Everything is wrong with me
Friday, April 30, 2004
Has anyone seen the pictures of Michael Jackson arriving at court today? Good LORD they are hilarious. I also like this snippet from CNN's coverage article:
In Los Angeles, about 75 fans boarded a bus for Santa Maria early Friday. They waved signs reading "Caravan for Justice" and chanted "What time is it? Jackson time!" as they gathered in the predawn darkness, the AP reported.
"What time is it? Jackson time!"? What does that even mean? That doesn't even make sense. That chant is supposed to be inspirational? That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard in my life.
Also, who are these die-hard fans? What do they do for a living? Do they have spouses, children or friends? What's happened to you in your life or childhood that you feel the need to gather in the "pre-dawn darkness" and get on a bus on a weekday to travel to show support for an accused child molester, who is also easily the strangest person on earth? What does that make you? My head is spinning.
I personally think he's fucked this time around, and he's going to jail. And it makes me want to commit a crime in Santa Maria, just to get caught and thrown in jail, so I can see what those inmates do to him. Can you imagine - Michael Jackson, in prison? You're telling me it's not worth stealing a car so you can spend a few months in prison just to witness the shit show that would be? Me personally, I would light some fires or be a peeping tom or expose myself (probably all three at once), but it doesn't matter - whatever I need to do to get myself thrown in jail for a front row seat, I'll do, because that will be a fucking spectacle.
[Have a good weekend]
Today is probably the busiest professional day I've had in months, so I can't write anything right now.
If you want to kill some time, please check www.thebrushback.com. This is like The Onion, but for sports. Some of my favorite headlines include:
"Lack Of Porn Forces Man To Masturbate To WNBA Game"
"Disciplinarian Parcells Kills Two Rookies With Bare Hands"
"Slobodan Milosevic Drafted In Late 2nd Round Of NBA Draft"
"Ray Lewis Tells Inspirational Story Of How He Overcame Killing A Guy"
"Source: University Of Colorado Recruiting Trips A Fucking Blast"
Very good stuff.
Thursday, April 29, 2004
All I know is that when I woke up this morning for work at 8:30am, just as drunk as I was when I went to bed a few hours before, I hit the snooze button on my alarm clock. When I woke up again, it was 11:24.
Let me back-track here.
Last night was our last Russian class, and, truth be told, I was a little sad. Sure, I still stink at Russian, and sure, if I could do it over, I wouldn't do it again, but still - it gave me something to do, a diversion to pass the time constructively until something good happens to me. Before the class started, the guy I call Ken the Prick (who speaks like eight languages - see 2/19) asked the teacher if we could stop ten minutes early, because he had a [Russian word that I can't remember, but it definitely sounded like a celebratory drink]. I immediately thought to myself, "Please don't let it be vodka please don't let it be vodka please don't let it be vodka."
A word about me and vodka: I love vodka. Those who know me well know I don't love anything, but I love vodka. Spinach is to Popeye what vodka is to me. I can't describe how it makes me feel, because I am not articulate enough. It completely transforms me, and fuels me like no other. If I ever get to be famous, I will have a whole room full of ice cold vodka, and I will die in that room peacefully, drinking that vodka, with my pants off, eating the world's biggest taco, with sour cream and guacamole smeared on my bare chest like it's an artist's palate, and Mazzy Star's "Fade Into You" blasting on repeat in the background.
Anyway, sure enough, class comes to an end. And, sure enough, Ken exclaims, "Well it is Russian class after all" and whips out a bottle of export-strength vodka, which is one-hundred proof, unlike normal vodka, which is eighty. The last time I drank export strength vodka I got shot down by a deaf girl (long, long painful story for another time).
So the paper cups are filled (half-way!) and passed around, and we all do a toast to the teacher and drink the vodka.
As soon as that vodka went down, it was like I was hit with a bolt of testosterone lightening. My pasty Irish complexion betrayed me and I turned beat red and warm and toasty all over. I was suddenly much happier. It was glorious.
No one had taken the whole cup-full with the toast, so we stood around politely sipping and conversing. Of course, I wasn't politely sipping, and neither was Ken. When he noticed I had finished too, he said, "Top you off?"
Welcome to Critical Point in the Night #1. It has always been my contention that each night has at least three critical points that determine whether you will go home with a nice buzz and grab a slice of pizza or go home with some random Pakistani dude and lose your job the next day. If I had said "No", everything would be fine today. But I didn't. More vodka = more redness = more warmness = more happiness = you are going to fucking pay later, asshole.
Down went the second cup as everyone else was finishing up, saying goodbye, and leaving the classroom. After exchanging pleasantries, I walked to my desk and was getting my stuff together when Ken came over and said, "One more shot for the road?"
Thus, Critical Point in the Night #2. I was already buzzing a little bit, and feeling better than I seemingly had in years. I could have walked away at that point, gotten that slice, and had a better-than-normal evening. But I didn't. Although I had a momentary flash of, "Wait a minute, is this guy going to get me drunk and try to put his fingers in my butt?", I could not resist the lure of the vodka, and threw caution to the wind.
I needed an out to wrap this up, and I had a decent one: I wanted to get home to watch the rest of the Flyers-Maples Leafs game. I forgot that Ken is from around Philly, so he got excited and said, "Yeah - why don't we grab a drink around here and catch the last period?"
It can be argued that this is Critical Point #3, but I'm inclined to say it's not. The reasons are: 1) I had already reached that second plateau of drunkenness, into the decent buzz stage, so one or two more beers couldn't hurt; and 2) I really wanted to see the hockey game, and only the third period was left, which would be the perfect way to say goodbye and end the evening. Thus, this could actually work to my advantage by bringing about a quick and painless end to the evening without hurting feelings, maintaining a nice buzz, and watching a sporting event.
So we went to a nearby bar and had two beers and watched the end to what appeared to be a sad Flyers game. During that time, I learned that Ken the Prick was not such a prick after all. He's in his mid-40's, and has two kids and an ex-wife, both in King of Prussia, which is outside of Philly. In a way, he reminds me of what I will probably be like at that age, except his kids are talking to him, whereas mine certainly will not be. Not at all.
At the end of the game, I was buzzing very, very nicely, and didn't quite feel like heading home, as we had reached critic mass: if I have one more drink, it's not going to end well, and no one is going to walk away from this situation a winner. Finally, Critical Point #3: "How about one last one?" says Ken.
At that point, the night turned. After that "last one", the bartender bought us a round on him. Of course, we can't turn that down, so those went down the hatch. And, of course, you can't leave the bar right after the bartender buys you a round, unless you are a total cretin, so we bought another round. After that, the bartender came over and started talking to us, bought us a shot, and well, you get the point. Fast forward about three hours, and the last thing I remember is swilling vodka from the bottle, Ken and I passing back and forth outside a Tasty D-Lite store at god knows what time, talking about music and how Jimi Hendrix changed the guitar for everyone (very original) before I was like, "Man, I really gotta get the fuck outta here" and hailed a cab home.
So this morning. When I saw that "11:24am", even though I was certain that something was bleeding inside me, I was still overcome with, "Holy fucking shit!" insane anxiety. I called into our group's secretary's voicemail so I didn't have to speak directly to him and told him to tell my boss that I would be in, and I would talk to him (the boss) when I got in. In a flash, I showered, dressed, and took a cab to work.
When I got in, I could feel the stares on me, because of my ruddy complexion, disheveled appearance, and my "Guess what? I'm still drunk, losers!" blood-shot eyes. I tried to explain myself to my boss, but it was one of those situations where I'm rambling on, saying, "I'm so sorry about this - I overslept - I never oversleep - I'm really sorry" and the whole time he's not looking at me and saying, "It's fine - no problem - it's fine" over and over again. Not good at all.
Now, sitting at my desk, I am a complete fucking train wreck. I know that something inside of me somewhere is dying. I can feel it. My mood is swinging wildly: I spent the first thirty minutes at work under my desk crying, then I called my sister and left her an angry voicemail because I don't agree with her choice of college, then I wrote an email to an old college friend who I haven't spoken to in about a year, telling/reminding him about all the great times we had in college. After this, I think I'll head to the bathroom, where I'll either cry some more or masturbate.
I'm swearing off alcohol forever - who the fuck do I think I am? Keith fucking Moon? I can't be coming into work late, drunk, and out of commission like this. I say "out of commission" because there's no way I can do any work, or even anything besides write this. Also, my office is hot as hell and it's going to make me die. Seriously, I have to be one or two wrong moves away from full-blown cardiac arrest.
So that's my story. All things considered, fuck it. Even though I'm in an intense and uncomfortable amount of pain, it was worth it.
Wednesday, April 28, 2004
1) The applesauce carrot cake from Dean & DeLuca is orgasm-inducingly good. Seriously. While finishing the last of it last night, I was secretly hoping that next time I go to the doctor, he'd tell me I have some terminal illness, so that I can spend the rest of my short life eating this cake every single day. My birthday is July 17 - you have been warned.
2) Last night I watched a show called "Land of the Lost Monsters" on Animal Planet and for two hours I don't think I blinked, let alone moved. I was completely engrossed by its awesomeness. I became sad because we don't really have any cool monsters today, like the Short-Faced Bear or the Sabretooth of the past, but then I realized that this is a good thing, so I made a sandwich to celebrate. I love Animal Planet, the Discovery Channel, the History Channel, etc and I always have. The fondest memory I have of my last serious ex-girlfriend is a night when I was visiting her in her home town and we stayed in, drank wine, and watched a two hour show on the Discovery Channel about Neanderthals. Sure, this probably has more to do with the wine and the Neanderthals than the girl because she turned out to be a harpy whore succubus, but still it's worth mentioning.
3) On Monday night, my roommate Brian and I watched something on PBS that damn near changed our lives. It's called "Kosher Sex", by the Rabbi Shmuley Boteach. Basically, this Rabbi stood in front of an audience for two hours and talked about the death of intimacy in this day and age, peppering the talk with classic Jewish jokes, idiosyncrasies, and anecdotes. It was unintentionally hilarious, almost as hilarious as the name "Shmuley", a name so wonderful it makes me want to have a child or get a dog immediately so that I can name it "Shmuley." In addition to "Kosher Sex", Rabbi Shmuley also has a book (and talk) called "Kosher Adultery", this being the first time those two words were juxtaposed. This expounds on the Chris Rock bit about sex in relationships: "If it ain't new, it's through." Fascinating stuff, but only because of Shmuley's awesomeness. Since then, anytime Brian or I have done anything cool, we say "Shmuley." For example:
Me: "So I fingerblasted that girl from last night."
[This example is of course fictional. Now let's try a real-life example.]
Me: "So I had six hot dogs for lunch."
To learn more about Shmuley, you can check him out at, of course, www.shmuley.com
Tuesday, April 27, 2004
Is there any lower form of existence than the person who takes the elevator up ONE floor?
I'm not talking about the elderly or infirm, because I'm ok with them doing it (most of the time).
I'm talking about the able-bodied person who gets in the elevator that serves twelve floors of a forty story building and goes up one floor.
Every time this happens, I let out an audible "ugh" of disgust, hoping that it's overheard, hoping then that the dude says, "What? You have a problem with me taking the elevator one floor?" and I say, "Yeah, I do - bitch" and he says, "Well, are you gonna stand there looking like you'd suck dick for a pork chop or are you gonna do something about it, fat ass?" and I say, "Well, how about I do a little of this!" as I drive my open palm into his chest, karate-style, and he falls backward, gasping for air, to the delight of everyone else in the elevator because they're also pissed at him for taking it up one floor. And then the elevator door opens, and I say, "This is your stop" and throw him out, and everyone else cheers and gets off except for three sexy college co-eds, all named Starla, who happen to be interning here, and they pull me back in the elevator and hit the "stop" button, and proceed to give me the fiercest most glorious handjobs the world has ever known for the next three and a half hours, only breaking temporarily when my heart stops beating, but fortunately one of the Starla's is an EMT and she is able to easily revive me, and the handjobs continue until I say, "Ladies - we need to stop this!" and they say, in unison, "Why baby?" and I say, "Because I'm hungry!" and then we go get giant plates of chicken parm and spaghetti and have pint glass after pint glass of chocolate milk, and then we all go home and pass out naked on the couch in front of the TV, which is playing Sportscenter and showing how my fantasy baseball team had an awesome day.
Anyway, don't take the elevator up one flight. It's very rude. Just walk it.
Though my commute to work is short, I like to play different games on the subway to pass the time while I rock out on my I-Pod (my latest downloads range from Jefferson Starship's "We Built This City" to Franz Ferdinand's "Take Me Out" - both excellent songs). Here are three such subway games:
1) The "How Many People In This Subway Car Would I Have Sex With" Game. I have written before about how I would have sex with pretty much anyone, barring major physical deformity (and I'm talking major here - not like an extra finger, but like an extra head that just sort of sits there on the shoulder and stares blankly ahead and doesn't move). But the J-M-Z has got to be the ugliest train in all of New York. The highest I've ever had is five. That's ever. Normally, in any thirty-second span on a Saturday afternoon in Soho I can find at least twenty women that I'd have sex with. Is it too much to ask for some attractive women on my subway, so I can imagine taking them to a nice romantic pasta dinner, and then out for a few martinis, and then back to my apartment, where we put on some pornos and act out the different scenes, except she's the guy in the porno and I'm the woman? I mean, really - is that too much?
2) The "How Many People Here Are Cross-Eyed" Game. This game isn't limited to the subway car - it can include anyone you run into in the station or encounter on your way to work. My personal best is four, which, if you think about it, is a lot of fucking cross-eyed people to come across in a thirty-minute commute to work. I don't know...I've always been fascinated by cross-eyed people, because others can be so uncomfortable looking at them ("which eye do I look at? the good one? the crazy one? damn it!"). And the cross-eyed person has to be thinking to himself, "Well, he can't tell which one of my eyes to look at - my good one, or my crazy one. Wow, look at him - he's really starting to squirm and sweat! This is awesome." Fortunately, I've built up a tolerance for this, as one of my best friends in high school was cross-eyed, and I'd like to thank him for making me that much stronger of a person.
3) The "How Many People In The Subway Car Are in Worse Shape Than Me" Game. There are a few rules here: the contestants have to be men and relatively the same age as me (anywhere from 20 to 35). Also, any people who are obviously crazy do not count. For example, the guy I saw pick his nose and eat it this morning can't be in the competition (this is true, and I almost started wretching right there on the subway). In this game, I find that very few people who meet above criteria are in worse shape than me; my high is three. I try not to play this game too often, because it just gets me depressed and we all know where that leads: straight to Burger King.
I'm constantly looking to invent new games to pass the time, so if I come up with anything more, I'll be sure to let you know.
Like you fucking care.
Monday, April 26, 2004
cutting up couches
Friday night was an unmitigated disaster. That's really the best way to sum it up.
As I mentioned, I spent the whole day on Friday being sick. Being trapped in my tiny apartment with my roommate Ben who was (mostly) naked and throwing up constantly was terrible, so, naturally, I decided to smoke a ton of pot to relieve the misery of the illness and situation.
Not a good idea.
I felt worse - more sick, tired, anxious, sweaty - but after a while I fell asleep and woke up feeling decently refreshed.
By this time, I had a full-blown case of cabin fever, so I figured I should get out of the apartment and go out and possibly have a drink or two.
Again, not a good idea.
Loaded with Pepto-Bismol, DayQuil, marijuana, and three vodka red bulls, I went out with my friend Tom and met up with some friends of friends (four girls) who were in town and wanted to see the New York nightlife. Of course, my idea of "New York nightlife" is eating a whole bacon pizza, drinking 16oz cans of Bud in my apartment until 1am, then going to a dive bar and getting shot down by Lower East Side chicks who look like Kelly Osborne on a bad day because "law firm marketing" isn't as an exciting occupation as "artist", "musician", "photographer" or "graphic designer." That, and I'm not good-looking at all.
But sometimes you have to take one for the team, so Tom and I took these girls to the uber-hip Whiskey in the W Hotel. This is where the night starts to get out of hand.
Well, before I go further, I should explain that there was no chance with these girls at all. They were very trendy types, and, though they knew from our mutual friend that I was a "quirky" guy with an "interesting sense of humor", they didn't think it was too funny when I said, "I'm sorry if I'm not myself tonight - I stopped taking my anti-depressants earlier this week and it really hit me today." After reading their uncomfortable reaction, I might as well have said, "So, it looks like none of you are going to show me your boobies tonight, huh?" What a surprise - a swing and a miss.
But back to the night: the bouncer lets the four girls we are with in no problem, but then refuses us entry, simply saying, "No guys." After calmly explaining that he can't break-up our party, and that we just brought four girls to the bar, he says, "$20."
I have to pay this obscene "cover", because I really had no other choice. And I am irate, my anger fueled by booze, medicine, weed, and McDonald's (I had McD's before going out - delicious). Tom is really pissed too, and once we get in he says, "You know what? I'm going to fucking steal $20 worth of shit to get back at them." I think this is a brilliant idea, and say, "Well I'm going to destroy $20 worth of shit in here for making me pay."
We grabbed some beers and sat on the cool vinyl couches and chairs. At that point, I did what any angry, drunk, sick, and lonely man who is struggling with his sexuality would do: I took out my keys, and surreptitiously keyed the shit out of that vinyl couch, ripping the cover pretty fucking good.
Before the night was over, I did the same to another couch and a lounge chair. Tom stole some candle holder thingees and peed all over the toilet seat. The funny thing is that during the night Tom and I talked about how we're both single, but we don't understand why. I think I understand now.
The rest of the weekend was a lost cause because - surprise surprise - going out and taking drugs and drinking on Friday night actually made me sicker. Who knew?
But there's good news and bad news here. The bad news is that I probably shouldn't go back to the Whiskey again, and I will really miss those $6 Bud Lights. The good news is that I finally have something interesting to tell my therapist, instead of filling the empty silences by explaining the intricacies of fantasy sports and hiding the fact that there is probably something seriously wrong with me.
All in all, pretty standard weekend.
Friday, April 23, 2004
I am at home sick today, dividing my time between my bathroom floor, my bed, and, of course, the kitchen. The culprit is either our bag of Tostito's or our salsa. The evidence: I had both at dinner, and was up sick from about 2:30am to 4:30am. My roommate Ben had some at 2am, and was up sick at 7am. Two fat guys throwing their brains up in a tiny-ass apartment filled with empty beer cans, cigarette butts, and pizza crusts is not a pretty site.
I thought I was starting to feel better, but I just put on some porn and there's not so much as a stir down there. Completely lifeless. So I must be really sick.
Also, smoking pot does NOT make you feel better if you're feeling sick. Who knew?
Have a good weekend. I have to get back to laying around and drinking Pepto-Bismol like it's a vanilla milkshake.
God, I fucking love vanilla milkshakes.
Thursday, April 22, 2004
I saw a woman on the subway this morning reading a book titled, Thugs and the Women Who Love Them, Part 1.
I don't have a joke here, but I have some questions:
- There are multiple parts to this? A whole series about thugs, and the women who love them? Can you really get a whole series out of this topic? How much can you say about thugs and the women who love them (then again, I've gotten two months out of "I'm fat" and "I get no ass")? Where do I sign up to have each new part mailed to me as soon as it's released?
- I am fascinated by "ghetto lit" (not my term). Are there whole book stores that exclusively sell ghetto lit? I checked on Amazon.com, and not only do they have this book, but thirty-nine people have reviewed it. To put that in perspective, six people have reviewed Hegel's Philosophy of History, twelve have reviewed Nietzsche's Human, All Too Human, and twenty-three people reviewed Henry Miller's Tropic of Capricorn. Here's what one reviewer, of The RAWSISTAZ Reviewers, said:
THUGS AND THE WOMEN WHO LOVE THEM introduces us to three young women who have high aspirations in life. They also share a love of "thugs". We meet Angel, a law student who is dating Snake, a pimp. Kyra, an aspiring doctor, who is dating Ty, a drug dealer, but still harbors unresolved feelings for her first love, Marvin, another drug dealer who almost ruined her life. Last, there is Jaz, a chemistry major who dates, Faheem, a liquor storeowner. What Faheem does not know is that Jaz has her own lucrative, yet illegal business on the side.
Wahida Clark's debuts novel is an entertaining, graphic, somewhat erotic look at the streets. The book is a drama-filled quick read that will leave you wanting more. My only criticism is that names on the back cover of the novel do not correlate to the characters, which for me was a bit confusing. Nevertheless, THUGS AND THE WOMEN WHO LOVE THEM is a must read for those who enjoy gritty, "street" novels. I look forward to future works from Wahida Clark, including the sequel to THUGS AND THE WOMEN WHO LOVE THEM, Every Thug Needs a Lady.
I'm not going to talk about the subject of the book, because it's just too easy. But when the only complaint you have is that the names on the back cover do not correlate to the characters (was this a typo?), do we even need a National Book Award ceremony? Shouldn't we just give the award to Wahida Clark right now, and save everyone the trouble?
- I'm interested to know who writes these books. Ghetto Lit, as well as those trashy romance novels that my mom, aunts, and grandmom read, make a ton of money, because books like these are easily and quickly produced. My question is, are these written by actual authors? I envision giant publishing houses that have a bunch of writers cramped in a small, damp, windowless room, pounding away on ancient typewriters, each churning out a trashy romance a week, slapping a cover on them, and sending them out to bookstores. And I think, "Damn it, that's a good fucking idea."
Maybe I should write a book in the ghetto lit/trashy romance vein. It could be about a man named, um, Joel, who spends his days toiling away at his 9-5 job, and his nights as a arsonist-per-hire, burning down homes and businesses so that his clients can collect big insurance checks. And he has two roommates who are also in the crime underworld: Dan, a professional kidnapper who claims that he can kidnap anyone, anywhere, at any time, and Ryan, an arms dealer, specializing in semi-automatic hand guns. Though all three are successful at what they do and have all the money, power, and respect any man could ever want, they are missing one thing: love. Enter Misty, the saucy barmaid who works at the pub where Joel, Dan, and Ryan gather at the end of the night to discuss their daily "activities." Joel begins to fall madly in love with Misty, but there is only one problem: she is in love with Dan (Ryan takes a back seat from here on out because he is gay). What unfolds is the greatest tale of love, vengence, betrayal, homosexuality, internet pornography, violence, and nudity the world has ever known and will ever know. Coming to bookstores this summer, Jason Mulgrew's debut novel, So Help Me God If I Catch You Fucking Around with Misty I Will Light Your Ass on Fire and I Can't Believe Ryan's Gay! Pre-order your copy today!
Wednesday, April 21, 2004
gross, just plain gross
In the bathroom on my floor, in addition to the soap dispenser, there are also two bars of Ivory soap sitting on little soap ledges above the sinks. And these bars of soap are nasty…all old and cracked and stuff. My question is, does anyone use these bars of soap? Who says, “Forget the sanitized dispenser. I’ll rub this bar of soap all over my hands, even though an untold number of men have rubbed their hands on this same bar, seconds after touching their penises, and possibly their own urine, fecal matter, and anuses.” I always get a chuckle whenever I walk into the bathroom, because I imagine myself opening the door and seeing someone in there washing their face with one of those bars of soap, and it sends me into a seizure.
I think I’m going to throw up just thinking about it. That and because I had a GIANT bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch this morning. I don't even know if we can call it a "bowl", because it was towing the line between "bowl" and "trough". It was delicious though. I should stop now.
Tuesday, April 20, 2004
From the “Why I Am Single” File, I present to you Reason #142: My Diet for Monday, April 19.
Before I go into great detail here, I should explain that yesterday was a rough day. I usually wake up at 8am for work, but yesterday after a crappy night of restless post-hangover sleep I woke up at 5am and couldn’t fall back asleep (thank you again Doctor for prescribing those sleeping pills - dick). At about 7am, I thought to myself, “Why don’t we get up, and have a leisurely getting ready time – take a nice, long shower, beat off at least once, and make a big, delicious breakfast.”
Of course, as soon as I finished that thought I fell into the deepest sleep I’ve had in weeks, only to be jarred awake one hour later by NPR blasting out of my alarm clock/radio. Why not, right? Why not have god fuck me over again, on a Monday morning, like it’s not hard enough to get myself out of bed already, so I can spend the day moping around my office in a zombie-like trance and then come home and lay on the couch for four hours wondering when (or more damningly, if) I will ever see boobies again without having to pay for it or it be an accident or it be on television or some other form of media?
Fucking A, man.
- Strawberry Banana Smoothie
I could have done a lot worse here. Usually when I have a rough morning I try to turn it around with a sausage, egg, and cheese croissant and hash browns from Burger King, and wash those down with a Yoo-hoo.
God, I fucking love Yoo-hoo. And, really, I don’t think I can be friends with anyone who doesn’t. Fucking communists.
So far, so good.
- Ham, fresh mozzarella, and honey mustard wrap with low-fat Ranch dressing
- Sun chips
- Snickers bar
While this isn’t a “diet” lunch, lunch is usually my biggest meal of the day between breakfast and dinner. And though the sandwich may sound disgusting, trust me – it’s not.
I’ve been reading this book called Candyfreak by that guy Steve Almond that I talked about before (3/30), and I’ve gone from someone who rarely eats chocolate to someone who can’t stop thinking about chocolate ALL THE TIME. Seriously, it’s a great book and a very fascinating read, but it’s probably the worst thing I could have read now that I’m on my “Dude, if you ever want to get laid again, you’re gonna have to ease up on the ‘dessert with every meal’ plan and do something about the hair all over your body, because it’s starting to connect everywhere, so much so that you look like a giant piece of velcro” diet/lifestyle.
- BBQ chicken wrap with non-fat cheese and “carb-conscious” BBQ sauce
- Half a bag of “Wow” Tostitos
- Half a can of Ranch dip
- 2 chocolate chip cookies
- Half a jar of applesauce
- Reese’s “Fast Break” candy bar
- 32 oz. “Citrico” Gatorade
And the wheels have come off. I don’t know when exactly I lost control of the situation, but I do remember at one point rationalizing eating the applesauce by thinking, “Applesauce helps with digestion.” This follows the logic of one of the Mulgrew Maxims of Eating: “It’s ok to eat a lot when you’re drunk at 4am, because the more you eat, the less hungover you will be” – thus the eater obtains a benefit from poor eating habits and everyone walks away a winner. I’m just glad I got the “carb-conscious” BBQ sauce, because god forbid I have too many carbs. I don’t know what I’d do with myself if that were to happen.
I don’t even know why I went to the gym yesterday, or why I go to the gym at all. I think from now on I’ll just bring food to the gym and eat while exercising, in the hope that my caloric intake will be burnt off as it is consumed while I’m on the treadmill. Or I’ll choke to death and save myself and everyone else the aggravation. Either way, it sounds like a better idea that what I have going now.
I don't know how this works, but it's fascinating. I told it to masturbate, but it just kinda humped the floor. I also told it to stick its finger in its ass, but no dice.
Monday, April 19, 2004
1) As I get older, I notice that I care less and less about women catching me looking at their breasts. I admit this, but this weekend I could have been arrested for my behavior as I walked around Soho eyeing up every girl that passed by, regardless of race, age, size, or handicap. Not one of my finest moments.
2) A question posed by my roommate Brian last night: "Am I committing a crime if I sit by the window and masturbate while looking at the girl in the next building?" [the girl in the building across from us is pretty hot and always walks around half-naked].
My other roommate Ben and I couldn't say for sure. It's not a Peeping Tom thing, because Brian would be in his own home. But it has to violate some sort of indecency law or something.
I'm not a lawyer.
3) Two jokes I got via email:
Q: What were the three worst years of George Bush's life?
A: Fifth grade.
Q: What are they going to do if Michael Jackson molests another little boy?
A: Give him his own parish.
Love that second one.
It's supposed to be 87 degrees today? Fucking 87? I'm telling you, I need to have a spring season. If my body does not have time to adjust to the increase in temperature, bad things will happen. I can not stress this enough. Pretty soon I will only be travelling by night only and having to carry around extra t-shirts so that I can change every forty-five minutes. Damn it.
Friday, April 16, 2004
I finally went to therapy yesterday (about my non-sleeping, see 3/26), and I can say this much: this is going to be hilarious.
Like I mentioned, I'm not entirely opposed to the idea of talking about myself for an hour then getting some drugs. But still, I think it's kind of stupid. I mean, I'm not, like, really crazy, and I am certainly not going to tell this person my deepest, darkest secrets (like my uncontrollable urge to kill prostitutes or how I spend at least forty-five minutes crying in the shower each morning).
I don't think it was a coincidence when I rolled up to the place, "Psycho Killer" randomly came on my I-Pod (and you have to know that this really happened, because I think I'm too clever to make up something as lame as "'Psycho Killer' came on my I-Pod just before going to the shrink"). There were all these crazy people hanging around outside the building, talking loudly and carrying on, smoking cigarettes and yelling at each other. I almost turned around at that point, because I was completely terrified (and a little hungry). I was even more terrified when I had to get in the elevator with a couple of crazies, two of whom talked to themselves the entire (thankfully, short) ride to the office.
I went to the desk to get some forms to fill out, filled them out and gave them back, and went to use the restroom. When I came out of the restroom and back into the waiting room, everyone had cleared out, except for a girl standing in corner crying, two police officers, two security guards, and a woman who appeared to be a psychiatrist. They all stopped and looked at me when I came into the room, and, unsure of what to do, I sat down in one of the chairs farthest away from whatever the hell was going on. The woman who looked like the psychiatrist came over and said, "Would you mind waiting in the back?" No problem sister.
Now I was really flipping the fuck out. All I wanted was some fucking Ambien, but I was officially now in the loony bin. I was cursing my doctor at this point, planning her assassination in my head, and blaming myself for telling her about my crazy dreams; if I had just told her that I couldn't sleep, she probably would have given me sleeping pills, but the dreams made her think I'm stressed or crazy or whatever [also, had an awesome one last night: I was wrestling Will Ferrell (we were both shirtless) and there was an Asian girl giving me ether in a dentist's office, and I was a police officer]. After that whole mess got cleared up, back into the waiting room we went, and eventually I was called into the office to see Maria.
Maria is not a psychiatrist; she's some sort of therapist or something (I wasn't really paying attention). Nice woman: in her forties, Latin, very pleasant. She explained that I would be meeting with her a few times before seeing the psychiatrist (what the fuck?), and sat me down and asked me some background questions, about, well, everything. Some highlights:
Maria: "Were you abused as a child?"
Maria: "Well, that's good."
Me: "Yeah, I'm pretty happy about it."
Maria: "Do you or your roommates abuse drugs or alcohol?"
Me: "Well, 'abuse' is a tough term. I would say that we do our fair share of drinking."
Maria: "What about drugs?"
Me: "Well, just soft ones. And I don't think we abuse soft drugs as much as alcohol."
Maria: "So you do abuse alcohol?"
Me: "Well, not 'abuse' like I need to drink every day, but you know - we're young, we like to have a good time."
Maria: [probably writing "drunkard, chubby" on her notepad] "Ok."
Maria: "Are you currently in, or have you had any recent interpersonal relationships?"
This question, the "tell me about your ex-girlfriends" question, made me cringe. After all, is there any better way of having one up on your ex then knowing they talk about you in therapy? Isn't that the ultimate "you win"? I'm getting chills just thinking about it.
Fortunately, I was able to skirt this question with a "No, not too recently" and Maria left it at that, and I lived to fight another day.
Maria: "Had you had any traumatic events in your childhood, like a death in the family or divorce?"
Bingo! Here's the question we've all been waiting for: let's talk about the divorce! I had to spend the next ten minutes talking about this, answering a lot of questions that started with, "And how did you feel _________?" I think this would have gone on for quite some time, but thankfully (mercifully), Maria said, "Our time is up" and I was able to leave. For our next meeting, I'm supposed to write down two feelings that I'm feeling every day when I wake up, and we're supposed to talk about it. I'm guessing most days I will write, "I am tired. I have a boner."
But this therapy gig should be interesting. Like I said, I'm not really that crazy - I even felt a little bad for her having to listen to my non-crazy, boring story - so maybe next time I can make up some stuff in order to get some serious psychological meds. Maybe tell her that I'm terrified of lunchmeat, I can't talk on the phone without masturbating, and I think that cars are alive. That might liven it up a bit.
Josie Maran, who I have been dating in my head since 2000, is on the cover of the new Maxim. I don't even have words for this - you'll just have to see it yourself.
Needless to say, I don't think I need to ever leave my bedroom again. The good news is that I think I'm on good enough terms with the delivery guys at Festival Mexicano and Sea that they won't have a problem bringing my food to my bedroom door, rather than my front door.
Two months ago it was Elisha Cuthbert and now Josie Maran. Maxim is really on a roll. And I am grateful, because I really don't have much else going on and this makes me very, very happy.
Thursday, April 15, 2004
friendster = creepy
I love friendster, because it allows people like me to take their internet creepiness to a whole new level.
For those of you not familiar with friendster (www.friendster.com), it's an online community type thing, built around the old "degrees of separation" gimmick. For example, you get into friendster by being invited by a friend. Then you are connected to their friends, and their friends, and their friends, etc. You can also search by interests (if you have "penis" as one of your interests, you can click on "penis" and it will give you a list of profiles of people who also have "penis" listed as their interest). And of course, there are pictures.
This is not for computer nerds. It's big here in NYC, where people will jump on anything that means "community" in any way.
There is a lot of creative leeway with the profiles that users are supposed to fill out, as they ask such broad questions as "Interests" and "About Me" and "Who I Want to Meet".
Some people are pretty stupid with these, filling out their profiles ever so seriously or filling them with literary quotes. Some of the pictures are either corny glamour shots or attempts at being artsy-fartsy.
As crusaders of justice in our quest to bring every person who is on a their little pedestal crashing to the ground, my friends and I, after joining last summer, had a competition to see who could come up with the most ridiculous profile. Our goal was to create the most offensive and retarded profile imaginable and then send messages to people (you can send messages to anyone you are connected to, which is a lot of people) to see if they responded.
As you might imagine, I took this on like it was the sole reason for my earthly existence. I think I did a pretty good job. Here's a little "About Me":
In the spring of 1973, I was backpacking about 80 miles north of Vancouver. I came over a ridge and into a clearing, and I surprised a large mother bear with her cubs. In a matter of seconds, I was involved in a horrific bear attack. I lost half of my face, my left kneecap, the fingers of my right hand, my penis, and one of my testicles.
[The pictures really make it too. To see my profile, I think you have to sign up, but then you can type "Jason Mulgrew" in the user search function. If you want me to sign you up, send me an email. If not, I don't care - I don't get anything for having people sign up. Dicks.]
You have to remember that most people write things like, "I think I am a fun person!!!! I like to go out and party, but I also like to stay in and chill!!!!! I would like to meet someone maybe in a band!!!!!"
Anyway, we'd send out messages and believe it or not, some people actually wrote back! Admittedly, most (85%) didn't, and some that did said things like, "You are disgusting" or "That's very mature of you." Guess what? I am that disgusting and immature. By the way, it's fucking friendster. Lighten up.
I didn't mean for this to be a pitch for friendster, but it sure sounds like it. But fuck it - I owe it something, as it's given me hours and hours of trolling its galleries of pictures, sending messages to strange and unexpecting women, testing the boundaries of what is and what is not "sexual harassment."
Hey, a guy's gotta have some hobbies, you know?
Wednesday, April 14, 2004
the most random post ever
I hated grades in college, and I hated even more the people that got all worked up over grades. I've always thought that grades are only a small measure of a person's success, and most of the time the pursuit of academic excellence detracts from a person's overall happiness.
I don't want you to believe that this is rooted in laziness, though I am admittedly an incredibly lazy man who happens to own an uncomfortable amount of VHS pornography and is dreading its inevitable conversion to DVD format. I do believe that grades are important to a certain degree; I don't want to proselytize here and say things like, "Grades don't matter!" and "Down with grades!" and "Fuck grades!" and "Take off your shirt!" I did ok in college grade-wise, to the point where I have no academic regrets.
My roommates and I used to argue that we had the best grades-to-work-output ratios around. For example, if you could get a 3.5 and get bombed most of the time, cheat on or try to cheat on your girlfriend constantly, and do only the minimal amount of work required, weren't you much better of than the person with the 3.9 that spent forty hours a week in the library? (And really, if you study that much, how intelligent can you be? You can teach a fucking monkey to drive a car and a dolphin to make a sandwich through constant repetition. If you have to read something over ten times, wouldn't you be better off calling it a day and grabbing the bong after the third time when it's not sinking in?)
Therefore, I don't think success (meaning money, power, respect) is the true measure of a person's greatness (another abstract term that's difficult to define). I think it's more important how you obtained that success.
I think certain people are psychologically predisposed to how they perceive what being "successful" is and how to obtain it. I'm not the type of person who's willing to work eighty-hour weeks from ages 22 to 45, so that I can retire at age 55 on a yacht and sail the Mediterranean. I'd rather take it one day at a time, spend 23% of my gross income on intoxicants, and have as much sex as the courts will allow me to.
Where the hell is this coming from you ask? I have no idea, as I am really on a tangent rambling away here, killing time as I wait for my soup to cool. I guess I've just been thinking a lot recently (after all, this is the "Jason Mulgrew 25 Years On Earth Celebrational Year") and I'm learning that time is very precious. Look at me - I'm almost 25, and I don't have any kids yet! Not one! Not even in Mexico or any of those Mexico-type countries! Sero!
This idea carries over to all aspects of life. Professionally, if one can get their work done in normal business hours, is it really necessary to stay after hours, in the hope that the boss will see you staying late and hence will gain a greater respect for you? No, because if you can produce the same quality of work while maintaining a high quality of life, you win.
Romantically, it would be great if one could just ask someone that they are attracted to if the feeling was mutual. This is not the case. Instead, one has to spend hours and hours drafting humorous emails so as to come off as funny but not creepy funny, while creating the impression of having 1) a good job with respectable income; 2) a large group of diverse and upstanding friends; 3) a wide array of intellectual and physical interests; and 4) a loyalty to family and loved ones, all the while appearing confident but not pretentious. The result in most (not all) romantic pursuits: wasted time and energy. I do not mean to sound overly pessimistic about "love" or any of that gooey stuff, but sometimes, and not just in romance but in all things, you have to ask yourself: is it worth it?
[I just read this over - what the fuck am I talking about? Good lord! Did someone slip some cocaine or pills in my Raisin Bran Crunch this morning (phenomenal cereal by the way)? Holy shitballs!]
[Also, my brother, who is currently in Europe draining my family's financial resources and getting me into legal battles, is 21 today. Happy Birthday jerkoff.]
1) Remember this name: Ray Lamontagne. This guy is going to be big. I have a a buddy in the music business, and he gave me his cd "Trouble" to listen to. I don't think he's even been signed, and I might get my friend in trouble for talking about him. The music is awesome. Think David Gray, but from Maine. I think the story is that this guy was working in a shoe factory in Maine and said "fuck it" and quit his job and made this awesome cd, and now there's this huge bidding war over him. Check him out when you get the chance, especially "Hold You in My Arms" and "Narrow Escape." I mean, wow.
2) My coworker sent me an email this morning telling me she had a dream in which I told her I was gay. In her words, "I was washing my hands at a sink and you told me. A bunch of people and you and I were at a dinner thing and there we gay guys there. I don't remember who else was there...I have NO idea where this came from."
What the fuck? I can't catch a break, even in people's dreams?
3) Got another joke:
Q: What's the best part of dating a homeless girl?
A: You can drop her off anywhere!
Get it? Because she doesn't have a home!
God I love that one.
Tuesday, April 13, 2004
the butt of all jokes
Like I mentioned, I went home to Philly this weekend. I love going home, because it gives me an opportunity to over-eat, drink a ton, and get high a lot - you know, change it up a bit.
This particular trip home was no different. On Friday night, I went out with my two buddies, Will and Ernie. Early in the night, Will said that he'd won a lot of money gambling recently, and he was going to buy all the drinks. I was very happy with this. The only catch was that he didn't feel like going up to the bar all the time, and that I would have to buy them. No problem.
Before I go any further, I should tell you a little about where I grew up. It's in Philly, South Philly, near the sports complexes and definitely an urban, neighborhoody area. Many of my friends are gambling addicts, and many of them are within one or two degrees of separation of some sort of organized crime (am I going to get murdered for saying this?). It wouldn't be very hard for me to say, get a $10,000 loan in cash in a day if I really needed to.
So back to our night of drinking...we're all having a good time and getting bombed. I'm listening to Ernie and Will, who were all decked out and gelled up, arguing about who looks more like Clay Aiken (they went so far as to ask numerous bar patrons about this - there was no consensus pick). But the whole time we're out, they're telling me, "Jay, we're gonna tell you something that you've been doing all night without realizing it, and it's gonna blow your mind." Knowing these guys are big time ballbusters, I didn't think much of it. But they kept saying it and cracking up, so it eventually got to me.
We were getting a ride to another bar from my friend Kyle when they started breaking them for me again, and I convinced them to tell me what was so funny with the line, "Don't you want to tell me in front of Kyle, so he can be in on the joke?" So Will calmly says, "Alright, alright. You see those $20 bills I've been giving you all night to buy drinks with? Well...they're counterfeit!"
They thought this was hilarious. Apparently, the new thing in my neighborhood is counterfeit money, which is relatively easy to get and looks very real. I hadn't noticed any difference, and I used three fake $20 bills.
I admit - it's a little bit funny. But you know what else is funny? People falling down. Racist jokes. Meeting people in internet chat rooms and telling them you're Tom Selleck and getting them to agree to meet you at the Red Roof Inn for some sex, but then when they find out you're not Tom Selleck it's too late so you and your friend Stolichnaya convince them to have sex with you anyway.
(Sorry - that last one is fun, not funny)
You know what is not funny? Committing a crime against the federal government. Committing a crime against another person is fine, but the government? What the fuck?
Needless to say, if I owe you money, you can be expected to be paid back shortly. You might wanna give those bills a once-over though.
Monday, April 12, 2004
Though I went home to Philly for the weekend, I had Easter dinner at my friend's place here in NYC.
And though the word "ruined" is being bandied about, I don't think I "ruined" the dinner. I admit that I did not, in any way, make a positive contribution to the evening, but to say that everything that was good was lost because of me, well, that's a little strong.
This is all because of one little joke that I told after the dinner. I knew it was inappropriate, but my buddy in Philly told me it, and I was dying to get it out. So while eating dessert, I turned to my roommate Brian (who was sitting next to me) and quietly told him the joke. As these things usually go, he started cracking up, everyone was asking what was so funny, I said I couldn't tell them the joke because it was too dirty, they begged for it, and I told it:
Q: What's the difference between your girlfriend and your refrigerator?
A: Your refrigerator doesn't make a fart noise when you pull your meat out.
Now, I know this isn't an appropriate joke to tell at a semi-formal dinner with mixed company. I was not alone in this: the girl who is a Bryn Mawr graduate and the girl who's currently getting her graduate degree in gender studies didn't think it was appropriate either. But, in my defense: 1) I warned them, and made it very clear that it was not an appropriate joke and that I did not want to tell it; and 2) it's just a joke - get over it. Since the offended couldn't get over it, we had to spend the rest of the evening in awkward conversation, that, thank god, finally came to an end because we had to get home to watch the Sopranos.
As if the joke wasn't enough, I had to steal back some of the donuts I had brought for the dinner. Let me explain.
I was running late for the dinner because my train from Philly to NYC was delayed. While on the train, it occurred to me that I should probably bring something to this dinner, because I guess that's just what people do. So at Penn Station I decided to pick up a dozen Krispy Kremes. Sure, not your typical dessert, but who doesn't like Krispy Kremes?
But when I got to the dinner, I learned that they had already had a dessert. I thought, "Sweet - more for me to take home!" However, since the joke made the night really awkward, I felt it would be even more of a faux pas for me to nonchalantly leave with the donuts at the end of the evening.
So, like the Fat McGyver, I devised an ingenious plan to rescue some of those donuts. I went into the kitchen and turned on the faucet to give the appearance that I was doing the dishes (the kitchen is around the corner from the living room, so no one could actually see what I was doing). I then sniffed out some sandwich bags, and put three donuts in them. I needed a diversion to get the donuts into my jacket which was in the living room, so I yelled, "Holy shit that chick is naked!" (the kitchen window and the living room windows have the same view). That gave me all the time I needed to successfully put the donuts in my jacket, and they were none the wiser.
I don't know what I should be more alarmed about: the fact that I went to such lengths to (essentially) steal donuts, or the fact that I am proud of being so smart to think of such an elaborate plan to (essentially) steal donuts.
Either way, I still hate Easter.
A few quick things about "The Sopranos":
1) Does anyone else think the theme song is really stupid? Until today, I thought they were saying, "Woke up this morning, got a boom-boom in your eye". Isn't a "boom boom" the term you use when a baby shits itself? I looked up the lyrics this morning and it turns out they're saying, "Blue moon in your eye." Still, I think it's really dumb.
2) AJ and Meadow have to be the two worst working actors in Hollywood. I can't think of anyone worse, or anyone even close to their level of badness. I know Meadow had that Heidi Fleiss movie recently, and though I didn't see it, I could hear it (I was running around the apartment doing stuff), and she didn't sound very convincing. Also, my roommates saw it and said it was terrible.
I think these two were the last people cast for the show. A couple of years ago, the producers had this new show, and they were running late on their production schedule, and said, "Oh - to hell with it. Just get anyone to play AJ and Meadow. Who knows if the show will be a hit anyway?" I was hoping that when Meadow went to college, she would go the way of Denise Cosby (a la "The Cosby Show", not "A Different World" - if Meadow got her own show, I'm afraid of what I might do to myself), but no such luck.
3) How uncomfortable were the sex scenes between Carmella and AJ's advisor (including the - hello! - gratuitous ass shot)? Good lord - I've seen snuff films that were more watchable. Not that they are particularly unattractive people, but there was just something not right about those scenes, on so many levels.
Ugh - I'm getting chills just thinking about them.
Thursday, April 08, 2004
trouble with knobs
The doorknob on the bathroom on my floor is broken, so that whenever you try to get out of the bathroom, you need to play with it (the doorknob) for a few seconds to get it to open.
I know this, because it happens every single time I use the bathroom.
But still, every time I make that first grab at it (again, the doorknob) and it doesn’t work, I still freak the fuck out, and spend the next five to eight seconds thinking, “Holy shit I’m locked in! Holy shit I’m locked in! What am I gonna do? WHAT AM I GONNA DO? FUCK!” and then the doorknob gives and I breathe a sigh of relief and go back to work (rather, I go back to the internet).
This happens every single day, sometimes three times a day.
What is so wrong with me that I can’t say to myself, “Dude, relax- you’re not locked in the bathroom – it’ll give after a few seconds. Fatass.”
I guess this is what that whole therapy thing is supposed to figure out (that and giving me a bunch of pills that I can sell to my friends).
[Tomorrow is Good Friday, the most solemn of the Christian holy days. I won’t be posting, since I have off. For those of you who don’t have off – I don’t feel bad. You probably shouldn’t be working for a pagan company anyway.]
1) In Russian class last night, we were divided into two groups, and we were supposed to be freely conversing with each other. My instructor, a 35 year-old Siberian broad, was standing over the other group listening in when one of the guys in my group asked me (in Russian) if I have a wife.
Hearing this questions posed, my teacher immediately came over to my group, in time to hear me say, “No, I don’t have a wife” (actually, since I said this in Russian and not in English, I probably actually said something like, “No, talk the onion down please – my father is Jewish”). But I at least got the “No” part out, and she said to the group, “I wanted to hear the answer to that question, because it is an important one” and smiled her big Russian smile as the rest class made an “Oooh” noise as in “Oooh…the teacher likes Jason!”
So that’s good. My Russian teacher likes me. At least I’ve got that going for me.
2) I was watching TV last night and they showed some footage of Chris Robinson, singer of the Black Crowes (who looks a lot like Jesus, but smokes way more pot than Jesus ever did) with his beautiful wife Kate Hudson (who is also ten or so years younger than him). I thought to myself, “What is she doing with him?”
But then I realized - isn’t this the greatest compliment a guy can receive? When someone says that about you, haven’t you “made it”? Obviously, you must be doing something right, probably many things right, in order to have someone say that about you.
I mean, really – is there any truer measure of a success for a man than, “What is that gorgeous self-respecting woman do with that guy?”
I think not. Congratulations - you win.
Wednesday, April 07, 2004
1) While returning to the office from lunch, I ran into my friend Sara, who works nearby, with two of her (attractive) female coworkers who I had never met before. I hadn’t seen her in a while, and we had this conversation:
Me: “Hey Sara!”
Sara: “Oh hey Jason! How are you?”
Me: “Ok, ok.”
Sara: “Jason, this is Tabby and Kiera – they work with me at [company name].”
Me: “Nice to meet you guys.”
Tabby & Kiera: “Nice to meet you.”
Sara: “So Jason, I haven’t seen you in ages. How are things? You look good – have you been working out?”
Let’s stop right here.
Now, I could have said something normal like, “Yeah, I’m trying” or “Sometimes” or anything. But, flabbergasted because someone has directed the words "you look good" and "have you been working out?" at me for the first time in my life, instead:
Me: “Well, you know, I’ve been throwing up after I eat, so I don’t get the calories or the fat or anything. It’s called ‘bulimia.’ So far, so good.”
What is most sad about this whole thing is not that I keep saying stupid things like this, but that I keep getting so disappointed when the stupid jokes don’t get the warm and welcome response that I want them to.
I mean, really, I’m talking to a girl I kind of know, and two girls I don’t know, and I’m making jokes about bulimia? What do I expect them to do - laugh hysterically and then say, "Oh, Sara, your friend is hilarious - let's take him into that alley over there and blow the shit out of him!" C'mon.
2) There’s a woman who works in my building, and I swear, from the first time we saw each other, we were both sending out vibes. I don’t know her name or what department she works in, but every time we ran into each other, you could tell there was a little something, a little glimmer of interest, between us.
Well, I just saw her a minute ago. And she’s pregnant.
Real perceptive, asshole.
3) There is a link on cnn.com that says “Web site helps poor find cheap drugs.”
There’s another link that says, “Study: frequent sex may cut cancer risk.” So does that mean that no sex will increase the risk of getting cancer? Because I’d like to add that to my arsenal:
Me: “Why don’t we go back to my place?
Girl: “I don’t think so.”
Me: “Why not? Do you want me to get cancer? You are a shrew.”
It has come to my attention that this site is now being tracked by Google. In an effort to draw some new readers, I present to you a completely random list of terms frequently searched on the internet [warning, the following language is explicit]:
Cock ass adult balls sex porno nude pics jizz naked pictures big tits pornography fuck shit pussy hardcore freaky penis cunt video tities sexual pubes cum cockass boob whores semen vagina dick shots sex with a horse sex with a dog doggy style Paris Hilton sex video Pamela Anderson Tommy Lee sex video download Anna Kournikova nude pics Janet Jackson breast pics Britney Spears nude Jessica Simpson naked pictures Christina Aguilera dirty New York City Song lyrics Phish Howard Stern New York Yankees Humor American Idol baseball apartments in Manhattan basketball football hockey soccer recipes the Beatles florists Lower East Side Friend’s final episode college admission tips MTV
This is all I can come up with now. If you have any more, please let me know.
And please, continue to pass this on to anyone who you think might find it funny. I would really like to get a BJ out of this, but we’re approaching the two month mark of this site, and I’ve got nothing to show for it, except for the occasional email from a distant friend saying, “Dude, are you alright?” or “If you ever need to talk to anyone, you know I’m here for you” or “Suicide is the coward’s way out – you’re not a coward, are you?”
Tuesday, April 06, 2004
1) What a boring, crappy NCAA championship game. But really, did anyone (aside from my friend Johnny) think that Georgia Tech was going to beat UConn? Luke "I'm 7'1" and can max 90 pounds" Schenscher against Emeka "I will eat your fucking heart" Okafor?
And really, enough talk about the women's final four (notice the lowercase). You're telling me there's not a better way to spend a bunch of money than on women's sports? We can't take the millions of dollars spent on women's sports and say - give it to needy children? Pump it into public schools? Shit, even light it on fire? Because no one, aside from the athletes and the parents of the athletes, gives a shit. I'll have more on this sometime, because I need a lot of space (and you can send those angry emails to the address in the upper-right).
2) Since the game stunk, I watched a good bit of the "Average Joe: Adam Returns" finale. While people are chomping at the bit to crucify Adam for choosing the extremely high-maintenance Samantha over the good-hearted teacher Rachel, a few things:
- Yes, Samantha stinks. And yes, she had one of the all-time dealbreakers: any time a woman is that crazy about her dog, STAY AWAY. I'm serious. I think this dealbreaker takes precedence over all the others we've listed. But anyway, Rachel was very "let's get married and I can have a kid for you in seven months - I don't even need the full nine." Just a little too serious. Still, I'm in love with her now and will gladly drop everything to be with her. Rachel, if you are reading this, please email me. You can move in by the end of the month. Please email.
- I don't know how I feel about the return of David Daskal and that fight scene. I don't think I'm ready to talk about it.
- Again, was there any doubt that Samantha was going to be picked? After all, the show spent forty minutes canonizing Rachel. I'm thinking that if the show's going to keep on going (which apparently it is - there's a "Plain Jane" in the works), they're going to have to switch it up a bit. Three times this has happened.
3) I may be wrong here, but my desk calendar says April 6. So why is it about 45 fucking degrees out? I think it should be spring. You know who else thinks it should be spring? My landlord - because he's turned off all the heat, causing my roommates and I to sleep in the same room huddling together for warmth.
This is all part of God's big plan to screw me over. I don't think I've ever enjoyed a spring in NYC....it's freezing until mid-April, we get two nice weeks, and then it's hot and humid from May until September. If my body is not given enough time to properly acclimate itself to the warm weather, well, I don't think I need to finish that sentence. I don't exactly do well in the heat, and by "do well" I mean every day is a struggle to survive. Heat index of 105 + fifth-story walk-up + twenty-pound bag of laundry = unglorious death by heat stroke in the stairway. Not the way I want to go, but oh well.
Monday, April 05, 2004
My Week in Love
Recently, through a friend, I met a girl. Cool girl: nice, good sense of humor, cute, likes to booze – all the necessary ingredients. We hung out, then started emailing, and finally at the behest (or at least the encouragement) of my friends, who had met her and had seen us interact while we were out and thought she was into me, I decided to ask her out.
I send her an email, which, in my opinion is quite charming (by the way, in keeping with my “I’m much, much better over email than in person” style, I am the best email flirter in the world – I practically invented the art form). I slip in a line saying something like, “So do you want to see a movie or do something later in the week?” between stupid jokes. I’m happy with it, and send it to her. Since up to that point we had been on a daily email basis, I expect a response that day.
At this point, I’m getting pretty down, thinking I’ve taken rejection to another level again: I don’t get rejected, I just don’t even get responded to. My roommates, god bless ‘em, are saying things like, “Maybe she’s been out sick?” or “Maybe your email is messed up?”
A response. Finally. She says something like, “This week’s been crazy, but I’ll be around this weekend.” Her responding two days later is more than enough of a signal for me, so I decide to concede defeat. I email her back and say something innocuous and obligatory about a birthday party I have to go to on Saturday night, but I have no intention of calling her about this, as I have grown more than accustomed to being rejected and can read between the lines. Game over. Fast forward to…
While throwing back some vodka red bulls and watching the basketball games, I see her name come up on my cell phone, which elicits a “Hmph” from me. She says she calling to see what’s up, and will meet me at the birthday party. I’m thinking, “Ok, I guess it’s not over.”
So my friends and I meet her and go to the birthday party, and it’s packed, so we move to a bar nearby for a few drinks. We’re talking, and of course, since I’m talking to a girl, I’m throwing money around like I’m fucking Puff Daddy, and I’m thinking things are going pretty well.
Then, this guy comes. To see her. Crap.
Not fun for me, especially since we’re approaching “I’m getting dangerously drunk and I’m afraid of what I might do to myself and others” territory. Nice enough guy, who actually went to BC (I went to Boston College), but, speaking of dealbreakers, he had two major ones:
1) He was overtly religious. He led these religious retreats at BC, which are pretty lame (Mike, if you’re reading this, you know I love you and I don’t think you’re lame, even if you did lead the same retreats). When you say, “I led Kairos retreats”, you might as well just come out and say, “I’m really not that cool.” While this guy was leading retreats, emphasizing the role of the Lord in the life of the college student, I was busy inventing new forms of drinking games with my roommates and hiring a lawyer to contest the $30,000 we got fined for damages that we inflicted upon our apartments junior and senior years.
2) He was way too into BC sports (John, if you’re reading this, you know I love you and I don’t think you’re lame, even if you send me daily emails about BC sports). I love sports, but I could not give less of a fuck about Boston College sports, just as I could not give less of a fuck about them in college. Football games at BC were an opportunity for me to get shit-canned on a Saturday afternoon, eat about twelve hot dogs, piss outside in a field, and pass out at 7pm. When we won the hockey championship my senior year, it was an excuse for me to get blackout drunk on a Tuesday, destroy most of my apartment, and miss class for the rest of the week. I can name two people who have ever played for BC: 1) Doug Flutie and 2) Who gives a shit.
Naturally, I shut down, and immediately get very depressed. I have no problem being rejected, as long it’s because a girl is choosing someone who is clearly better than me. And to be better than me is not very difficult at all – all you need is some ambition, or some class, or a nice haircut, or the presence of mind not to spit all over a girl when you talk to her, or the presence of mind not to use the word “fuck” at least thirty times in every conversation, and I will gladly step aside. But way down in my heart of hearts, below the layers of bacon, butter, and mozzarella, I didn’t think this guy had one up on me.
But still, I lose - eventually, she leaves with him, and I get even more depressed. The good thing is that by this point in the night I don’t really know where I am because I’m so fucked up, so at least that at least partially mollifies the pain. Still, it’s one of those situations where you want to go up to the girl and say, “Hey Kim, listen, I have no problem with you leaving with him, but do you think you can give me back the $30 I spent on your drinks tonight? It’s just that it’s not a really good investment for me. If you want, you can get the money from him – it really doesn’t matter to me.”
So Sunday morning I wake up: 1) “I think my brain is bleeding” hungover; 2) “Call my therapist immediately” depressed; and 3) “How the fuck did I spend $160 – I was out for three hours!” broke. In addition, I can’t move my arms or my back because my roommate Brian and I went to the gym the day before and went through Weight Training 101. I forgot that he was a Division I athlete in college (that is, until the booze and cigarettes had their way with him) and I had never lifted a weight in my life, so I tried to keep up with him – big mistake.
[Speaking of the gym, you know what’s a good idea? You should work out really hard all week, eat right, and then come home on Friday night and eat a giant bag of Tostito’s and an entire fucking can of ranch dip at 4am (while doing so, you should also get in a fight with your friend Jeremy because he’s “hogging all the dip” and keeps “breaking the fucking chips into little fucking pieces” in said dip). Then, you should come home on Saturday night and eat a pound of macaroni and cheese and a half a pound of cheese fries at 5am (5am rather than 4am because of the clock moving ahead).]
At this point, I think I am done with women. I play guitar, I speak five languages (if you count English three times), and make a ton of money. Sure, I’m covered in body hair, incapable of any real emotions (aside from lust and hunger), and my moods swing between vituperative and manic and obsequious and anemic every three minutes, but I don’t think I’m that bad.
The way I see it, I have three options: 1) I can start doing a ton of coke to eventually induce a heart attack and die alone, probably with my pants off; or 2) become a priest because I have nothing else to do and you get some pretty decent perks; or 3) become a drifter and ride the rails and explore this great land we call the USA.
But I should definitely cut my dick off, because I don’t see how it will be of any use to me or anyone else ever again (I haven’t had sex in so long I think I’m technically a virgin again). At least when it’s gone I won’t have any more nights when I come home fucked up, put on the Righteous Brothers’ “Unchained Melody” at high volume and on repeat, start to cry on its third playing, and eat all the ice cream in the apartment before moving on to any other available dairy products (i.e. Kraft singles, Country Crock, half and half, etc).
I mean, fuck.
Damn it all to hell.
Friday, April 02, 2004
I am so fucking proud of you all. Some of your responses have been terrific - nay, brilliant. Here are some of them:
A deal breaker for me is when a chick refuses to drink beer and will only drink super fruity drinks. It's always great when you are going to buy a round and you ask for 6 miller lites and a Sex on the Beach. It costs as much as the 6 beers, hard as hell to carry with the rest of the round, and you know that type of girl is just going to go home and puke it up anyway. Not good times. I also hate chicks who are obsessed with dolphins and pandas.
This email really hit the nail on the head. Nothing worse than walking through the bar with your six bottles and some mysterious fruit juice-based drink. Although, speaking from personal experience, I think that they are some girls that I would be more than happy to buy the fruity drinks for. I used to hang out a lot with this girl who drank Captain Morgan & pineapple juice, but she was so incredibly hot that she could have asked me for a pint of the bartender's blood and I would have obliged [when Brian first met her, she was over at our apartment, and when she went into the kitchen, he mouthed to me the words "What is she doing here?!?"].
Whenever I need to order a fruity drink, I playfully tell the bartender (if she's attractive) "It's not for me" hoping to get a conversation going. This never works. Ever. Probably because she's knows I'm desperate and lonely and going to give her a gigantic tip whether she talks to me or not.
I would also like to add a dealbreaker along the lines of those above: girls who are really into that "Hello Kitty" shit. I mean, what the fuck is that all about?
Another guy offered two incredible dealbreaker stories. The first:
This year I was sort of seeing this girl who was borderline average. So we're hooking up and she says: "I want to have sex with you but I have a rule that I will only have sex with three people in my life and I've already had sex with one." Anyway, I guess I was in the running for the number 2 spot and that completely freaked me out and particularly so because she actually said in a faux sexy voice in my ear: "I want you to be number 2". First, never refer to me as "number 2". Second, gross. Long story short, we ended up watching a repeat of college gameday before I passed out.
Wow. That's freaky, but I think that for me their are only two things a girl could say in that situation that would prevent from sleeping with her: 1) "I have, like, eight STD's" or 2) "I really want you to give me a baby."
His other story:
In high school I took this hot Indian girl my friend set me up with to our homecoming dance. Anyway, at the time I had an obscene quest to "Do the rainbow" - I don't know if you're familiar with this, but it requires at least some form of sex with every ethnicity. Anyway, I'm driving this girl home and she's telling me what a great dancer I am and how awesome my dad's Buick Century is, blah, blah. We get to her neighborhood and I say "Where do you live.. in the projects?" She then says "Sort of." What? Turns out she lived in one of those no-tell motels in the absolute middle of one of the worst housing projects in the midwest. It was the first time I ever walked a girl to her front door after a date and was not petrified about the impending good night kiss. Now I'm a Democrat and no one hates rich people more than me, but a girl living in a projects motel was just too much for me to handle way back in 1996. We never spoke again even though I was a desperate virgin and she was actually really hot. Today, I would go to the projects of Tikrit if it meant I could have sex with a hot, 17-year-old Indian girl.
Again, no words. None. I would like to say a big thank you for giving me one of the best terms ever: "Do the Rainbow." So ladies, if you are not white and interested in helping a down on his luck guy out in this, please email. We can construe "sex act" to include "making out", lest you catch anything that won't go away (if you catch my drift).
Many offered particular dealbreakers. For example, one girl wrote that she "can't date guys who are shorter or weight less than [her]" and she finds it a turn-off if a guy can't drive stick. An ex of mine felt this same way, and never hesitated to bring this up to me, as I can't drive stick. In my defense - I grew up in the city in Philly. Would you learn how to drive stick if you grew up in the East Village? I don't think so.
Another girl listed "long, black leather jackets" on guys as a dealbreaker. Another said: "I can't date a guy who drinks cosmos. There is nothing more feminine to 1) hold, 2) order, or 3) drink." I don't blame her - cosmos? Come on now.
"Nantucket Reds" was listed by one guy, and that's one I definitely agree with (if you don't know what they are, check out www.nantucketreds.com/). Others listed, "people who aren't into foreign food", "facial piercings", and "stupid tattoos on girls" (he added, "only sketchy guys should have really bad tattoos all over the place" - true, very true).
Thanks for such a good response, and if there's any topic that comes to mind that you think I should write about or any question I should answer, send an email to email@example.com.
[See, instead of saying, "Look, I've got very little left in the tank here, and I'm really running out of stuff to talk about - can you mother fuckers help or what?", I said what's above instead. I guess that's what that whole "college" thing taught me.]
Have a good weekend.
Thursday, April 01, 2004
Since I don't have a girlfriend or any hobbies or much to do with my time besides, well, this, I have taken upon myself a task that has become, over time, my holy grail: to assemble The Greatest Make-Out Mix in the History of All-Time and Civilization (Both Eastern and Western).
Now hear this: I half-ass everything. The story of my life is the story of starting and never finishing. I lose interest in everything quickly (books, tv shows, women, friends, etc). But this - this has become an obsession. The title says it all, and I do not take it lightly - I want to make The Greatest Make-Out Mix in the History of All-Time and Civilization (Both Eastern and Western). I want to make something so sure fire that you'd have to have a seizure or poop your pants not to score when it's playing. I want to make something so powerful that no woman, no matter how sober, can resist it. I want this to be the mix that Jesus would have put on, if he had tried to get laid.
I concede freely that any jerkoff with internet access can make a make-out mix. It's not hard to put "Out of Nothing at All" or "Crash" or "Lady in Red" on a cd. But the trick behind a truly great make-out mix is that it can not be obvious that it is just that: a make-out mix. If you have a special lady friend back at your place and you put on "All I Want Is You", she's going to know that 1) you are trying to get in her pants; 2) you are lame and unoriginal; and 3) you probably have an STD.
The Greatest Make-Out Mix in the History of All-Time and Civilization (Both Eastern and Western) is not based around such corny, obvious, and hokey songs. Instead, its aim is to establish a relaxing and subtly suggestive mood, which, when enhanced with alcohol or, if available, rohypnol, will increase your chances of seeing, and possibly even feeling, some boobies.
This past week has been monumental in the development of The Greatest Make-Out Mix in the History of All-Time and Civilization (Both Eastern and Western) (one note: this mix is on my I-Pod, so there is no limit on how many songs can be on it). It's not nearly complete (indeed, I don't know if it can every be complete), but we are definitely on the right track. I can't share with you the track list, but if you'd like some suggestions for your own make-out mixes, try songs by the Velvet Underground, Nick Drake, and Yo La Tengo. Their work in this field has been spectacular. Some songs sound as though Lou Reed said to himself before he wrote them, "You know, that chubby bastard Jason needs all the help he can to get laid, so I'm going to write a song for his make-out mix. The pathetic bastard."
I'll continue to work toward this goal and in doing so keep you apprised of any developments. But, needless to say, I am very excited about this.
Now all I need to do is find a girl willing to come to my apartment (a girl who is NOT delivering $16 worth of lo mein and egg rolls).
Hmm....that might be a problem.
I've gotten a bunch of very interesting and unique dealbreakers so far, and keep 'em coming (firstname.lastname@example.org). Remember, they can pertain to relationships, friendships, whatever. I hope to post some of them tomorrow. Good stuff.