Everything is wrong with me
Wednesday, February 25, 2004
off to London
I'm leaving for London tonight, and if I make it, I'll be back on Monday (March 1). Expect something on here on Tuesday, March 2, because I'm going to have to catch up on a lot of things when I get back on Monday (i.e. Double Burrito Supremes from Taco Bell, Pad Thai from Sea, etc). I'll be sure to do something really dumb/creepy in London, just for you. Have a good weekend and may god bless you, your families, and your pets.
You know, I try not to watch a lot of reality tv, and I guess it's because I think I'm smart. But sometimes I just can't help it. Also, in the case of last night's Real World, it makes me feel better about myself. Just when I'm seriously starting to believe I'm crazy, Frankie goes and blows me out of the fucking water. Holy shit. I know, she has cystic fibrosis, so let's give her a break, but the whole thing with wearing the "Dave Rocks" hat and waiting to see the moon because they just had a fight, I mean - I don't even have a joke here.
Coming in at a close second in the "I'm the craziest bitch on the planet" race is Robin. Robin might actually be ahead of Frankie, but I'm in love with her, so I'll put her second. She reminds me a lot of the woman I will someday marry - irresponsible, drunk, angry, but with GIGANTIC boobs. I wonder what is the over-under on months before Robin is in some sort of porn? I'd say 6. What are the odds that I will buy that porn in both DVD and VHS format? I don't think Vegas will even touch that one - there's no element of chance.
Fear Factor is the show that pisses me off the most. Can't you run out of species of bugs to eat or buildings to jump off of? Well, I guess you can't, but don't people get tired of watching it? What's next, "Tonight contestants, you have to eat the contents of this bucket, and the bucket is filled with....used syringes and human feces!" or "Contestants, for tonight's competition we will put each of you in an 8x8 cage with a grizzly bear that you must fight to the death. To make it interesting, we haven't feed the bear in over a week, but we have been giving it Red Bulls and lots and lots of cocaine and hitting it in the genitals with a tazer. Amber, you're first - good luck and may God have mercy on you."
I have the perfect idea for a television show, and it's currently being shopped. You take a beer distributor, and you make it a liveable apartment. Then you take eight people, from 21-25, four guys and four girls, and make them live there. The catch: they have to drink all the beer in the warehouse in eight weeks, and they each win $500,000.
Just take a minute to think of it. In the opening show, the host could be like, "To put that in perspective, that's sixteen beers per day, per person, for the next fifty-six days" to make it all dramatic. And you could have all of your stereotypes: a super hot girl who's a bitch, an alright looking girl with a heart of gold, a fat chick who loves to party, and another girl; then a frat guy who loves to party, a guy who gets drunk and gets morbidly depressed, a guy who always wants to fight when he's drunk, and another guy.
Think of the drama that would unfold. The deception, the fights, the hooking up. There could be challenges, where whoever wins the challenge can take a day off from drinking and make the others drink their beer. I'm not sure if we should let them outside the apartment/distributor, but I think you would have to, lest they start taking each other's lives. The details haven't exactly been fine-tuned yet, but one thing is certain: it would be the best show in television history and it would make me so rich that I could sleep with tons of foxy ladies and keep my shirt on the whole time, and they wouldn't say things like, "Why do you always keep your shirt every time we have sex?" or "I'm not having sex with you in the shower again because last time you kept your shirt on and it really freaked me out."
You know, I don't throw the word "genius" around often, but I think this certainly warrants it.
Tuesday, February 24, 2004
The Great Debate
There is quite a debate going on in my head right now, the crux of which is: if you join the gym, you can get an I-Pod.
To join the gym would be quite a coup for me. For years I have resisted the gym, for no reason really. If we look at the numbers, the gym is $60 per month, which comes out to $720 a year. If we crunch those numbers down a little further, that’s about $720 per visit.
But cost is not a concern, because I think that being a gym member might in some ways give me a new lease on life.
Question: “So, do you work out?”
Old Answer: “You’re joking, right?
New Answer: “I’m a member at NYSC.”
Question: “Where do you work out?”
Old Answer: “Are you trying to hurt my feelings?”
New Answer: “At the one on Broadway.”
Question: “How often do you work out?”
Old Answer: “Please stop. Just stop.”
New Answer: “A bit. Not never, but not, like, everyday.”
And the I-Pod, well, I don’t think I need to go into its advantages. I feel like a dinosaur on the subway with my cd player. I can sense the I-Pod people looking at me with condescension as I fumble through my cd booklet, trying to switch cds from Color Me Badd to Tevin Campbell.
It kinda reminds me of that old anti-smoking commercial – remember the one? A bunch of young people are at a party, and this good-looking guy sees this attractive girl across the room and starts making his way over to her, but then retreats when she lights up. It works the same way with the I-Pod: all smiles with the cute girl who’s rocking out on hers on the subway, until I take out my Sony Car-Ready CD Walkman® and my Trex® cd carrying case, and she looks away in disgust. Provided, she may turn away not because of my ancient cd player but because I’m pointing at her, then pointing to my crotch, then pointing back at her and smiling and nodding, but if I had to guess, I would say it’s because of the cd player. [And I never understood that stupid commercial anyway. A cigarette? Come on! That just means she’s a slut! My ex-grilfriend smoked and she cheated on me all the time! A super-hot girl could be standing there with a fucking bloody head on a pike in one hand and a econo-size can of mace in the other and that wouldn’t stop me from retreating. That is, if I talked to girls. Which, of course, I don’t. Unless you count the internet, which I don’t think we’re doing here. I should probably stop now.]
Big, Fat Obnoxious Fiancée
What a roller-coaster. I've been through divorce, love, break-ups, death (not my own), and I have never felt more emotion that in that hour of television last night. If you did not at least tear up at the end of "My Big, Fat Obnoxious Fiancée", you have no soul. You are an ice cold robot asshole and you deserve what's coming to you.
Monday, February 23, 2004
Porn, In Vain
My brother, who, like I mentioned, is studying abroad in Spain, loaned me his laptop because he can’t use it over there. I don’t know why – I guess maybe they don’t have computers in Spain? I don’t know.
Last night I busted it out for the first time, and spent two hours looking for porn on it. I searched everywhere. I did the “Find Files” function for hot words like “adult”, “sex”, “ass”, and even “balls”. Nothing. Then, not trusting the computer’s results, I searched through every folder and clicked on every icon myself, and still nothing. I got so desperate, I started playing mp3s at random, hoping that one of them might unlock the secret and provide me with some fine clips from the adult entertainment industry. Nothing.
But though I have found nothing yet, I refuse to believe that there is no porn on it. Why am I talking about this? If anyone has any suggestions as to how to find it, please, please help me. I don’t have much else going on, and this would really mean a lot to me. Seriously. Please. And it would be very good karma for you, so everybody wins.
ouch - talk about uncomfortable
Just had this conversation with an older co-worker, who took a long weekend to visit his family outside DC:
Me: "How was the long weekend?"
Him: "Well, kinda tough. It was my younger sister's birthday, and my mother died recently, so it was tough not having her around - my father died when we were very young. And now my older sister is dying, and she's always been, you know, the fiery one of the siblings, so it was a new family dynamic, as now I sort of have to be the leader of the family, and it was really strange...."
Good GOD man. I was looking for a simple, "relaxing" or "nice to get out of the city." That's the last time I ask anyone how their weekend was - ever. Not the best way to start a Monday morning. Maybe I should give him some of my Xanax?
Sunday, February 22, 2004
Public Service Announcement #3
This is a good time to introduce a new term: Mask of Shame. When you do something regrettable or shameful, you must wear the Mask of Shame. It's sort of like an award for poor behavior the previous night. This isn't an actual mask; the only thing it means it that others can yell at you and say things like, "Put on your Mask of Shame!" and "Get the Mask of Shame from the mantle and bring it to him!" and the like.
For example, Mike, after throwing up all over our apartment, had to wear the Mask of Shame the next day and on the train ride home. Every time he'd try to explain or apologize for his actions this morning (well, actually this afternoon), we'd say "I can't hear you through the Mask of Shame, Mike" and "I don't know if you can see what you've done to the apartment, because the Mask of Shame has such small eye holes, but it's a fucking mess."
If Mike hadn't upstaged me, I would have certainly had to wear the Mask of Shame for getting completely stonewalled by Missy (thank you for at least that, Mike).
So, there you have it: Mask of Shame. Sure, it's stupid, but so are we.
Alicia is a good friend of mine from high school who I hadn't seen in quite some time. Missy is her roommate that I met for the first time last night. Both are pretty darn cute (I'll keep it PG in case they read this).
Last night, our groups of friends met up in the East Village. Pretty normal night, feasting on the $3 shots at Blue & Gold, until the end of the night when I wound up in a cab with both Alicia and Missy going to Chelsea, despite the fact that I live in the Lower East Side.
Then there was this conversation in the cab (Alicia is sitting between Missy and I):
Missy: "I don't know...I feel like I just want to make out tonight."
Alicia: "Well, Jason can probably help you out with that."
Me: [perking up from drunken stupor] "Yeah, I think I can handle that. I've kissed a girl before, actually two of them, so I'm no Denzel Washington, but I'm pretty familiar with the whole deal."
[Cab stops at their apartment. Alicia, saint that she is, runs into the building to leave Missy and I alone outside.]
Me: [trying to be smooth, but failing miserably, as I'm sure I'm spitting all over her face and hair as I talk to her] "Now, I've had a little bit to drink tonight, so I might be wrong, but I think somebody in the cab said something earlier about making out. Did you hear that at all?"
Missy: [suddenly apparently very sober] "Yeah....I think I'm just gonna go inside. Have a good night."
Lesson: I've taken rejection to a whole new level, in that I get it even when it is completely unsolicited.
Took the cab ride back to the LES, knowing that the only thing that could salvage the night would be a BBQ chicken slice from Rosario's, and of course, they were out. This I took much, much harder than the thing with Missy, asking the guy behind the counter "Can you maybe put just a little chicken on a plain slice?" Just let it go, man. Let it go.
Got home to see my roommate's friend (I guess he's my friend too) on the couch semi-conscious.
Me: "Dude, Mike, do you want a blanket?"
Mike: "That'd be great man."
Me: [throwing blanket] "Here you go."
Mike: "Thanks - BLLEECCHH!"
I'm not sure if that's the correct spelling of the puking noise, but for the next ten minutes I got to watch Mike puke over almost everything in our apartment, including but not limited to: the floor, the rug, the walls, the couch, my blanket, my jacket, two of our pots (?), our silverware, some glasses, our toilet, shower curtain, and bathroom floor. Unbelievable.
All in all, pretty entertaining night. Can't wait until next weekend.
Saturday, February 21, 2004
Public Service Announcement #2
Listen to these songs and love them:
1) "These Dreams of You" - Van Morrison
2) "You Left the Water Running" - Otis Redding
3) "Sneakin' Sally Through the Alley" (the nine minute medly with "Hey Julia" and "Put on Your Sailing Shoes") - Robert Palmer
4) "Memory Motel" - Rolling Stones
losing to Corky
A few months ago, I was courting a girl. Though admittedly, I didn't do so actively. We hung out a few times, mostly in groups, emailed a bunch - but nothing too serious. After a while, she told me that she had a boyfriend. I was surprised by this, because in all our previous correspondence she had not mentioned him, so I thought this "boyfriend" was actually fiction, invented so that I would leave her alone. And I did - no big deal, no harm, no foul.
But last night, I met the boyfriend. Now, I'm not sure if he's missing a chromosome or if he has an extra one (remember, med school for only one year), but let's just say that he could go out for Halloween ever year as Corky from "Life Goes On" and have the best costume every single year - by far. My friends and I were stunned; the resemblance is startling. I had plenty of time to notice too, as they proceeded to make out all over the bar, much to the delight of my friends who made comments like, "Dude, Corky's making out with your girl again" and "Man, Corky and your girl are getting pretty hot and heavy other there."
Now, I have nothing against retards (my cousin is retarded), but to date one over me is preposterous. And as an added bonus, I have now lost every future argument with my friends:
Me: "Dude, that shirt makes you look like ten pounds of shit in a five pound bag."
Friend: "Remember when you lost to Corky?"
All: "OH SNAP!!!"
So what did I do? I gave two junkies $44 (all the money I had, less the $2.50 it would cost me to get a BBQ chicken slice from Rosario's) to follow him home and burn his apartment down. How does that suite you Corky?
Friday, February 20, 2004
Quizno's - WTF????
Have you seen the new Quizno's commercial with the rats (or mice or whatever the fuck they are) singing and playing guitar? If you not, check http://qpon.quiznos.com (you can also see the other commercials on the main site, www.quiznos.com)
There is something so terrifying and strange about these creatures that I actually had a dream about them last night. I'll spare you the details, because, as George Carlin says, there's nothing worse than having to listen to people tell you about their dreams, but I will say that it was not PG-rated.
Yet as weird and creepy as they are, they are almost enchanting, intoxicating, and I can't stop watching them. Seriously, I've been watching these commercials about once every thirty minutes. Check them out for yourselves, but don't say I didn't warn you.
fear of flying
I had never had any apprehension about flying until the last time I was on a plane. It was supposed to be an easy shuttle flight from Boston to New York, but it was very turbulent and I started freaking out - sweating, eyes darting all over the place, asking for water, hyperventilating, getting an erection (alright, not that last one - just seeing if you were paying attention). Now provided, this could be due to the fact that the night before I was at a wedding in which I had about forty vodka-cranberries. I was so drunk by the end of the night, I was allegedly yelling things in the hotel lobby like, "I've paid my dues and I can have a god damn drink if I god damn want to!" and "Do you know who the fuck I am? Do you?" and refusing to get on the elevator because I thought it would take me to hell [none of this can be independently confirmed; I know that I blacked out and the staff were very happy to see me leave the next day - my "friends" filled in the details].
But nevertheless the flight was unnerving. And faced with the prospect of flying to London next week alone (the guys I'm going with are flying out of Philly), I called my doctor to see if he could prescribe me something to calm me down. I explained the situation to him trying to sound as normal and non-substance abusive as possible, saying that I'm concerned about the transatlantic flight, and by myself, and those terror alerts, yada yada yada. Finally, he says, "OK, I'm going to prescribe you something, but I can't call it in to the pharmacy because it's a controlled substance, so you'll have to come pick up it. It's a mild tranquilizer, called Xanax." Well, hey.
So I went and picked it up, and noticed on the prescription note, for quantity, was written "10 (ten)." I deliberated for a solid two minutes standing outside the pharmacy whether or not I should change that to "10K (ten-thousand)," but I decided I wouldn't be able to pull it off. Also, I don't think my mother would appreciate a call from the authorities or my doctor telling her that her son was in custody for trying to falsify a prescription for sedatives.
But needless to say, the weekend just got a whole lot more interesting. It's going to be really tough for me to call the doctor on Monday and say, "Hi Doctor, yeah this is Jason. Listen, so I got the prescription that you gave me filled but somehow over the weekend, I lost the pills. Do you think you can write me up for some more? No? Well how about for $30? No? Well, guess what? Now I'm going to steal your car mother fucker. I hope you're happy - you have no one but yourself to blame."
Thursday, February 19, 2004
I was just in the bathroom taking a piss (bear with me) when a partner comes in and uses the urinal next to mine. While peeing, he sort of arches his back and leans back and starts swaying from side to side, left to right, as if he was trying to paint the whole urinal with his pee. I was tempted to turn to him to say, "You know that I'm right here, right? I'm less than a foot away from you, and you're swaying back and forth all over the place and pissing all over the urinal. Do you know this, or do you just not care?"
Men like these are defending the corporate giants of America and making the world a safer place for the rich and powerful, weird pissing habits and all.
I'm taking Russian. Don't ask why, because I don't really know. Apparently, I wanted to spend $600 on something I stink at and dread every week (for the next twelve weeks).
It's hard. Very hard. The first class, however, was easy enough. We spent two hours going over the alphabet, and it seemed that no one had studied Russian before. I immediately put on airs, as I've always considered myself a fine linguist, having studied Latin, Greek, and Spanish (albeit seven years ago in high school).
At the second class, the wheels came off. The two people in the class who were my age didn't show up and dropped the course. Then, we went around the room to talk about our language experience, and everyone was better with languages than me. A woman of about forty said that she had majored in Russian in college and wanted to refresh. A man with a strange accent said he was born and spent his youth in Georgia (not the US one, the European one) as I thought to myself, "Isn't that a fucking former republic of the Soviet Union?" Another middle-aged woman sings in Czech in an all-Czech choir. Finally, the man I call “Ken the Prick” acknowledged that he speaks Hebrew, Polish, French, and German. I am the only person both whose first language is English and has not studied Russian before.
To combat this, while in class, I often write out phonetic pronunciations of words, vowels, or combinations of sounds. When I get home to look over my notes, I find things like: "ы is like 'uch' or 'ugh' but much more emphatic/ugly/guttural." So that's always helpful. I’d probably be better off just drawing a fucking picture of the sound.
Last night’s class was the most painful yet. We often go around the room and pronounce words and of course, being the worst student, I get the most difficult words. The Russian word for “explosion” is вэрыв, which transliterates to v-z-r-ugh-v. When asked to pronounce it, instead of giving an earnest attempt, I sort made a “voo” noise and kicked the desk in front of me, hoping the teacher would move along. She asked me to repeat it, and I did the same thing: “voo”-kick. When she said, “One more time,” I gave her another “voo” and kicked the desk harder than I had ever before. She said, “Good” and moved on to the next student. Lesson: if you fail several times at something, people will eventually give up on you, and you will be much, much happier.
Wednesday, February 18, 2004
I just read over that last post and the line about my brother joining me in my "lusty endeavors" is really, really gross. Obviously, I meant joining me to meet women, not for, eww, I think I am going to wretch. Did anyone else catch that? Who am I talking to?
Ugh. I should read over a little more closely what I post. Stupid short attention span.
I am in the middle of a dry spell with women that literally may kill me. I'm very serious here. I don't know what exactly happened, because I was doing fine and then all of a sudden - wham! Nothing.
I attribute it mostly to the fact that the weather has been miserable, but I know this isn't the case. It's because I'm not smooth. Not even a little bit. The worst part is that I know I'm not smooth, but there's nothing I can do about it. For example, I know that women like it when you ask questions about them. Questions like, "Where are you from?" or "What do you want to do with your life?" or I don't know - other deep questions about politics or religion or art. Not questions like, "Can I buy you another drink?" or "I have some great hashish back at my place - are you interested?" or "Wait a minute - you're on the pill, right?"
I know that some women like guys who wear product in their hair. [Nope] Some like guys who are hipster/artsy-fartsy types. [Not here either] Other women like jocks who work out a lot, or at least a guy who has seen the inside of a gym before. [I can only do girl push-ups] Others like a man with drive, persistence, and passion. [All I want to do is get high and eat lots and lots of General Tso's chicken]
I am sensitive though, which is good. For example, two nights ago (Monday night I guess) I got really high and was watching VH1 Classic, which, by the way, is the greatest channel in television history. At about 2am the video for Roxette's "It Must Have Been Love", from the "Pretty Woman" soundtrack, came on and I just lost it. I was sobbing so loudly that my roommates Ben and Brian had to wake up to console me. The video and song just really touched me. And I'm not ashamed to admit it.
But the good news is that in a week I'm going to London (yes, the London) with my friends. And whenever my friends and I travel together, it becomes an unspoken competition to see who can get an STD the fastest. This time around though I'm going with two guys who have serious girlfriends, so who knows what'll happen. We're meeting my brother (who's currently studying abroad in Spain) over there for the weekend, so maybe he can join me in my lusty endeavors. The problem is that he's much better looking and in much better shape, so immediately I fall into the "chubby older brother with the good personality who's a little creepy because he stares at you just a little too long after you've finished talking" role, a part, if I may add, which I play par excellence.
But we shall see. It's always a whole new set of rules in Europe. Something will happen; whether it is good or bad (or illegal) remains to be seen.
Tuesday, February 17, 2004
Reason #2 (Why I Am Single)
Just got this email from my roommate Brian:
"i just felt marie's [his co-worker] hand and it was clammier than yours. she said she had a condition, that made her childhood awkward. and that they actually manufacture a special deodorant that you can apply to your palms. in case you're interested."
I like my job. I really do. I’m called a “Practice Development Analyst”, which basically is a combination of marketing/pr/financial research for a law firm. It’s no stress, 9-5, and good pay. My co-workers are really nice too. I’m the youngest of our group by a couple of years, so we don’t have any sort of “let’s go hit up happy hour” rapport, but there are no problems.
[If I refer to “co-workers” in the future, I will be talking about the legal assistants at the firm, which I used to be one of before landing this gig a few months back. I hated being a legal assistant – attorneys always looking toward me with condescension and asking me things like, “Is that binder almost ready?” or “How much longer until I can get that document?” or “Why are you sweating so much?” Bastards.]
But the problem is that this job is very business-oriented, and I have pretty much zero business knowledge. Every Tuesday, we have status meetings where tons of mumbo-jumbo is thrown around, while I completely space out.
Today’s meeting was pretty interesting:
Manager: "Well Kerry, what are you working on?"
Kerry: "I'm working on [4 minutes of business jargon that I don't understand b/c I didn't take even one business course in college; scribble gibberish on notepad]"
Manager: "Great, good news about [some business deal I've never heard of]. Roger, what about you?"
Roger: "Well, I've been doing mostly [7 minutes of stuff, including lots of things like ICLS and REITS and XFDC and the like that I've never heard of; write furiously on notepad a la "Rushmore"]."
Manager: "Excellent work. Jason, how about you?"
Jason: "Well, I'm almost done with the equity spreadsheet."
[6-8 seconds of silence, waiting for me to expand on that, but I can't, because I barely know what "equity" is]
Rich (via telecom from the Paris office): "Hey Jason, do you know about [I'm guessing this is some sort of equity-related deal, but he could have said "poop" 15 times in a row and I would have better able to answer his question]?"
Jason: "Uh, yeah, I've taken that into consideration."
Rich: "Great. I'd love to see your comments when you get a chance."
Jason: "You got it [write "what the fuck?" on notepad]."
Manager: "Also, [more nothing, but this time it's like two minutes long so I interject with "right" and "ok" and laugh when I think I'm supposed to laugh and sometimes get daring and say "tell me about it!"]. So, can you get me that when you get a chance?"
Jason: "I'm all over it [underline "what the fuck?" notepad]
Monday, February 16, 2004
two random thoughts....
1) I got the mail today and in it was the new Maxim with Elisha Cuthbert (from "24") on the cover, and I swear that I almost started playing with myself right there in the lobby. Good lord. Two words: wow and wow. I might have to start watching "24", or start watching her at night, from the bushes, outside her home. I hope she doesn't have dogs.
2) Gatorade is so far superior to Powerade that I'm actually embarrassed for the Powerade people. Really. I mean, they have to know this.
Now for the two greatest shows in television history: "My Big Fat Obnoxious Fiancee" and "Average Joe 2". God bless and good night.
Last night, I decided to do something a little different and I got bombed with some friends. I called my friend Nicole wasted from a deli at about 2:45am. What follows is a transcription of the message:
"Hey Nicole, it's me, it's Jason. I was just calling to see what's up because I am so retarded right now!!!! Biatch! Hey hold on one second - [to deli worker] yeah, that's got extra cheese right? and can you make sure to melt the cheese? thanks - [back to Nicole's voicemail] so anyway, give me a call if you get a chance. I'll be up for a little while. Talk to you tomorrow. Biatch!!"
I can't believe I'm single.
Sunday, February 15, 2004
I hate the Yankees. I hate the fact that they can get any player they want because their owner is a megalomaniac, I hate the fans who route for them because they are perennial winners (specifically those from North Jersey), and I hate what they are doing to baseball.
And now this...the Yankees had a hole to fill at 3B, and what do they do? They go and get the best player in the league in Alex Rodriguez (not definite, but very likely). Are we fucking serious here?
I mean, sure, they are giving up a good, young (and most importantly for the Rangers) cheap player in Soriano, but c'mon. Arod is 28 years old, a gold glove caliber defensive player, and averages something like 120/45/120 .300 a year over the past 5 or 6 years.
Does this season even matter now? The Red Sox made great improvements to their team, as did the Orioles, for nothing. For absolutely nothing. If I were a GM in the AL East, I'd simply say: "After the recent signing of Alex Rodriguez, the Toronto Blue Jays have decided to go on sabbatical for the 2004 season. We look forward to seeing you all again in Florida in 2005, and here's to an exciting season of baseball. And congratulations to the New York Yankees and their $200 million payroll on their upcoming championship."
The possible Yankees lineup: 1) CF Lofton, 2) SS Jeter, 3) 3B Rodriguez, 4) 1B Giambi, 5) LF Sheffield, 6) DH Williams, 7) C Posada, 8) RF Matsui, 9) 2B "The New York Yankees, in an effort to show our concern for parity in Major League Baseball and in response to the recent signing of Alex Rodriguez, have decided to play the 2004 season without a second baseman. Thank you, and we look forward to seeing you all at the parade on Fifth Avenue on October 25, 2004."
Unreal. Just completely unreal.
Saturday, February 14, 2004
Valentine's Day Dinner
So I had Valentine's Day dinner with my mom and dad and -
Wait a minute. I thought you said your parents are divorced?
Well, they are. But now, they're friends. And it wasn't a romantic dinner. We just went to a diner that my dad really likes.
That's kinda weird.
Yeah, I know. They didn't really get along for quite some time after the divorce, but after a while they started talking.
I didn't ask for your whole life's story. Jesus Christ.
Well, I was just answering your question. Ass.
Anyway, so I had dinner with my mom and dad at this diner in South Jersey that both my parents like. What follows is a verbatim exchange from the dinner:
Dad: "You should really check out that salad bar."
Dad: "Yeah, the got all the best ingredients for a good salad: eggs, cheese..."
Dad: "Yeah, they're really good here."
Mom: "You know, croissants. The little squares of bread that go in the salad."
Me: "Mom, they're croutons. Not croissants."
Mom: "Same thing."
Dad: "Jase, don't be a dick."
Happy fucking Valentine's day.
Saint Valentine's Day
Few people know (or care) about the story behind Valentine's Day, which is the feast day of a saint in the Catholic church whose name was - you guessed it - Valentine.
Most theological scholars are not entirely certain as to who exactly St. Valentine was, though the consensus is that he was a priest in Rome in the third century under the emperor Claudius II. Now, good old Claudius believed that single men made much better soldiers that those who were married or engaged, so he essentially cancelled all marriages and engagements. St. Valentine continued to marry couples who were engaged and when Claudius found this out, Valentine was killed. However, while in jail awaiting execution, Valentine apparently fell in love with the jailer's daughter, and before he went to die, left her a note signed, "From your Valentine."
Fast forward seventeen hundred years. Valentine's Day is that special day a year when I get to listen to all my friends who are in relationships talk about their romantic plans, like going to the Poconos for the weekend, or going to a B&B in the Hamptons, or, well, I don't know - whatever else is considered "romantic."
Meanwhile, I, though not in a relationship right now, plan to do many romantic things this Valentine's Day. For example, I'll spend the first half of the day on LimeWire, downloading pornography. That will be followed by an intense masturbatory session. What makes this different from any other Saturday morning I wake up depressed and with a hangover, download porn, and beat off? Well, in the spirit of the holiday, I will light a candle and play soft music, something like Freddy Jackson's "You Are My Lady" or Al B. Sure's "Night and Day."
Then, I will most likely get high. I mean, SUPER high. This is more because I have to go home to Philadelphia today and deal with my family, rather than the fact that it's 2/14. I find it easier to deal with most things in life (i.e. family gatherings, christenings, first dates, driver's tests, job interviews, etc.) while under the influence. Just to take the edge off, you know?
And who knows what tonight will hold...
Well, that's a lie. I have a pretty good idea at what tonight will hold: drinking way too much wine, listening to Jeff Buckley and the Cure, and then falling asleep in the bathtub. Nothing too romantic about that.
Thank you St. Valentine.
Friday, February 13, 2004
Public Service Announcement
A new term: "Detroit Divorce". It's when a man, whose wife is cheating on him, kill his wife's lover, then his wife, then himself.
Learn it. Use it. Cherish it.
I know this much is true: one day, I will have a nervous breakdown. I am comfortable with this, and am prepared for it. It's not really my fault. You see, my parents were divorced (queue the violins) and it's made me crazy. On Christmas Day when I was in second grade, my mom and dad got in a huge fight and my mom took my brother and sister and I to live with my grandmother. She didn't mention we'd be staying for two and a half years. So that's why every Christmas I have a seizure. I'm not sure exactly if it's a "seizure" because I only went to medical school for one year (more on this later). But I don't think there's a medical term for "sobbing uncontrollably, then passing out, then waking up and realizing that you pooped in your pants, then your slutty cousin Marie says 'Don't you get tired of doing this every year?' and you tell her 'Shut up you whore - at least I don't suck dick for pill money!' and she says 'Yeah, you just do it for free you fag!' [because you have never brought a girlfriend home for the holidays, everyone in your family thinks that this, and the fact that you can read above an eighth-grade level, makes you gay], then your mom starts crying because Christmas is ruined again and the whole room smells like poop."
So for this reason and others which will become more apparent as we move along, my breakdown is imminent. Afterwards, I imagine things will be quite different. I assume that I will be forced to leave the bling-bling world of law-firm marketing and devolve into a simplier, almost ascetic lifestyle. I can see myself haunting the rests stops of I-95, offering weary travelers hand-jobs in exchange for the small fee of $2 so that I can get a McFlurry (preferrably Butterfinger, but Oreo is a close second).
I suppose the purpose of this blog is to trace my journey from the vodka-chugging, Taco Bell-eating, sports-addicted, women-loving headcase that I am now to the handjob-giving, McFlurry-enjoying, UnaBomber beard-growing, child-frightener that I aspire to become some day.
And if you've never had a McFlurry, do yourself a favor and get one. They are delicious.