Friday, September 17, 2004
too hungover for a title, and sweating too
All I can say about Ray Lamontagne's concert last night was "wow". What a moving performance. When he did "Burn In My Skin", I completely broke down. He actually stopped playing and came over to console me. Later, we made love. It was magical.
Actually, believe it or not, none of that happened. The show was cancelled because Ray was "sick". I'm taking "sick" to me that Ray realized he was about to play for 80 people in a bookstore and was like, "Fuck this. Hey, who's that fat kid jerking off by the General History section?"
Needless to say, the six people I brought to the show with me were not happy. However, we recovered and regrouped fairly well, and headed to a local watering hole to get drunk. There I sat through barbs like, "Dude, that show was awesome - I'm so glad I came all the way from Brooklyn for it" and "You were right - Ray is a really good performer. I liked when he did - Oh wait, he didn't do anything. There was no show. Thanks, dick."
Apparently, Mr. Lamontagne ignored the cardinal rule: do not fuck with Jason Mulgrew. From this day forward, I will do everything in power to tear him down and make him unhappy. I guess no one told him that I hold grudges like a mother fucker, that I have an uncle I haven't spoken to since 1986 when he ate a Chipwich that I had saved, that one time I punched a fellow little leaguer because his nickname was Fat Chops, which was always my nickname, that because of a previous bad experience with a brunette I refuse to date women with dark hair, that I have very little to do besides make other people as unhappy, ornery and celibate as I am.
I'm just kidding! I'm actually a happy, well-adjusted person! Sure, I spend 50% of my time thinking of jokes about retards, but that's totally normal! I love life, and have a normal libido that hasn't been transformed into ravenous, almost criminal lust due to watching too much pornography! Seriously!
I learned that it's not good to talk about my upcoming weekend plans in this space. This is because if I say something like, "You guys, I'm gonna get so fucked up this weekend and do some crazy shit" and I go out to an Irish pub to cry in my beer, I have nothing to write about and I look like a loser (as if I don't look like a loser already).
But I am actually afraid of this weekend. I am afraid for myself, my liver, and anyone with a vagina within twenty feet of me. The reason? I have three friends coming up from Philly, two of which I wrote about when they duped me into passing counterfeit bills one night. I spoke to one of them recently, and it went:
Friend: "Dude, you'd better be ready for this weekend."
Me: "I'm tired. I wanted to take it easy this weekend."
Friend: "No, fuck that. We're gonna go crazy this weekend."
Friend: "I'm serious. You see that website that you have? We're going to get a friggin' sitcom after this weekend because the shit we do is gonna be so crazy."
Me: "We're gonna get a sitcom?"
Friend: "No, not you - us. We don't need you."
We're supposed to be going to the Yankee game tonight, which I pray will be canceled before my fat ass goes to the Bronx. I can think of nothing I'd rather do than sit in the rain for two hours on a Friday, when I could be out spending my pay on vodka tonics.
But otherwise, the weekend is open, and I'm going to pull a Cerrano and say, "Bring that shit to me, man!" My friends have promised me a crazy weekend, so I'm going to sit back and let them do all the work. Unless we're at a strip club, because then I won't sit back. On the contrary, I will sit up and be very creepy and touchy-feely. God I love strip clubs.
[Anyway, have a good weekend and do something good you lazy asses. And remember, I love you. I'm not lying. I really do.]