If you are not familiar with Tumblr, it is a microblogging platform that allows users to post text, images, videos, links, quotes and audio (description swiped from their Wiki page). What appealed to me most was that it was quick and easy, and allowed for both short-form posts – a picture with a caption, for example, or something like a glorified Facebook or Twitter update – as well as longer stuff about, well, poop/my bird/being fat/drinking a lot.

So just after the new year, without telling anyone (secrets!!!), I started the Tumblr blog with one goal: to determine if I still had any semblance of my fastball, to see if I could still blog again. Not like the old way, mind you, but in a new, fun way, one that both I enjoyed doing and that I thought you guys would enjoy reading.

And after a month of secretly doing the Tumblr blog, I thought it was going pretty well. I was inspired by the usability of Tumblr, where I’ve been able to easily post pics, like of my nephew Liam and the most bonerizing moment of my 2010 (safe for work), as well whole (Six) songs on there, like purdy ones by Neko Case and Ron Sexsmith or songs that you should listen to while high by Blitzen Trapper. Feeling good, I went ahead and posted some of the Tumblr stuff from January on jm.com (backdating the posts), and for the past two weeks or so I’ve been updating both in real time. Thus, I’m back (relatively-speaking).

Going forward, I will continue to post regularly (and in real time) to both jm.com and the Tumblr blog. Some posts will appear on both blogs. Some of the shorter stuff will appear only on the Tumblr blog. Some of the longer stuff will appear only on jm.com. You can check one blog or both – but not neither, thankyouverymuch.

And as corny as it sounds, I do feel reinvigorated. The ship has sailed on multiple 3,000 word posts a month, but that doesn’t mean I can’t help you kill some time at work by taking a picture of my bird in the shower and riffing on that for a good bit. (I’m kidding! Fortunately, it hasn’t come to that yet. Check back in April.)

In the meantime, you keep reading and I’ll keep writing. We’ve got a pretty good thing going.

Hugs,
Jason

Today, this blog is SEVEN (!!!) years old.

I could go a lot of places, but let’s just say, boy, I did not see that coming waaaaaay back when.

Thank you for all the support over the years.

xoxo,
Jason

Like most other jerkoffs, I wanted to start a diet in the New Year. However, with trips to Vegas and Amsterdam planned for January, I mean, there was just no point in doing so, when in both cities I knew I would be eating anything that was put in front of me – sandwiches, Chinese food, cardboard boxes, bicycle tires, etc – while under the influence. So instead, I started my diet on Monday, and I was alarmed (though not surprised) at the initial weigh-in that morning.

This week, I eased into the diet, following three principles:

- Eat more sensibly. Examples: oatmeal for breakfast, “salads” for lunch (in quotes because these salads contain meat, cheese and croutons), and dinners like chicken apple sausages with a small side of pasta.

- Instead of peeing or pooping on the bathroom on my floor at work, walk up at least two flights (sometimes more) and use a bathroom on a higher floor. This adds up, and on Tuesday, for example, I walked up a combined 21 flights of stairs (I drink a lot of water).

- Do not, under any circumstances, go to the gym. Again, easing into it.

So all in all, not a lot of changes. But I got on this scale today and boom – I’ve lost 5.5 pounds since Monday morning.

You know what I attribute this to? Being a dude. Women, god bless you, have to actually work at losing weight. A guy can fart and lose a pound. But don’t hate the player, hate the game.

And now, the weekend – let’s go about gaining this weight back in the form of Guinness and pizza. Happy Friday!

What thousand of heart-broken women (and 28 heart-broken dudes) all over the world have been googling for the past week.

(Creeps.)

All the good-looking women get off the R train at 9th Street. Never fails. Every single time I take the train home, every single last pretty girl gets off at this stop. It’s almost as if the announcer says, “This is 9th Street, transfer here for the D, F and G trains. THIS IS THE LAST STOP FOR ALL THE PRETTY WOMEN; ALL THE BALLS-UGLY PEOPLE PLEASE REMAIN ON THE TRAIN. LAST STOP FOR PRETTY WOMEN, UGLY PEOPLE STAY ON THE TRAIN. This is an R train to 95th Street Bay Ridge, next stop Prospect Avenue.” And then it’s just me and the mongrels.

I never thought I’d ever be able to say something like this, especially as someone whose celebrity doppelganger is this guy, but if you’re not into the Jersey Shore/Ginzo-type, my girlfriend and I may just be the most attractive people in all of Brooklyn south of the 9th Street subway stop. I dare me to prove me wrong, and I kind of hope you can.

(PS – Good band name: “Me and the Mongrels”. It’s no Muslim Ron and the Juggernauts, but it’ll do.)

I’ve learned that my book is on sale on Amazon for a limited time for just $5.60. Sure, the copy isn’t going to be in perfect condition, but the words are still as beautiful as ever – and it ain’t ever going to be cheaper than $5.60. I know all of you already own your own copy (right?), but it might be nice to have an extra few to place around the house to impress guests and neighbors.

(And I know I’ve mentioned this before, but anytime you’re bored at work and feel like helping a brother out, positive reviews are always welcome, if only so I can forward them to ex-girlfriends and to all the teachers that told me I’d never amount to nothing and to all the people that lived above the buildings that I was hustlin’ in front of that called the police on me when I was just tryin’ to make some money to feed my daughters. It’s all good, baby-baby.)

“Come to Minneapolis on your next book tour, pretty please, Jason. We love you here. And by we I mean me. I’m not like that dude who is stalking Zuckerberg, I promise.”

This is a comment made by minneapolismichael in response to a post on my Tumblr blog which touched upon all the cities I’ve visited in support of the book.

(And yes, I have a tumblr blog at jasonmulgrew.tumblr.com. I’ll explain more later. In the meantime, follow me if you have one over there.)

Now, you’re probably thinking that I’m sharing this with you just because I want to both build up my self-esteem and brag to you all that other people love me (or at least, Michael does). Not so. Well, not entirely so.

It’s probably pretty obvious that I’m rededicating myself to blogging. We’ll get into the how and why of this at a later time, but one of the things involved with this rededication is checking out all sorts of new site traffic information, courtesy of Site Guy Brendan. Now, I’ve had access to this information for, well, forever, but hadn’t looked at it until just recently. And let’s just say that these traffic, um, trackers (?) have come a long way since I started blogging in 2004 and would spend my evenings masturbating to all those gorgeous hit count numbers on my SiteMeter.

What I found most interesting was the geographic stuff – how many people were visiting the site from certain cities and countries across the world. And let’s just say, Minneapolis, you surprised me.

According to my site traffic, Minneapolis is ranked ninth on the list of cities from which this site gotten the most hits. (And yes, I intentionally was trying to phrase that as awkwardly as possible.) With all due respect to that fair city, I had no idea! If I had known this, I likely would have hit up Minneapolis during the book tour, but, well, whoops. You guys need to email me more, as that was pretty much the basis for where I’d do the book tour. So get with it.

Anyway, there were some surprises in the top ten, but I could have guessed most of them:

1) NYC – Duh.

2) Philly – Duh.

3) Chicago – Not surprising, given the terrific turnout at the reading/event there (and the copious amounts of free drinks, of course).

4) Boston – This makes the fact that this reading was my worst even more painful. Fucking massholes. Can’t take them anywhere, or trust them to show up at your book event.

5) DC – Not totally surprising. What a boozy time we had there.

6) San Fran – I didn’t do San Fran on the reading tour because I personally don’t know anyone who lives there and I think I’ve gotten two emails from San Franciscans in the past three years. Again, whoops.

7) London – This one was kind of a shocker. But while we’re here, can I crash with one of you guys for a week? And by that I mean one week a month?

8) Los Angeles – Duh. If anything, a little low, but most of my friends in LA were not into blog reading. (“What is that? Like, a diary? Dude, you’re gay.”)

9) Minneapolis – See above.

10) Seattle – Not surprising, as I have a good group of friends there.

Other interesting tidbits:

- Outside of London, the largest non-U.S. readership comes from Toronto, which is 15th on the list.

- Austin (16), Dallas (18) and Houston (19) are all representing Texas and very close to each other, numbers-wise.

- Hello, Sydney! Largest traffic city in the southern hemisphere, at 26 overall.

- Highest traffic from a non-English speaking nation? Germany, at 6th overall, after the U.S., Canada, U.K., Australia, and Ireland.

Anyway, there you have it. Sorry if this post is a little self-indulgent (a little???), but two things that I love are stats and maps. So I just couldn’t help myself.

Shortly after moving me into college my freshman year, my dad and I were having dinner at some crap restaurant in Boston, discussing my new dorm room and dorm room-needs, as well as some of my new floormates and their parents. When discussing one of the dads in particular, a rather, um, out-spoken and eccentric guy (read: kind of an obnoxious dick), my father, a longshoreman since he was 17 and more of a soft-spoken guy, said, “That’s the kinda guy who gets his ass kicked down the waterfront.”

As portrayed in this book, Hunter Thompson is the kinda guy who’d get his ass kicked down the waterfront.* I say “as portrayed in this book” because this is an oral biography, one of my favorite genres, a style which is a collection of snippets of interviews with those who knew the subject best. But when reading it, you have to be a little bit cynical about the direction the editor(s) has decided to take, because, well, they’re writing without input from the subject and can focus on whatever the eff they want.

That being said, if this book teaches us anything, it’s that being a genius and being an asshole are not mutally exclusive. Like, not even close. Out-spoken, eccentric, and an obnoxious dick, Hunter is portrayed as someone who i) is a monster pain in the ass to everyone around him, who recklessly disregards their safety, sanity and/or happiness; ii) carefully cultivated his persona and desparately loved and desired fame; and iii) despite treating his friends and those “beneath” him terribly, would pander to famous people, whose admiration and company he so desperately sought. One of my main take-aways from this book is, “Man, this guy needs to get over himself and/or someone needs to beat his ass.”

THAT being said, helluva read. I’ve only read one of Hunter’s books (“Campaign Trail”), and that was about fifteen years ago, and though I enjoyed it, it obviously did not inspire me to read any more of his stuff. But there’s no arguing that the guy was fucking lunatic and weird-o whose life, even if he was not a famous writer but rather some crazy mother fucker who lived up the block, is perfect for this sort of biography. If you’re looking for a wild and fast-paced but somewhat substantial (512 pages) read to take with you a trip (say, for example, to Amsterdam), I’d recommend this one.

(*I am aware that Hunter got his ass-kicked by a group of Hell’s Angels, something I knew before reading this book. Based on how he acted throughout his life, I don’t blame them.)

GONZO: THE LIFE OF HUNTER S. THOMPSON by Corey Seymour and Jann Wenner

The pick: teasing the game to GB +3/Over 39. Free money.

You can thank me later.

[Author's Note: You’re welcome. I like Maker’s Mark, by the way. (Congrats to Green Bay, etc!)]

Real Talk: UFC Edition.

Apparently, there was a UFC fight last night. I’m not totally sure, because I have an IQ above 83, and thus don’t pay attention to such things. Not that I was much interested in it in the first place, but living for eighteen months in Southern California put me off from UFC forever, and I learned that when someone says “I am a big fan of UFC,” what they really mean is either “I don’t make a lot of money” or “I have been arrested” or “I try to stick as many fingers as possible – as well as, if available, any foreign objects – into a woman while fingering her.” Terrific “sport.”

Real talk.

Today, I had to say goodbye to my old-ass blackberry.

My blackberry had become a running joke at work, because every other employee seemingly had a new fancy pants model, whereas I, the goddamned Assistant (to the Regional) Manager, had the same one I was first issued in 2006.

(Note: It’s not the same exact one. I lost my original blackberry a few months back, and I thought that at that time I’d finally get upgraded. Instead, I got the same old model, and this one even had a crack in the screen. This should tell you about where and how I fit in with my company.)

(Note, Part Two: The picture above is not a photo of my actual old blackberry, but it so happens to be the same model and level of beat up-ness as mine.)

As you can imagine, for someone as superficial and shallow as yours truly, getting a shiny new toy is something that brings me great joy (internal rhyme intentional). So this is not some eulogy to my old blackberry. No, sir.

I was contacted by a guy in our IT department, a guy I’ve known for years and have always been friendly with. He asked me to swing by his office with my old blackberry so he could give me the new one, and when I arrived, he asked for my password so that he could make the transition.

Well.

My password for the blackberry, and nearly everything else, is a curse word. More than that, it’s a curse word buried in gibberish. Sometimes, the curse word is the middle of the password, with letters and numbers around it. Sometimes it’s at the end, with the gibberish letters and numbers before it. You get it. But the point is, the only recognizable part of the password is this curse word. And though I obviously won’t tell you what curse word it is, it’s not exactly a normal one. Or a nice one. So…there’s that.

Now, when the IT guy asked me for my password, I stumbled, reddened, and said, “Well, let me just enter it – it’s a curse word.” He smiled and replied, “I have to enter it a few times and this will take a few minutes, so why don’t you just write it down?” It was his knowing smile and casual confidence, combined with the fact that I have always been friendly and talked sports with this guy, that lead me to say, “Sure, I’ll write it down.”

After I wrote the password down, he took the post-it note from my hand with an expression of eagerness on his face, as he seemed excited in a child-like way about the prospect of a funny/naughty/cursey password. But when he read the password, his expression changed. While it was once bemused, a pall of concern stretched over his face, and he looked up at me, and back at the password, and up at me again. I didn’t know what to say and wanted to comfort him, so I blurted out, “Yeah, it’s kind of a long story.” He looked back to the post-it note in his hand, back to me, back to the post-it note in his hand. “Well, uh, I’ll give you a buzz in a little bit, then.”

I should probably give the new blackberry a different password.

I just returned from a five-night bachelor party in Amsterdam with eleven buddies from Philly. While no one was arrested or died, it was pretty intense (but in a good way, like when a girl keeps blowing you after you’ve finished and you have to tell her to stop because it went from awesome to really awesome to “ok, you can stop” to “no, really – it’s almost starting to hurt”).

In Amsterdam, I:

Did all of the things that one does in Amsterdam. You can probably take it from here, right? I don’t want to say that I could live without a Heineken or pot for the rest of my life, but it sure feels like that right now.

(Although it was quite fun at about 10am today when I had been awake for just over two hours and felt a sudden urge to get high. I believe this is called “wake-and-bake withdrawal”.)

(Except visit a prostitute.) So, here’s the deal: we hit it hard over there. I sort of knew this was going to be a trip that involved seriously getting fucked up, but I was stunned – we got serious, serious effed up. So that’s one thing.

The second thing is that I would say that, because of my high blood pressure, fatness/out-of-shape-ness and the fact that I have a live-in girlfriend, I probably ejaculate only 40-50% of the time I have sex – and I might be being generous here. (The decline of my ejaculatability over the past few years is really an untalkabouted tragedy, but we’ll delve into this at a later point.) While in Amsterdam, there was really not even one hour that I was not drunk or hungover, high or having to shit (since we basically ate like homeless people there, eating whatever was cheap, quick and available). So if I barely get off during sex anyway and on this trip I was destroying my body to the extent that I was lowering the powers of genitals to historically low levels, why would I pay 100 Euro to some chick from Latvia so that I can not ejaculate, make myself tired, and then feel bad that I just wasted $137? So this is why I didn’t visit a pro in Amsterdam.

(Oh, and also because I have a girlfriend. Of course.)

(By the way, “lowering the powers of genitals to historically low levels” is really the best I can do right now. I can’t tell you what kind of struggles today has brought in terms of being able to think and express thoughts coherently. So you should stop reading now if you’re looking for Hemingway. I’m wording this post with the best words that I can.)

Ate Wok To Walk every single day. On the first day, Eddie, my buddy and roommate for the trip, told me that we had to swing by this place. It’s a noodle shop that makes it nice and easy for stoners: pick one of six noodle types listed in one column, then pick your additives (meats, veggies, etc) from a dozen or so selections listed in another column, then pick one of six sauces listed in a third column. It is also open really late, and possibly even 24 hours (I never saw it closed).

Why this is a perfect food joint for the stoner who’s visiting town for only a few days is because my friends and I became obsessed with different combinations. Sitting in a coffeeshop all day smoking pot really gets the appetite going, and if you were to eavesdrop on our conversations, you’d hear a lot of:

“Dude, I think I’m going go one, four-six, three.”
“Dude, that would be awesome. Did I tell you what I got last night?”
“No, what?”
“I went four, two-three-nine, two.”
“Are you shitting me?”
“No, why?”
“I GOT THE SAME THING YESTERDAY!”

[fifteen minutes of high-fiving and hysterical laughter, then six hours of re-telling the story to others in the group]

So if you live in a high-stoner area and are looking for a business opportunity, I’d advise you to check out Wok To Walk.

Nearly got hit by numerous bicycles, cars and trams. When you think about it, Amsterdam has to be one of the worst places in the world to stumble around high. First, there are hundreds (not an exaggeration) of bicyclists zipping around the streets. Then you have these above-ground trams that run right on the street level, as opposed to elevated platforms. And then there are a shit-ton of cars, most of them little, zooming around. Finally, THERE ARE MILES AND MILES OF CANALS. It’s not so much a city but an obstacle course.

(Also, I probably saw two thousand different people on cycles or Vespas over the course of the trip, and not a single helmet. Not a one. Get with it, Amsterdam.)

Had an incredible time. I don’t know many people who can do mushrooms with a group that includes nine guys they’ve known since they were six years old (and two new buddies) and laugh so hard and for so long that they throw up (the mushrooms might have had something to do with that) (just guessing, that is, since this is all hypothetical, of course). Two weeks ago I was partying in a suite in Vegas with some of my best buddies from college and high school, and two days ago I was partying in goddamned Amsterdam with the same guys I went to first grade with. I am a lucky sumbitch.

(By the way, the picture above is the best picture I took in Amsterdam. Out of 70 pictures, this one is the best. Get me stoned and give me a camera and I will make the magic happen.)