Everything is wrong with me
Friday, May 28, 2004
 
my upcoming weekend
This weekend I have two strange things happening:

1) I'm moving
2) My parents (and my brother) are coming

Don't get me wrong - I love my parents - but sometimes, well, they can be a lot of work.

My mom is a short, talkative, cheery woman, while my dad is a big, non-talkative, tattooed, chain-smoking guy.

I can picture us at dinner now:

Mom: "So, have you met any nice girls recently?"
Me: "Some, you know."
Mom: "Because I told you, if you wanted to invite any girls to dinner with us, you could have."
Me: "No mom, it's fine."
Mom: "You know, there are lots of nice girls at home. Why don't you just move back home?"
Me: "Mom, I'm not moving back home to meet girls. That's retarded."
Mom: "Don't say that word. It's just that you're getting old, and maybe you should find a girlfriend -
Dad: "Jase, why don't you come outside and have a cigarette with me?"
Me: "Dad, you know I don't smoke."
Dad: "Just come outside."

[go outside with dad. eight to thirteen seconds of silence, watching Dad smoke, before he speaks]

Dad: "Jase, you aren't gay, are you?"
Me: "No dad, I'm not gay."
Dad: "Because, if you are, it's not ok. Your mother will be crushed, and you'll kill your grandparents."
Me: "Dad, I'm telling you, I'm not gay. Just because I don't have a girlfriend doesn't mean I'm gay."
Dad: "You should just tell me now. I won't be ok with it, but the sooner we know the better."
Me: "Dad, look, I'm NOT gay. You know I've had girlfriends."

[more silence, this time twenty to twenty-five seconds of it, watching my dad smoke]

Dad: "What about the websites? Your mother said something about websites. Have you tried the websites?"
Me: "I'm going back in dad."

And I can't even imagine what'll be like when the bill comes.

Me: "I got it."
Dad: "Don't be retarded - I got it."
Mom: "Den, don't say that word."
Me: "No, you guys came up here and helped me move, I got it."
Dad: "Jase, I'm telling you for the last time, I got it."
Me: "Dad - "
Dad: [raising voice] "Jase, don't make me get up from this chair."
Mom: "Den, lower your voice."
Me: [raising voice] "Dad, it's non-negotiable. I have it."
Dad: "Jase, don't do this to me here."
Me: "What? What am I doing? Paying for the bill?"
Mom: "Den, is this because you asked him if he was gay?"
Dad: [pretending to be surprised] "I don't know what you're talking about."
Mom: "Did you ask him if he was gay? I told you not to ask him."
Me: "What is going on? Mom, you think I'm gay too?"
Mom: "No Jase, it's just that, you know, you're smart, and you're in New York City, and you know, people talk."
Me: "People, what people? What people talk about me being gay?"
Mom: "Let's just forget it. Den, let him pay the bill."
Dad: "Your Aunt Anne made a comment at your cousin Will's birthday party last week, and it got your mother and I to thinking."
Me: "This is retarded. [turning to brother Dennis] Dennis, tell them I'm not gay."
Dennis: "I think he's gay too."
Me: [raising hands in disgust] "Dude, what?!?"
Mom: "Alright, let's just go."

I can't say this conversation will happen verbatim, but I think I'm about 90% right.

***************************************

And finally, after two years, I'm leaving the Lower East Side for the greener pastures of the Upper East Side. Like I wrote before, our new place is simply giant and marvelous and I get my own bathroom, in which I will spend at least 80% of my time.

I've never been all gung-ho about the Lower East Side, because, like I wrote before, I think the people there: a) try way too hard to be cool; b) definitely got beaten up in high school - a lot.

Still, I will miss a lot of the bars there. And some of the good, cheap restaurants.

But there are some things I won't miss, both about the LES and my apartment, like:

- being wasted and having to walk up five flights of stairs to get to my apartment;
- cool hipster "ironic Rod Stewart" haircuts;
- vintage t-shirts;
- my apartment reeking like Chinese food at all hours of the day;
- hipster sunglasses, which are usually blue or orange;
- every third person walking around with a guitar on their back;
- opening the door to my apartment in the summer and being knocked down by the intense and overwhelming heat;
- people saying, "It must be so cool to live in the LES", and me saying, "No, not really";
- meeting hipsters at bars and learning that they are either a) a graphic designer; b) a musician; or c) an actor, when really they are either a) a waiter/waitress; b) temping; or c) an administrative assistant.

But still, it's been a good run. And I think I will miss it, as much as I can "miss" anything, because that is a feeling that I am not familiar with, since I have only two real emotions: lust and hunger.

And yes, hunger is an emotion. Especially my kind of hunger.

[Have a good long weekend. I won't be posting on Monday b/c of the holiday.]

Thursday, May 27, 2004
 
three things
1) This Pistons-Pacers series is killing me. I can't ever remember watching such boring basketball. All you need to know about the series is that in last night's game, the Pistons scored 9 points in the second quarter and won. So far, the final scores have been Pacers 78 - Pistons 74, Pistons 72 - Pacers 67, and last night's 85-78 Pistons win. That reads like a college basketball game, or a shoot-out WNBA game (I'm still not ready to write about the WNBA). It's getting to the point that I'd rather watch my parents have sex for three hours than watch these games.

But I continue to do so. Because I don't have much else to do.

2) The greatest rap duet of all time (if a rap song can be called a "duet" - that seems much too much of a pussy term for a rap song) has got to be "Brooklyn's Finest" by Jay Z and Biggie. This was recorded at a time when Jay Z was a promising up-and-comer and Biggie was at the height of his powers. Also, it's got the best refrain ever: "Jay Z and Biggie Smalls make you shit your draws." That's poetry my friends.

3) So Fantasia Barrino is the new "American Idol." You better believe that when the results were announced my roommates and I were in a circle holding hands (god, I wish that wasn't actually true). Sixty-five million people voted (!!!) and chose her over Diana DeGarmo, who was just a little too chubby to be the Idol. And according to CNN.com:

[T]he governors of both states had side bets: Georgia had to send peaches to North Carolina if Barrino won, and North Carolina had to send blueberries to Georgia if DeGarmo won.
Talk about the lamest bet ever. Do you think that they had a side-side bet that the public didn't know about?

Gov of GA: "How 'bout if Diana wins, I get your wife for a week. If Fantasia wins, you get mine."
Gov of NC: "Well hell, why don't we just swap 'em for a week anyway?"
Gov of GA: "Mike, you're a genius."
Gov of NC: "I know, Sonny. After all, I did graduate cum laude from North Carolina Central University School of Law, where I also served as managing editor of the Law Review."
Gov of GA: "Well, let's not forget that I earned a doctorate in veterinary medicine in 1971 from the University of Georgia and played football at UGA as a walk-on."
Gov of NC: "Let's just say we're both pretty damn accomplished men."
Gov of GA: "Agreed. So when you wanna send your wife down to Hot 'Lanta!"
Gov of NC: "Let's do this a-s-a-p!"

Wednesday, May 26, 2004
 
Spanky the Clown ("Hey kiddies, I have some balloons and skittles in my car for you!")
My buddy John sent me the following email:

If you told me this was really you, I think I would believe it.

http://www.cnn.com/2004/LAW/05/25/clown.porn.charges/index.html

Three things:

1) The clown's name is "Spanky". You couldn't write this stuff.

2) How dumb do you have to be to sign up for a child pornography website? How dumb do you have to be to use your credit card to do so? Apparently, Spanky dumb. Sure, critics of mine will point out that while in Munich I used my credit card at a brothel to pay for the services of a busty young woman named Anka, but in my defense a) it's another country - anything goes; 2) hookers are much less worse than kiddie porn, and everyone knows that; and c) I was very, very loaded and very, very lonely, which is always a bad combination.

3) I also love FBI agent's comment at the end: "Behind the clown nose, however, this man appears to have been supporting an industry that trades in the exploitation of children." Again, you couldn't write this stuff.

Sure, it's terrible and all that he's a pedophile, but that's some pretty funny shit right there.

And yes, I did go to therapy today.

And no, I didn't find it helpful.

 
google
I have a counter on this site, which not only counts the hits, but it can tell you when people have hit your site as a result of Google. It also lists the word(s) or phrase(s) googled.

For example, if you were to google "Jason Mulgrew" and get results, then click on the link to this site, it would say "Jason Mulgrew" on one of the pages of the counter site.

For your reading pleasure, here is a list of terms googled that brought people to my site. And I'm not making this up.

"boom boom in your eye"

"josie maran" "is jewish"

"sweet bastard"

"tasty d-lite" frozen yogurt

clay aiken grabbing his make up artist's boob

i gave my brother a handjob

clay aiken with makeup artist's breasts

what does fingerblasted mean

emeka okafor and girlfriend

kate mulgrew's pussy

jamie lynn discala kosher

picture of clay aiken grabbing a girls boobs

soco and lime
Just goes to show you that the power of the internet is enabling weird people everywhere to be even weirder. Jesus.

And Clay, lay off the boobies man. They'll only be your downfall. Trust me.

Tuesday, May 25, 2004
 
Phish
I want to confirm what I have learned from unnamed sources: Phish has broken up.

On their official website, there's a link dated 5/25/04 titled "An Announcement from Trey", which reads:

Last Friday night, I got together with Mike, Page and Fish to talk openly about the strong feelings I've been having that Phish has run its course and that we should end it now while it's still on a high note. Once we started talking, it quickly became apparent that the other guys' feelings, while not all the same as mine, were similar in many ways -- most importantly, that we all love and respect Phish and the Phish audience far too much to stand by and allow it to drag on beyond the point of vibrancy and health. We don't want to become caricatures of ourselves, or worse yet, a nostalgia act. By the end of the meeting, we realized that after almost twenty-one years together we were faced with the opportunity to graciously step away in unison, as a group, united in our friendship and our feelings of gratitude.

So Coventry will be the final Phish show. We are proud and thrilled that it will be in our home state of Vermont. We're also excited for the June and August shows, our last tour together. For the sake of clarity, I should say that this is not like the hiatus, which was our last attempt to revitalize ourselves. We're done. It's been an amazing and incredible journey. We thank you all for the love and support that you've shown us.

-- Trey Anastasio
I thought that this was a mistake, or a prank, because it's totally out of the blue. But I used my major industry clout (I do have this awesome website), spoke to some people "in the know", and it is 100% true: Phish is done.

Let's have a moment of silence for stoners everywhere, who are now faced with any number of scary possibilities, including:

- having to stop dancing all weird-like;
- getting a job;
- putting down the bong for just one fucking second;
- bathing;
- no longer hurting their conservative parents with their neo-hippie lifestyle;
- losing customers for their homemade veggie burritos; and
- having to find a whole new band to dedicate and validate their existence and drug use.

All kidding aside, Phish is (was?) a pretty fucking sweet band. On a personal note, I'd like to say thanks to Trey, Mike, Page and Fish for some sweet music, and making it totally ok for me to "accidentally" touch a girl's boobie in Hampton, VA on 1/2/03 because I was "really, really high."

Thanks guys, and may god bless you, your families, and your pets.

 
weekend of (self) love
[Warning: the following post is graphic in content, and not suitable for children or pussies. Thank you.]

One weekend about every two months I don't go out. This isn't because I don't want to, it's because I just physically can't. I'll try to drink on a Friday or a Thursday night, and it just doesn't work - I'll immediately start to feel like shit, get all sorts of indigestion, and shut down. I can't explain this phenomenon, and it's terrifying, because it's so unpredictable. I live in a state of constant fear, hoping my "down weekend" doesn't strike when friends are in town, or I have a party to go to, or by some mistake on god's part I have a date, etc. [But mostly I fret about the friends in town or party thing, not the date.]

This was the case this past weekend. The good news is that it coincided with a weekend that both my roommates were out of town, so I was left alone to defile myself in the friendly confines of my LES apartment. I am a big believer in numbers, and I work with them all day long, so here are two statistics that accurately sum up my weekend:

Number of pornographic films downloaded to my roommate Ben's computer from July 1, 2003 to May 20, 2004: 44
Number of pornographic films downloaded to my roommate Ben's computer from May 21, 2004 to May 23, 2004: 61

When I say that I have never been so focused in my life than I was about downloading porn this weekend, it is not an understatement. I worked so hard at it, you'd think I was trying to save a crew of astronauts trapped in space, or desperately working on an antidote to a poison recently ingested by my entire extended family. Imagine me, sitting in my roommate Ben's small, dark room, wearing just boxers and an undershirt, watching literally hundreds of porno clips, featuring old faves like Celeste, Chasey Lain, Jenna Jameson, and Kylie Ireland, while learning about new starlets, such as Sunrise Adams, Briana Banks, and Kira Kener.

It was incredible. My every movement this weekend was based around the rates that the clips were downloading; whether they were mpegs, wmvs, or avis; whether I had already downloaded them but they were named something else; etc. Showers and meals were timed after the right number of films came off the queue and were mostly downloaded.

And the self-love was, to say the least, near legendary. My previous high for one day's masturbation is seven, set back when I was about 14. This Saturday, I was at six at about 3pm, when I thought to myself, "Do I really want to tie, or perhaps set, a new masturbatory record at 24 years old? Isn't that kind of pathetic?" So I decided to pull in the reins and call it a day. But I'll tell you, I easily could have done ten. Easily.

And that was pretty much my weekend. When I'm not poisoning myself with liquor, I'm beating my dick like it owes me money (*this joke stolen from "The Chappelle Show").

But I don't think this should be too much of an impediment in my quest for a girlfriend/wife. After all, I have an engagement ring fund, I'm getting a dog, and I probably don't have any STD's. What more could a woman want? Sheesh.

 
two things that bother me...
1) Jessica Simpson in this month's Maxim. Jessica, you're wearing a white button down shirt and a pair of jeans. Last time you were in Maxim, you were half-naked and I was quoted as saying your photos were "the most magnificent pictures of the female body ever taken. Jesus, I have a boner." Just because you have a "career" now doesn't mean you can pile on the clothes and turn your back on your die-hard [read: pervert] fans like myself. Judas.

2) Two of the Wayans Brothers (Marlon and Damon? Edgar and Max?) have a movie coming out this summer called White Chicks, in which they play two FBI agents who go undercover as white girls. Hilarity ensues, and I try to commit suicide by stabbing myself in the neck with the straw from my 240 oz. Pepsi.

I'm not a movie snob by any means - my favorite movies are the same ones that all guys my age love: Lebowski, Rushmore, Swingers, Tombstone, Tennenbaums, Office Space, etc. But this is just too far. Too far. The sad thing is, this is probably going to make a killing at the box office.

Meanwhile, I will continue to play with myself too much and over-eat, and say things to my roommates like, "You know, maybe I should write a screen play or something?" And they will say, "Dude, do you have to eat the macaroni and cheese straight out of the pot? We have bowls you know." And I will say, "Show of hands - who here is the boss of me?" And only I will raise my hand, and thus will continue to eat my mac and cheese out of the pot, and wash it down with a nice tall cool glass of chocolate milk (and a giant piece of carrot cake).

Now I'm hungry.

Monday, May 24, 2004
 
email re: Sopranos
My buddy Joe sent me this email about last night's Sopranos:

Adriana really got hers, that was fantastic.
Adriana: "Hey Christopher, I flipped on you about a year ago. I have decided to tell you this just as you started drinking again. Oh, in other news, I let a drug dealer murder someone in the club.'
Christopher: "Your neck seems tense, let me massage it for you."
I mean, really - could she have picked a worse time to tell him that? Thank god she's gone.

That said, I will miss her boobies.

 
a moment for television, and the Flyers
I want to say a little something about Sunday night TV before I forget.

I don't mean to sound like Will Ferrell's impression of James Lipton (of "Inside the Actor's Studio"), but Wildboyz is changing the face of television forever. Simply put, there has not been a better show on television, nor will there ever be. The idea of giving two stoners their own show, making the half-naked (for the ladies), and putting them in exotic locations getting bit by wild animals and throwing up is brilliant. This show always delivers. Just when I thought last night's was kind of crappy, at the end Pontius farts and Steve-O throws up outside the tram thing they were riding on. Awesome.

And Sopranos? Now that's what I'm talking about. It's about time too...I was beginning to lose faith. But good stuff, and I'm really looking forward to two weeks from now.

And a word about the Philadelphia Flyers: I don't know how much longer I can take losing. Seriously, something has got to give. I don't even have words for this, but Philly really needs a championship. We have the longest drought, by far, of any city with four sports teams, having last won one in 1983 with the Sixers, when I was 4 years old.

Please. Just one. I would be so grateful, and I promise I would swear off abusing my dad's muscle relaxers forever. And by "forever", I mean "48 hours." So please, help me out.

Friday, May 21, 2004
 
random Friday morning thoughts (so bored)
Is this current gay marriage "debate" the stupidest thing of all time, or is it just me?

Does it really matter to me if two gay people get married? Either way, my life is still going to be the same: I'm still going to like to watch reality tv, play the "Superman" theme song on full volume during sex, and spend 80% of my disposable income on vodka and Budweiser.

And as far as "compromising the sanctity of marriage", I mean, do you live in the US? Everybody gets divorced! If you don't, you are officially in the minority!

Like many children of divorced parents, I can't wait to get married. This is mostly because I just want to gain a bunch of weight and let myself go completely. I've also been saving change for a engagement ring since I was about 12, and I'm pretty much going to marry the next girlfriend I have (so ladies, look out!).

But back to the gay marriage thing: doesn't all that hate (for gays and/or gay marriage) seem like a lot of work? All that yelling and standing outside and getting red in the face - wouldn't you rather just stay home and watch "The Price Is Right?" And you have to make all those signs that say, "Ain't No Gays Should Get Married Round Here" or "Gays Gettin Marryed [sic] Ain't Right!", which requires a trip to the hardware store to get paint, a paint brush, posterboard, and then you actually have to make the sign, which I imagine would take up a good part of your day, not to mention the cleaning up after making the sign.

So I don't hate anybody. Not because I don't have feelings of hatred, but because I'm just too lazy.

************************************************

I didn't have any shampoo this morning in the shower, so I used a bar of soap to wash my hair. And you know what? I loved it. And I will do it again. Besides, it's common knowledge that shampoo is unnecessary and was invented by the soap people as a racket to make more money.

Too bad I figured those bastards out.

************************************************

[this joke only works if you imagine Norm McDonald delivering it on SNL's "Weekend Update"]

"This just in: NASCAR has tapped NBA Hall of Famer Magic Johnson to serve as co-chairman to its newly created Executive Steering Committee for Diversity...and AIDS."

************************************************

I'm wearing wool pants today, even though it's 80 degrees out. I wore them because I like them, and they actually fit, unlike most of the pants I own. With the rest of my pants, if it's quiet enough and you listen closely, you can actually hear my zipper screaming, "I...don't...think...I...can...hold...any...longer!!!"

The result: major swamp ass. Seriously - I'm about fifteen minutes from getting some paper towels to lay down on my chair. Gross, I know, but hey - I call it like I see it.

************************************************

Finally, a message to the Philadelphia Flyers:

Guys,
I need this. I don't have much else going on, so I would really appreciate it if you didn't blow it. I'm afraid of what might happen to myself, my friends, and my co-workers if you lose on Saturday. So don't. Please.
Love,
Jason

Thursday, May 20, 2004
 
emails
I can't really do mailbags like I did before (well, I only did one of them). This is because it's actually more work than you think: I have to get the email, open it, read it, formulate a response - all things that make me very tired, very quickly.

Below are two emails that I got recently that I thought were particularly worthy of discussion. As (or if) I get more, I'll throw them on here.

This first one comes from loyal reader and friend of mine, Brian:

Your post today about the doctor who obviously doesn't drink was the topic of a raging argument I had with one of my roommates this weekend. Basically, there's a girl we hang out with now who only drinks waters at bars for some unexplained reason. There's several theories going around about why - mine is that she got loaded on wine coolers back when she was 17 and ended up banging the half-retarded cousin of some guy on the football team that was always at those parties in high school. The debate was this: could you, no matter how hot the chick was, date a woman who did not drink? Not just not drink a lot, but not drink at all. Think about it: you could never win an argument because "you were drinking A LOT last night", you'd always feel like an asshole at 2am when she's exhausted and bored and you've got to get a chicken sandwich at the grill down the street, every word you said from the night before (such as "I really think the time has come for me to pee on you") will be remembered, not just a garbled rendition of what was said. AND, what would you do if you both decided not to drink at all? Have you every been to a Blockbuster on a Saturday night? I did once when I had the flu and a 103 fever and I still felt like a loser. All in all, I feel there's no way you can date a sober girl, no matter how hot she may be.
I agree 100%. It's not like I have to date a girl who's a raging alcoholic akin to my Uncle Todd, but she needs to drink at least sometimes for our relationship to work. Another angle Brian didn't discuss is sex. What happens when you come home wasted at 3am looking for love, and she's been drinking Evian all night? I don't think she'd particularly like to be jackhammered for a decent six or seven minutes before you say, "I'm sorry, but I don't think it's going to happen" and roll off (not that she would like this if she was drunk, but at least that might make it a little more bearable). Also, how would you ever get her to try all sorts of kinky things that only happen in porn if she was sober all the time? I don't think the question is, "Would I ever date a sober girl?", but, "Would a sober girl ever date me?" The answer to both is, "No fucking way."

Remember: no matter how hot a girl is, you're going to get tired of fucking her. It's a fact. After that, all that's left are your common interests. Drinking is a big interest of mine. Not drinking is not. It's just not going to work.

Another reader who I will call BJ (get it - like "blow job"?) because I didn't get explicit permission to use his name wrote:

What rules apply to dating a very good looking, who has a child, but was never married? Any? The chick is very good looking, but she got pregnant when she was 22 and now has a 5 year old. Don't know how I feel about that.
Wow my friend - that is quite a dilemma. I'm not quite sure what rules apply here because a "very good looking" woman has never been attracted to me, but I can tell you that I couldn't do it. I am WAY too immature (both emotionally and genitally) to date a woman with a kid, even if she is hot. Like I said above, attraction eventually wanes, then it's just you, her, and the kid. Geez.

I think most guys, including myself, are terrified of baggage (long-term ex, coming off bad break-up, bad relationship with dad, etc), and having a kid is the ultimate baggage. I have a tough time being with a girl if I'm not the first person she's kissed, so the thought of dating a woman with a kid sends me into fits. I have nothing against kids personally: I hope to have some of my own someday, so that I can mess them up real good, and make them go to the store and buy cigarettes for me (by then I'll be smoking a lot), and use them to live vicariously through ("What's that? You're sick of paying football? Well guess what? Now you're going to be sick for real, because I'm going to put rat poison in your dinner. Now get out in that fucking yard and throw that fucking football through that tire! Don't make me hit your mother!").

I would have a different opinion if this was just a short-term or one-time arrangement/dalliance, but you used the word "date". If it was a one time thing, then awesome. If you were do to that, that'd definitely be worthy of a high-five.

I should mention a disclaimer here: I am the last person that should be shelling out advice on relationships. I mean, have you read any of this website? How desperate must one be to ask me for advice about this? Sure, if it was advice on things like, "I am looking for new ways to spice up my daily masturbation session, do you have any suggestions?" [lefty invert stranger] or "I kind of have a crush on this girl - do you know a way I can totally mess it up?" [get drunk, expose yourself to her, and shout, "You see what you're missing, Lover?"] or "I'm hoping to earn some extra cash by giving handjobs at rest stops along I-95. Can you recommend some good places for a newbie to start?" [Montvale Plaza in NJ], then sure, maybe I can help.

But love, come on. In the words of a wise Meposian man, "Don't be ridiculous."

Wednesday, May 19, 2004
 
Ray Lamontagne
Last night a few friends and I went to see Ray Lamontagne, a musician who I pimped a few posts ago, at the Mercury Lounge.

All I can say is, "Wow."

I'm telling you, this guy is going to be big. And remember, I'm the guy who started wearing those Elvis Costello/Buddy Holly-type glasses before they were cool, so I know a thing or two about "coolness."

Ray Lamontagne met two personal standards of greatness for me:

1) There are some artists who, after seeing them perform or reading their work, you never want to write again, because you realize that in no way can you approach their level of greatness. You say to yourself, "Wow, that guy was awesome. With people like him/her around, I have no shot, because he/she is so far and away better than me, that I should just go home and eat a bottle of Tylenol PM" (and sure, this may be because of my whole "low self-esteem" thing, but you know what I always say - when you're judgin', you're not lovin.'")

For me, these include writers like Nabokov, Pynchon, and Almond, and poets like Eliot, Neruda, and Auden (not that I read poetry, because poetry is for gays). Musicians like Elvis Costello, Nick Drake, and Jeff Buckley (to name a few) make me want to sell all my guitars, and just forget the whole thing.

Add Ray Lamontagne to that list. He got up there with just his guitar and mesmerized the entire audience. I got home and started sobbing, yelling at my guitars, and then I called my parents and yelled at them for not encouraging me to get into music earlier, and then I downloaded a ton of porn because my roommate Ben is in California and he forgot to password-protect his computer (it was a real roller-coaster).

2) Speaking of masturbation (?), after seeing this guy, even I wanted to fuck him. He's got this whole "I'm sensitive and really shy" thing going on, and he played this part well, not looking at the crowd once, and only saying, "Thank you, thank you very much" between songs. By the end, every woman in the audience had their shirts off, and this wasn't a good thing in every case. My record of straightness is unparalleled (except for the time in Phoenix in '99 which I needn't get into), but if given enough booze and maybe some prescription painkillers, I think, well, I don't think I need to finish that sentence.

So keep an eye out for him, and I'm sure I will be handing out many of his (pirated) cds to my friends. I'm not a music critic, but I do have an iPod, so that means I'm serious about music, so trust me on this.

Tuesday, May 18, 2004
 
getting a physical, hoping not to show off my balls
I love going to the doctor's. This is because I'm kind of a hypochondriac, so it's the only time I feel totally safe. When I learned that my new place on the Upper East Side has a hospital around the corner, I almost requested that we get an apartment on the first floor, so in case anything happens to me (choking because I tried to stuff a whole slice of pizza in my mouth in one shot, poisoned because I drank a whole bottle of NyQuil and a six-pack of Red Bulls on a dare, etc), I can be easily transported to the hospital and safety.

Today, I went to the doctor's to get a physical. I haven't had a full, standard physical in about five years, so I figured it was time.

My doctor happens to be the worst doctor in the world. Well, I can't say that for sure, because there are probably some Shaman doctors in Madagascar or some of those Mexico-type countries that are worse, but he's definitely the worst in the tri-state area. However, since his practice is situated in the middle of the downtown financial district, patients will continue to see him out of convenience.

He also has a cadre of young female medical students at his disposal. My roommate Ben warned me about this, because he had to go to him for something last week and was greeted by a reasonably attractive student in her mid-20's.

The thought of having a reasonably attractive med student in her mid-20's give me a physical was, to say the least, discomforting. Bear in mind, I am a man whose only goal during sex is not to please the woman unfortunate enough to be present or even to please himself, but to keep as many clothes on as possible.

In this state I went to the doctor's today, and sure enough, Racquel, a 26 year-old med student at Albany, came into the room.

I immediately tensed up, but I was able to relax a bit over time, making small talk and stupid jokes. And she seemed pretty cool - as long as she stayed away from "the goods", I knew we wouldn't have a problem.

We talked about where we went undergrad, and I asked her a lot about med school, and it occurred to me, "I'm flirting with this girl, and she's seconds away from putting her hands on my balls." At that point, she said, "Can you lay down please?"

Fuck. This is the point where the doctor usually checks the abdomen and the balls (at least from what I remember from my last physical). So I laid down, and as she prepared to lift my "gown", she said:

Girl med student: "Are you wearing underwear?"
Me: "Wait - what day is it?"
GMS: [confused] "Um, Tuesday?"
Me: "Ok, then yes. Yes I am."

Then we all had a laugh and she gave me a vicious blowjob.

Ok, that didn't happen. That would have been REALLY cool if it did though.

What did happen is that she wound up not checking my balls (just checked my stomach), which is fine with me. She asked if I had any "testicular problems or sexual malfunctions or problems" and I was tempted to say, "Well, I don't think I have any sexual malfunctions or problems, but you might want to ask some of the quote-unquote 'ladies' that I've been with who might disagree with me."

One other thing: prior to going into the office: I filled out a form in the waiting room about what problems I've had, allergies, symptoms, etc. One of the questions was, "Do you drink?" Yes. The follow-up was, "How much?" I wasn't sure what to put or how to quantify what I drank, so I put "a goodly amount", mostly because I really like the word "goodly."

Racquel didn't catch this the first time around, and after she left and I was dressing, she came back and knocked on the door and said,

Racquel: "I noticed on the form that you wrote that you drank 'a goodly amount' - can you explain that a little bit?"
Me: "Well, I didn't know how to quantify it - do you want a day? a week?"
Racquel: "Let's say a week - how many drinks do you have a week?"
Me: "That depends on the week really. The weather's been nice and my friends and I have been going out a lot, so that inflates the number a lot..."
Racquel: "Just the average."
Me: "I don't know...if I go out three nights a week, I'd say I'd have fifty drinks."
Racquel: [silence for about three seconds] "Fifty?"
Me: "Yeah - but it takes a lot to get me drunk."
Racquel: "Is this something you want to continue?"
Me: "Drinking? Pretty much, yeah."

Stupid move. I got a lecture for the next five minutes about the hazards of drinking from a girl who's a year older than me, and who obviously doesn't drink, probably because the one time she did in college she got way too drunk and wound up giving a guy a blowjob in the cafeteria bathroom and has regretted it ever since. It was at this point that I realized that Racquel and I could never be together. Too bad.

But overall, except for a little bit of high blood pressure, I am in amazingly good health. Keep in mind that this is just physical health though - the jury is still out on the psychological/emotional/mental health status.

 
from self-restraint comes positivity
This morning while walking to work I ran into a co-worker who happens to have the most amazing hair I've ever seen. Seriously, it's unreal. To die by suffocating in this hair would not be that bad of a death, unless some scary-ass monster was strangling you with it, because that wouldn't be good.

Anyway, I was walking behind her in awe while approaching our building, and when I finally caught up to her (at the stop light - I didn't chase her down) and we chatted, I was tempted to say, "You know, your hair could be on one of those shampoo commercials, because it's really nice."

But, realizing that I don't know this girl too well and thinking that saying that her hair should be on shampoo commercial would probably freak her out pretty good, I didn't say it.

Sure, this may not mean anything to you, but it means a lot to me. Finally, I am showing signs of growth and maturity, and I actually thought before I spoke. Usually, I'll say something that makes the other person feel uncomfortable, then say, "What? I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable" which makes the situation even more uncomfortable, then I'll apologize profusely, then to make up for making an ass of myself, I'll send the woman flowers, but that makes it most weird of all, because then she thinks that I have a crush on her or I at least want to fuck her, which in most cases I do.

So I'm glad I didn't go that route.

Monday, May 17, 2004
 
weekend round-up
Nothing extraordinarily crazy happened this weekend, but here are three things that I learned:

1) After coming in from a bar at 4am, it's ok to go to go straight to bed, even if there is beer left in the apartment. I've never really been the type to keep drinking after coming home, but recently it's like my roommates and I can't fall asleep unless every beer in the apartment has been drunk. On Friday night, we were up until 7am. On Saturday night, we were up until 6am. It's because we always do a lot of pre-gaming before going out, in order to "save" money. Of course, this never works - we wind up pre-gaming until 1am, going out already shit-housed, and spending an obscene amount of money because we are already drunk.

Anyway, there's always a bunch of beer left over from that pre-gaming, and apparently we have to drink everything before we can go to bed. It's only a matter of time before we take this to the extreme and start drinking all the rubbing alcohol, vanilla extract, and cologne in the place. I can see Brian three weeks from now, drunk and cross-eyed at 7am, sitting on the kitchen floor smoking two cigarettes at once and spraying hairspray on a piece of whole wheat bread, saying, "Dude, I am so fucked up right now. It's awesome."

2) I have got to stop throwing up. I have never been the type to throw up from drinking (I've always been a pisser), but recently I have been sending the majority of the weekend daylight hours puking. This was especially unfortunate on Sunday, when I went to Central Park. I'm not a sociologist, but I'm guessing that most of the people at the park that weekend came to spend time with friends or loved ones and enjoy the sunshine and warm weather, not watch some fat dude lay on a blanket like a beached whale with hyper-active sweat glands, getting up occasionally to run over to a trash can to throw up the beer, wine, pina colodas, and margaritas that he had the night before, along with what appeared to be a (hopefully) vestigial organ that was shaped like a pork chop.

And I'm not a physician either, but I'm guessing #1 and #2 are related.

3) In my life, by some strange acts of god, I have kissed some pretty darn looking girls. Because of this, I know that they look at me now and think, "Damn - what was I thinking when I kissed him?" A girl that I kissed a few (well, now "many") months ago has been hanging around a lot recently. And I don't mean that she's been hanging out with me exclusively or anything; it's just that we often go out in large groups (of say fifteen or twenty people), and increasing she's been among these large groups.

And she's really, really attractive. My friends and I can't understand why she ever would kiss me, and her presence lately has increased the jokes about this. For example:

Me: "Man, Maura looked really good tonight."
Ben: "I know - what the hell was she thinking when she made out with you?"
Me: "I have no idea, and I don't care."

and

Brian: "Wow - Maura is a really good-looking girl."
Me: "I know. I can't believe that she let me make out with her, even if it was once."
Brian: "Tell me about it. What was going on in her life at that point that she made out with someone like you? She must have had a pet die or something, or had stopped taking her anti-depressants, because she is WAY out of your league."
Me: "Yup, pretty much."

It's funny, because guys all have war stories about the ugliest girls they've hooked up with. It's a rite of passage to make out with at least once either a) a girl that weighs more than you, or b) a girl that looks like you, especially when you haven't shaved in three days. It's even more funny that because of a particular night that I was "on" and told the right jokes and the right time (and of course, supplied said girl with copious amounts of booze), I am the object of the female equivalent of these war stories.

And you know what? I am totally ok with it. If any of you attractive women out there would like to hook up with an ugly guy "for the story", please send an email to eiwwm@lycos.com. I guarantee that my combination of Meatloaf-esque looks, obesity, and complete lack of knowledge about pleasuring a woman will be the object of derision and laughter for you and your friends for years to come.

Friday, May 14, 2004
 
Thursday Night Shit Show
I am so hungover right now in my ninety-five degree office, I seriously think I'm dying.

It feels like every time I close my eyes when I blink, someone is hitting me in the back of the head with a shovel. And not a new shovel either, like an old, rusty-ass one. Also, the shovel is dirty.

My eyes are bloodshot, and I'm sweating profusely (even more so than normal), as I stare at my computer with an Excel sheet up, pretending to be working on it when it's really my old fantasy baseball rankings. Every once in a while, I'll get up and walk over to the high speed printers to pick something up, or go over to the fax machine, or walk briskly out of my office in a huff like I'm pissed about something, just to give the appearance that I'm hard at work.

The reason for this is the two most beautiful words in the English language: open bar.

Last night we had this giant work party, with everyone (partners, secretaries, legal assistants, support staff) invited. It was at Capitale, this really swanky place on the Bowery (Heidi Klum had her Halloween party there last year).

I got way, way too drunk.

But I was not in the top 20th percentile of drunkest people in the room.

That's the great thing about work parties: the strange dynamic of people getting much too drunk, in front of people they shouldn't get too drunk in front of, and losing all control of themselves.

It was a complete shit show. People falling on dance floors. Co-workers making out. Managers getting hit on by the people they supervise. People embarrassing themselves in karaoke.

Our table was situated by the entrance, a giant opening that was flagged by two large panes of glass. For about a third of the night we sat at the table, watching drunk people walk face first into this glass, not realizing that it wasn't part of the entrance. Of course, nothing is funnier than people hurting themselves, unless it's drunk people hurting themselves. Hilarious, but definitely one of those "you had to be there" things.

After the event, we went to a bar nearby (because four hours of hard core drinking is not nearly enough, unless you're a total pussy). That's about the time it gets all blurry...I remember talking to a friend of mine who's having trouble with her "boyfriend" and it was kind of similar to my conversation with my ex this past Saturday night:

Me: "You know what you should do to get back at him?"
Her: "What?"
Me: "Sleep with me."
Her: "Oh come on."
Me: "What? Look at me! Do you know how pissed he'd be if he learned that you slept with a guy who looks like me! That'd really, really piss him off."
Her: "That's like a pity fuck then."
Me: "I don't mind at all. Trust me. I don't think the the saying, 'Beggars can't be choosers' has a more appropriate application."
Her: "Still, it's not a good idea."
Me: "Look, I'm not asking you to decide now. Just think about it. Do you want me to take my shirt off so you can see what you'd be in for?"
Her: "That's ok."
Me: "Just a little taste?"
Her: "No, no I'm ok."
Me: "Ok, but just think about it."

I went to the bathroom (to throw up, because I had duck at the party, and though I love duck, it was really too sweet, and something had to give), and when I came out, everyone had left me.

I made it back to my place to find my roommate Ben and five of our co-workers drinking beers, smoking up, and eating an astonishing $54 worth of burgers, hot dogs and fries (cheese, chili, and plain).

Again, blurry, so that means I didn't do anything too embarrassing (we hope). When I woke up this morning, head pounding and covered in sweat (oh, I sweat a lot when I sleep), the living room was a disaster. It was like someone had taken a dozen full ash trays and thrown them around the room. After that, they took an order of cheese fries and mashed them into our carpet with their (probably bare) feet.

And now I am here, dying. And I have about six hours to get my shit together, because I am going to have to do it again.

My life is so hard.

[Have a good weekend]

Thursday, May 13, 2004
 
therapy sucks ass
I don't like going to therapy. And I am very sensitive about going to therapy (so naturally I write all about it on the internet, for friends, family, and long-lost friends to discover via Google - for more therapy stuff, see post of 4/16). This is because I believe that there are some people in this world who really do need therapy, and I'm pretty sure that I'm not one of them. But, of those people who do need therapy, the craziest of the bunch definitely go to therapy at the same place I do.

I went today and because of the nice weather all the crazies were outside and in rare form, smoking cigarettes, yelling, carrying on. I arrived early, which is never a good thing. I always think that by arriving early I can get in to see the therapist early, and quickly get back to work. This never happens. I always have to wait in the waiting room with the crazies, and listen to their redonkulous conversations. Politics has been a hot-button topic recently, so here's what I heard today:

Crazy Woman 1: "I'll tell you, that mother fucker Bush."
Crazy Man 1: "Mmm hmm."
CW1: "Mother fucker has no balls - he ain't never went over there."
Another Crazy Woman: "No, he went over there, he just didn't shot nobody."
CM1: "Mmm hmm."
CW1: "No balls, no balls at all. All his daddy's baby! His daddy's baby!"
ACW: "He's a goddamn son of a bitch."
CW1: "A goddamn no balls son of a bitch."
CM1: "Mmm hmm."

Keep in mind this is going on in plain view, very loudly, in a professional-looking waiting room, as I sit slumped in my chair, head in hands, desperately waiting for my name to be called.

While waiting in the crazy waiting room, I always get that same anxious feeling I get whenever I'm at Baskin Robbins or Cinnabon. You know the feeling - you've just ordered a gigantic three-scoop sundae (vanilla, cookie dough, cookies n cream) with extra whipped cream and chocolate syrup, and you're terrified that the moment you walk out of the Baskin Robbins with this huge sundae and large deposits of ice cream stuck in your goatee, you're going to run into an ex-girlfriend, or at least a girl that you'd had a crush on and rejected you, who happens to be with her new boyfriend.

Girl I had a crush on: "Oh, hey Jason. Just getting a little ice cream, I see?" [snickering]
Me: [nervous, sweating] "Um, yeah, well, this is for my girlfriend actually. She's back at my place. She likes to eat a sundae after she's had multiple orgasms."
Girl: [incredulous, somehow more attractive than I remember] "So why is it half eaten? Actually, a quarter of it is eaten, and a quarter is spilled down your shirt. Why?"
Me: [more nervous, pit stains now circling whole upper body] "I, uh, I got in a fight in the store. Yeah, some dude was trying to rob the Baskin Robbins, but I was like 'Over my dead body' and I stopped him, but in the process I spilled some of the sundae on my shirt, and dropped some on the floor."
Girl: "Right. Anyway, this is my new boyfriend, Fifty Cent."
Fifty: "'Sup."
Me: "Hi."
Girl: "So we're going to go now. I just got done blowing him in his car, and later I'm going to have sex with three other girls for him. But you have fun, and good luck with your new 'girlfriend.'"
Me: [now sobbing uncontrollably and eating sundae with hands, smearing it on face and in hair] "Ok."

Anyway, that's the same feeling I get when in the waiting room at therapy: I know I'm going to see someone I know, and it's going to be really awkward and embarrassing, especially for me.

This hasn't happened yet, but today while I was sitting there a very attractive girl about my age walked in. Since I am wicked smart, I deduced that she was a pharmaceutical sales person, because she was dressed attractively in a suit and carried a bag that had a "Zoloft" logo on it. She did her thing at the desk, and then, seeing that I was the only "normal" looking person in the room, came and sat next to me, as if I could offer a certain degree of succor from the insanity (literally) surrounding us in the room.

I was feeling good - I'm having a good hair day, and I'm not as pasty pale as I usually am, because heat and humidity coupled with my high blood pressure is giving me a nice, reddish hue. So I smiled at her and said, "Hi." She smiled back and said "Hello", but it was one of those "You're in here because you're crazy and I'm really scared of you so please keep your distance" greetings.

This bothered me, bothered me much more than it should have. I felt the need to make amends. So, lacking self-control, I turned to her and quietly said, "You know - I'm not really crazy."

Stupid fucking move. She looked at me, making no attempt to hide her alarm, and smiled and squirmed to the other side of her seat.

Again, this bothered me, bothered me much more than it should have.

I was very flustered at this point: here was an attractive girl my age, and all I wanted to do was make a little conversation with her to make comfortable, and in that process prove to her that I wasn't crazy, and now she was completely weirded out.

And I didn't shut up. I said something like, "No, you see, I'm sorry - I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. It's just that, you know, a lot of people here are crazy, and I'm really not. Well, most people would say I'm not. I just can't sleep, and my doctor said I should come here, and I don't even have anything good to say to the therapist, because, really, nothing's wrong with me."

Surprisingly, this didn't make her see that I'm sane. Her response of, "It's ok" and her body language which betrayed her sense of pity for me made me almost believe that I was in fact crazy. Defeated, I decided to leave it alone. I got up to use the bathroom, and when I came out, she was gone.

[I never said the story was climactic]

So what's the lesson here? Several:

1) Therapy sucks. Big time.

2) It is impossible to pick up or even talk to a woman while in a psychiatrist's waiting room.

3) As always, I am an asshole.

Happy fucking Thursday.

Wednesday, May 12, 2004
 
god bless
God bless this person (a female), who emailed me re: my Upper Hand post of Monday:

I still think you have the upper hand. Guys always get drunk and try to get their ex-girlfriends to sleep with them. This has happened to me and many of my friends more than a few times, so it really ISN'T a big deal. But you still have the upper hand because her calling you on the anniversary of your break-up is much weirder than you asking her to go home with you. That's kind of crazy.
Most of the emails I've gotten regarding this have said one of two things: "Yeah, you definitely lost the upper hand" or "You blew it, but you can blame it on the booze." But this one is really wonderful, and hits the nail on the head of the point I was trying to make: it's not a big deal. Not at all. Once you sleep with someone, it shouldn't be a big deal to sleep with them again. Sure, I was drunk and I was stupid, but whatever - I stand by my drunkeness.

[FYI: The same applies with making out - once you've made out with a person, it's ok to make out with them again, and you shouldn't have to work very hard to do so. That's the rule. I didn't make it up; I just enforce it.]

I encourage the reader who wrote this to email me again with her mailing address, so I can send her a check for $40 for cheering me up, because it's been a pretty crappy day (by the time I got down to the cafeteria to grab some lunch, the frozen yogurt machine was out of vanilla, so you can imagine the pain I'm in right now).

 
Jesus Christ
Ok, enough with the "You're gay if you get a Yorkie" emails and phone calls.

I get it. It's not the most masculine dog in the world. In my defense, my grandmother's dog, which is a Yorkie, does not look like a Yorkie, and I am trying to see if anyone in my family has a digital picture of the dog to prove this to you all.

Until that happens (if it happens), I will not be getting a Yorkie. I promise. I will get a much more masculine dog, or even a wolf, a wolf that I will capture in the wild with my bare hands while shirtless, and I will name him Thunder, and I will tame Thunder in my small apartment, and in this process we will grow to love each other, and we will discover that we can communicate telepathically, and by day we will be your average guy who masturbates way too much and is always hanging out in the pizza place with his pet wolf, but by night we will be the greatest crime-fighting duo the Upper East Side has ever seen: Thunder and Tso, he the canine badder than Cujo and more courageous than Lassie, and I the well-intentioned but overweight and not very agile ninja, who derives his strength from the most ancient chicken recipe of General Tso, handed down from 4th century China, whose spirit I can contact and consult for guidance, but only in the shower, and only when completely nude except for a special magic t-shirt.

So you get the point: no Yorkie. But thank you for the emails.

Tuesday, May 11, 2004
 
my mom
My mom is pretty hilarious, but it's because she completely doesn't get my and my brother's humor. As far as she knows, we're both successful, well-adjusted young adults, when in reality, well, pick any post.

As I mentioned yesterday, I am thinking of getting a dog for Christmas. My grandmother currently has a Yorkshire Terrier, named Stitch, and I love this dog more than anything in the world. She got the dog as a puppy from my uncle, who has two of them, and he's considering having another litter this Christmas, so I'd get one of those puppies.

I went on-line, and found a picture of a Yorkshire Terrier, and it looked nothing like Stitch, because Stitch has very short hair, so he looks a lot less, well, gay.

Below is an actual verbatim email exchange I had with my mom yesterday (Megan is my sister). You can see how a simple conversation about a dog turns into me using on-line dating services. As you read it, keep in mind that this is the woman who two months ago suggested that I try out to be the next "Bachelor" and even went so far as to ask me if she wanted me to have her "call ABC" and recommend me.

Start from the bottom.


-----Original Message-----
From: Mom
Sent: Monday, May 10, 2004 12:33 PM
To: Mulgrew, Jason
Subject: RE:


Good, I'm glad. Maybe a COOL dog would
be good practice for a kid.
Mom


-----Original Message-----
From: Mulgrew, Jason
Sent: Monday, May 10, 2004 12:07 PM
To: Mom
Subject: RE:


I don't need to look on the websites - I'm just kidding about the kid (jesus). Believe me, I'm fine.

I just want a dog because they're cool, that's all. I don't need a dog to attract chicks.


-----Original Message-----
From: Mom
Sent: Monday, May 10, 2004 12:00 PM
To: Mulgrew, Jason
Subject: RE:


Well, I'm sure you won't have any problems
finding somebody, with your looks and personality.
Look on the web sites.
Mom


-----Original Message-----
From: Mulgrew, Jason
Sent: Monday, May 10, 2004 11:46 AM
To: Mom
Subject: RE:


I have a lot of love to give, and I think the time is right in my life for a dog. I really want a kid, but I can't find anyone to help me with that.

And I don't care if people think I am gay, I just love animals.


-----Original Message-----
From: Mom
Sent: Monday, May 10, 2004 11:41 AM
To: Mulgrew, Jason
Subject: RE:


Maybe, people might think you're a little gay.
I personally think you should seriously think
about it and take Stitch for a weekend, visit
the vet, check out the prices. Megan said
you're probably getting a dog so you could
attract chicks. I said I don't think so - what's
the real reason?
Mom


-----Original Message-----
From: Mulgrew, Jason
Sent: Monday, May 10, 2004 11:35 AM
To: Mom
Subject: RE:


Maybe I should get a different dog then...


-----Original Message-----
From: Mom
Sent: Monday, May 10, 2004 11:32 AM
To: Mulgrew, Jason
Subject: RE:


Look at the face. This is Stitch, without
all the hair.


-----Original Message-----
From: Mulgrew, Jason
Sent: Monday, May 10, 2004 11:25 AM
To: Mom
Subject:

this is a Yorkshire Terrier:

http://www.akc.org/breeds/recbreeds/york.cfm

Monday, May 10, 2004
 
losing the Upper Hand (and a diatribe on drinking)
The most important thing in a relationship, and possibly the most important thing in life, is having the Upper Hand.

I mean this particularly in the post-break up sense. There is nothing quite as satisfying as knowing that your ex is doing worse than you are, and not just in the relationship “does he/she still think about me” sense, but in all of life.

When discussing this recently with a female friend, she said, “Oh, real mature Jay.” My question is: why was she surprised by this? Am I not immature? Did I not spend most of the weekend showing parts of my scrotum to my friends, saying, “Does anyone want a piece of Juicy Fruit? I chewed it up a bit, but it’s still good.”

I’ve been pretty lucky with the Upper Hand. Most of my ex-girlfriends are crazy turbo sluts who now are most likely giving beejers for cheeseburgers, while 1) I have a good job; 2) I’m probably getting a dog this Christmas; 3) I have this awesome website; and 4) well, um…I have a pretty good job.

However, I completely lost the Upper Hand with an ex this weekend. Big time.

A little history is needed first, and I’ll try to make it un-boring and quick as possible. A girl I was dating off-and-on for a long time broke up with me about a year and a half ago. I didn’t see her again until months later in the spring at our mutual friend’s birthday party. I showed up with a girl I was kind of seeing at the time, who just happened to be the hottest girl I have ever kissed and will ever kiss (she had VERY low self-esteem and believed in ghosts and spoke at length and often about this belief). Immediately upon seeing us together, she abruptly left the party.

Upper Hand: Jason.

We didn’t speak again until this past fall, when she called me wasted at 4am on her vacation on the “one year anniversary” of the day she broke up with me. This was one of those nights that my roommates, friends and I couldn’t find anything exciting to do, so I did what I normally do on nights like those: drank a liter of vodka while they got drunk and high and cheered me on. Our conversation went something like this:

Her: [really drunk] “Hi Jason.”
Me: [wasted, cross-eyed, probably playing with myself] “What?”
Her: “Are you mad at me?”
Me: [even more drunk and cross-eyed] “Why would I be mad at you?”
Her: [slurring] “Because I broke up with you.”
Me: [blown away] “Um, that was like a year and a half ago.”
Her: [very angry and offended] “Actually, it was a year ago today.”

She then proceeded to ask: 1) about the girl I was seeing, because everything I told our mutual friend went back to her; 2) about my new job, because everything I told our mutual friend went back to her; 3) about my new living situation, because everything I told our mutual friend went back to her.

Upper Hand: Jason. Like, by a lot.

After I hung up with her, my friends and I celebrated (and by “celebrated”, I mean “ordered cheese fries”). Really, there’s no better way to have the Upper Hand than by getting a drunk phone call from your ex, grilling you about your life, and asking if you hate her. It’s even better when that call comes while he/she is on vacation. And it’s even mo’ better when that call comes on the anniversary of when the ex dumped you, because remembering the date of that at the very least unhealthy, and at most really, really crazy.

Now back to this weekend. I had a couple of old college buddies in town, and the drinking was incredible. What a terrific shit show. The vodka was flowing like water on Saturday night, and before we left for the evening, my friends and I stood in my kitchen, passing the bottle back and forth, taking healthy swigs. When this happens, it’s usually a bad sign.

We had two parties to go to: one at my friend Nevin’s place, and one for the aforementioned mutual friend of myself and my ex. This was at a bar in Chelsea.

We’ll get right to the Chelsea party, because most of what I remember about Nevin’s consists of me standing around, drinking Bud bombers (16 oz cans of Bud) very quickly, as if they were putting out a fire in my mouth or as though someone said, “Hey, if you drink these Buds really, really fast and spill most of them down your shirt, I’ll give you a million dollars!”

While on the way to Chelsea, I got a message from my ex, who, keep in mind, I haven’t seen in a year and I haven’t really spoken to either. She’s with the birthday girl and they’re drunk and carrying on on my voicemail, and I’m thinking, “Hmm…this is interesting. Already I have a drunk message from her, and it’s only 1am, and I’m going to see her soon. I should probably start drinking a lot more and faster to make this less awkward.”

Not the brightest idea, but the best I had at the time.

We got to the bar in Chelsea, and right about as we arrived the vodka swilling we were doing in the kitchen hit all of us. Seriously, when we got in the cab, we were all mildly composed, and though drunk, we were pretty together. When we got out of the cab, it was like the kids from the retard camp pouring out of the short bus. We were all stumbling around, clumsily trying to light cigarettes, saying things like, “Holy shit, was that cab driving smoking PCP that we inhaled second-hand?” and “Jesus Christ, my head is spinning.”

And just as we got in the bar, the birthday girl and her boyfriend are leaving, as she was wasted out of her mind (good for her). After exchanging goodbyes, we settled in at the bar, and my ex comes over and says hello. At this point I notice that all of her friends have left the bar, meaning one thing in my drunken fat head: she stayed there by herself to hang out with me.

More drinking, more talking. About what, I really don’t know. I’m assuming normal, inane stuff like, “So how are things with you?” and “How are your parents?” and the like.

The bar was beat, so we all decided to go to another place. As we’re walking out of the bar, my buddy Joe staggers into the street and falls. Hard. Like, really, really hard. I can’t describe how hilarious this was, so I won’t try, but I will say it was probably the best thing that has ever happened to me.

We pick him up and resume the sojourn to the next place, and my ex comes up and starts walking next to me.

And this is where I lose the Upper Hand.

I don’t know how it came up, but I’m guessing I just jumped out and said in mid-conversation, “You know what? We should just probably go home together right now.” Her response: “That’s not a good idea.”

So for the next ten or so minutes, our conversation went like this:

Me: “Why don’t we just go home together?”
Her: “No.”
Me: “Why not? It’s really not a big deal.”
Her: “Jason…”
Me: “What? Don’t you know the rule?”
Her: “What rule?”
Me: “The rule that once you sleep with someone once, it’s not a big deal if you sleep with them again.”
Her: “That’s not the rule.”
Me: “Of course it is. I didn’t make it up. So we should just go home together now.”
Her: “Jason…”
Me: “What? Do you want me to call Ben right now? He’ll tell you it’s the rule – I won’t even talk to him first. You can ask him yourself. I swear I will call him right now.”
Her: “No Jason.”
Me: “It’s not a big deal.”
Her: “No, I can’t. I’m dating someone.”
Me: “So what? Me too! [blatant lie] Really, it’s not a problem.”
Her: [shaking her head]
Me: “What? Am I wrong here? Not a big deal, not a problem.”

So yes, I basically begged my ex-girlfriend, the same one that I have enjoyed such a lop-sided Upper Hand on since we broke up, to come home with me. A girl who, sober, I have absolutely no sexual interest in, but under the spell of booze, I felt compelled to seduce.

Upper Hand: her. Like, by a lot.

Surprisingly, she didn’t come to the next bar, and decided instead to head home (I have no idea why). At the next bar, I remember very little besides drinking tonic-based drinks. I was there for an indeterminate amount of time (fifteen minutes? two hours?) before leaving my friends and getting a cab home by myself.

For the first time ever, I passed out in a cab. When I woke up we were at my corner, and the cabbie had gotten out of the driver’s seat, opened my door, and was shaking me awake (I’m sure he only did so after he rubbed his bird all over my face).

I made it up to my apartment and started going through my normal end of the night routine: taking Aleve and drinking water. You’re only supposed to take one Aleve, but I always take two for good measure. The problem is, this time around I was so drunk I didn’t realize that I had already taken the Aleve, so I had at least four of them, and possibly six.

When I realized this, I flipped the fuck out. The back of the Aleve bottle says that you shouldn’t take more than three in a twenty-four hour span, and I had taken possibly six in five minutes. So I did the only thing I could do: make myself throw up, so that I wouldn’t have to be rushed to the hospital and have my stomach pumped.

After that, I passed out in my bed (when my roommate later came home, he said “Invisible” by Clay Aiken was playing on my iPod).

So yes, it wasn’t my finest night. I got way too drunk, lost the Upper Hand, and had to force myself to throw up because I had taken too many aspirin.

But you know what? I fucking loved it. I love getting fucked up. I love waking up in the morning/afternoon, hungover as a mother fucker, with an uncooked, half-eaten hot dog crushed into my bed sheets, my breath stinking like puke, asking questions of my friends like, “Did you make it out last night?” and getting answers like, “Dude, I hung out with you. Remember – you were talking for like an hour about how Stephen Hawking is a sack of shit and overrated and how you normally wouldn’t hit a cripple but you’d definitely 'take him out' if given the chance.”

I love walking into my roommates’ rooms with bloodshot eyes and quivering hands saying, “Dude, I think I made a fool of myself last night” or “Dude, I think I started a fight with a gang of homeless men over a Pepsi.”

I love to drink, because it gives me the courage and license to do and say whatever I want, things that under normal circumstances I would never dream of doing, but because I am boozed-up, I am indestructible, unstoppable, infallible.

Some friends my age are slowing their drinking down and think others should do the same, because “we are getting too old for this.” To them, I say, “shut up, loser, and take off the skirt.” I’m 24 – I only have about five or six good years left before I either dupe someone into marrying me or at least knock a girl up. I have enough money to live well and few responsibilities to worry about. I am surrounded by many friends in the most exciting city in the world. I will have plenty of time to be old and mature when I am old and mature. For now, I will continue to booze, make an ass of myself, and, to paraphrase Frank the Tank, have an awesome time.

Now all I have to do is get through this work week to do it again this weekend. Damn it.

Friday, May 07, 2004
 
oh, one other thing
The author I pimped a few posts ago (Steve Almond, check him at www.stevenalmond.com) is doing a signing of his book "Candyfreak" here in NYC at Dylan's Candy Bar in midtown tomorrow at 2pm. The exact details are on his website. It's a nice opportunity to do something cultural and act like I think about other things besides jokes about retards, boobs, and food. Of course, this isn't true, but we can keep that a secret.

 
update
It's now almost four, and I not only haven't left the apartment on this beautiful Friday afternoon, I haven't even put on pants yet.

After my last post, I feel asleep (understandably exhausted from the pancake consumption and the masturbation). I woke up and took a long shower, and listened to "Kokomo" about one-hundred times on full blast, breaking into a little dance each time the sax solo came around.

For the past thirty or so minutes I've been laying on the couch, shirtless, watching the History Channel, and eating Oreos. I'm almost through the bag, but I don't have any plans once I'm finished. I'm guessing there will be another masturbatory session, this time at my roommate's computer (he is at work - sorry Ben).

Yeah, I've got nothing. But now I am really tired from all this typing, so I think it's time for another nap.

I love having off. I love even more completing wasting that time off.

 
off today
I took off today, because apparently I don't work on Fridays on anymore.

It's a little after 1pm, and so far I've masturbated twice and have eaten about 3 pounds of pancakes.

And that's really all I have planned.

[Have a good weekend]

Thursday, May 06, 2004
 
awesomeness at work
Apparently, when you get to a superior position or a position of authority in work, you lose that part of your brain that recognizes that things take time to be done correctly. I was just given an ass-load of comments on a presentation I prepared for a partner, and was working on integrating his illegible and often unhelpful comments when he called:

Him: "How's the presentation going?"
Me: "Good. I should be done in 30-45 minutes."
Him: "Doesn't work for me. I need something in 15 minutes."
Me: "Um, ok, but I'm still working through the draft, and then I have to enter this into our database and the program takes a while to get the changes and - "
Him: "I need something in 15 minutes."
Me: [sigh] "I'll try."
Him: "Tha-" [trying to get out "Thanks", but hanging up on me half-way through].

Twelve minutes later, the phone rings:
Him: "I need to see something."
Me: "Um, ok, I'll print what I have and bring it around."

In his office, he reviews the changes that I've only partially input:
Him: [exasperated, frustrated] "This needs a lot of work."
Me: "Well, I'm not finished with it yet."
Him: "Why did you bring me something that's not finished?"
Me: "Because you said you needed it."
Him: "I do need it, and I still don't have it. Finish it, and bring it back in 15 minutes."

So that's where are now. I'm expecting a call, oh, in about twenty seconds, but I've spent the last 15 minutes on the phone, and writing this (I don't deal well with pressure I guess).

Sometimes I wonder why I work at all, instead of quitting, and starting my own dog-walking business. Oh wait, I'm terrified of dogs. That's right.

 
technical difficulties
Yesterday, I had some technical difficulties with the site and couldn't post in the afternoon, and some of you emailed and said you couldn't access it. For this I am sorry, but there's really no use in complaining to the people who run the site, because this shit is free. Also, I'm not good at complaining, because while doing so the slightest thing will set me off, and that usually means some sort of racist remark follows, irregardless of the person's race.

Me: "Yeah, there's a problem with my blog."
Them: "Well, it's a free site, sir, we don't have customer service."
Me: [inordinately angry, yelling, and sweating] "Hey, don't get mad at me because you're Jewish!"
Them: "I'm not Jewish sir, I'm Christian."
Me: "Yeah, whatever - dick."

Also, on a lighter note, "happy birthday" wishes to Dana (4/29), Mark (4/30), Nevin (5/2), Julie and Marji (5/5 - not twins), Jeni (5/6), Bill (5/7), and Joe and Lara (5/9 - not twins either).

I am such a good friend.

Wednesday, May 05, 2004
 
three things that bother me
1) Braille. Have you ever run your fingers over the Braille "translation" of a public sign? It begs the question: who are we kidding with Braille? That's not letters - they're fucking bumps. Seriously, next time you see a Braille sign, feel it. That's not letters or words. No way. Braille is a fraud.

2) Those Sam Adams commercials. How creepy is the guy playing Sam Adams? It's very uncool, and it really doesn't make me want to buy their beer. What was cool was their ad campaign for Sam Adams Light - for a time, my friends and I would order them at bars, take a sip, then yell, "Yeah!" Now that's an ad campaign, not some creepy dude dressed up like a Colonial Williamsburg mother fucker saying, "Always a good decision."

3) Peter Gammons constantly mentioning music my little sister listens to in his ESPN articles. Peter, you are a seventy year-old baseball reporter. You don't need to finish every article you write talking about how great John Mayer's new cd is, or quoting lines from Jack Johnson in your articles. Please, give it a rest. Thank you.

Tuesday, May 04, 2004
 
movin' on up
I am on the verge of doing something that I once thought was unthinkable: moving to the Upper East Side.

I know, I know...the Upper East Side? The center of lameness, lacking of character, homogenous - I've heard it all. But there are three reasons:

1) The place is sick. I mean, really, really sick. While the common room and kitchen aren't that much bigger than my current apartment, I'd have a giant bedroom with my own bathroom. The merits of having my own bathroom can be debated, because while it is nice to not have to share the bathroom with anyone of my masturbatory-fiend roommates, I may never leave the confines of my room and bathroom, instead choosing to spend all my time with my shower running, steaming up my quarters like a Turkish sauna, complete with hairy middle-aged men (this wouldn't be too different from my current apartment).

2) The Lower East Side, for all its reputation as the hippest part of town, is beginning to seem more and more like the place where the nerdy kids from high school come to live and be "cool". Seriously, have you looked at these hipsters? You know they were getting their asses kicked in high school and ostracized in college, but all of a sudden their the toast of New York City because they have one of those "it looks like I just woke up but it actually took me forty-five minutes to do my hair" haircuts and they're graphic designers. Isn't the basic tenet of coolness "trying too hard is not cool?" Did these people not learn this along the way?

3) Did I mention the place is sick? It's got a pool, which is good if I decide to ever take my shirt off in public again (you can't keep your shirt on, because it's an indoor pool, so I can't use my old "I burn easily" excuse). It's got a healthclub, and tanning deck for me to watch women tanning and rub myself while talking dirty (to myself).

Also, it's filled with people around my age, so that means I'll have about nine "building crushes" in about a week! And that means in about a month I'll be forced to move out of the apartment because one night I got a little drunk and stood outside the door of one my building crushes and cried and masturbated for four hours!

So you see how everybody wins.

And, if anyone you know is looking for a cheap ($2000 for a 3 bedroom) apartment on the LES, email me. We're having an open house tomorrow night.

Monday, May 03, 2004
 
god damn it Meadow
I hate to repeat myself, but it can not be said enough: Jamie Lynn DiScala is the worst actress in all of the entire universe. Her performance last night on "The Sopranos" was downright laughable. That bit about how her dad's friends have "modes of aggression" from the "Old World" had my roommates and I in stitches (and sure, we were super high, but still).

How can of the producers/directors of the show yell "Cut!" after a scene of hers and be satisfied? You're telling me they don't know that she projects as much life as a corpse (and one that's been dead a long, long time)? Seriously, she's about as believable as I was that one Thanksgiving when I was all fucked up on 'ludes and I told my cousin Lindsay that I had never thought of giving a guy a hand job (I mean, of course I've thought about it - who hasn't?). They could bring in a donkey to play Meadow for the rest of the season and I think it'd be better. And I'm not talking like a smart donkey here who can jump through hoops or juggle or do basic math - just a normal, plain old donkey.

God damn it - I don't know why I get so worked up about this. Does anyone agree with me?

I mean, shit.

 
bender
What a glorious bender, boozing Wednesday through Saturday night. I thought that I was getting too old to drink that much, but then someone goes and puts it in front of me, and well, you know how it ends: on the floor of a gas station bathroom in rural Pennsylvania, so drunk and hungry that you would kill your little sister with your bare hands for $3 to get that "two hot dogs and a bag of Dorritos" special.

God I fucking love Dorritos. And isn't "Dorrito" a really cool name? Like, for a dog, or a really fat Mexican guy?

Anyway, Saturday night was wonderful. My friend Nevin had a birthday dinner at the Big Easy on the UES, which has a phenomenal special - $55 gets you a bunch of appetizers, and entree, and all the booze you can drink from 7-10pm.

Naturally, we abused this special, tearing through pitchers, and ordering double vodka tonics in pint glasses (is there anything better than ordering a double vodka tonic in a pint glass? Well, anything better that's legal and moral? Obviously, vandalism, arson and hitting your enemies with a car that you've stolen from your Uncle Billy's housewarming party are better, but unfortunately, I know all too well they are illegal. Especially that last one. Trust me.)

At about 9pm, panic mode set in, because there was only one hour left to abuse our bodies with liquor. So we ordered a round of shots, and shortly fifteen SoCo & Lime shots were delivered. Ten minutes later, we did this again. Ten minutes after that, again. This went on until 10pm came 'round.

The horrible beauty of doing shots is the delayed reaction. Immediately after taking the shot, you might feel a little queasy, but the full effect hasn't really hit you yet. That doesn't happen until you try to get off the barstool to take a piss, and you fall down and break your wrist because your skimpy girlish wrist isn't strong enough to break your fall and can't stop 200+ pounds of drunken maniac and fury falling to the ground. Not that I've ever done that.

And the delayed reaction was no different this time around for me. I wound up doing ten shots in an hour (in addition to the other booze I'd been pounding for three hours), because people got too drunk to do their shots and kept passing them to me. I should mention that I wasn't nearly the biggest boozehound at the table - my friend Nicole, instead of continuing to pass the shots down the table when the waitress dropped them off, would drink them up as they reached her, at one point doing six in a row. Sure, it's only SoCo & Lime, but six shots in a row for a girl, well - it's a shame she has a boyfriend, and she is NOT racist, because otherwise we'd be a perfect couple.

[An aside: turns out those shots we were doing we NOT included in the all you can drink special. When the waiter came over with the egregiously high bill, it lead to this exchange:

Me: "I thought shots were included in this."
Waiter: [motioning to my friend Lara, who set up the party and was the mouthpiece through which we ordered the drinks] "No, I told that girl over there that the first round was on me."
Me: [going over to Lara, hoping the waiter is lying] "Lara, what did the waiter say to you about the shots?"
Lara: "Oh - he said that the first one was on him."

Information that would have been useful before ordering $200 of SoCo & Lime. Thanks again Lara.]

We left that bar and went to Blue & Gold in the East Village, which should really just change its name now to "Home of the Bathroom that Jason Mulgrew Died In", because $3 everything and I really don't mix too well. More drinking continued, and then, while I was sitting talking with some friends, it hit me: that "Dude, I'm a REALLY fucked up right now" flash. I completely shut down. I stopped talking, and couldn't keep my eyes open (drinking until 7:30am on Friday night probably had something to do with this too). I pulled out my cell and said, "I'm going to make a call" and took off for home.

Sadly, I missed out on something that surely would have changed my life. My friend Terry's "girlfriend" and her friend (a girl) showed up at the bar after I left and starting making out all over the place. My roommate Ben described it thusly: "I've never been into girls making out or whatever, but Jay, it was the sexiest thing I've ever seen in my life. They were all touching up on one another and rubbing each other's hair - it was love, pure and simple. And I could not stop staring."

Just my luck. But hey, good for Terry. I am sure he took his girl home and tried to murder her with his penis.

Some day perhaps I will be so lucky.

But probably not.

Unless "lucky" means hungover.

Ok.


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