Everything is wrong with me
Tuesday, November 30, 2004
some morning numbers
The last time I saw on the clock last night before falling asleep, despite being in bed for two and a half hours. I was unable to fall asleep because when I am alone in the dark I become a psychopath (and not the cool kind). I spent that time worrying about such topics as:
- "Am I having a heart attack?"
- "Did I turn off the burners on the stove?"
- "Man, I really need to get going on these Christmas cards."
- "Did I set my alarm?"
- "I really need my Christmas bonus to be huge, or otherwise I am fucked."
- "I should have put that chicken breast in the chilli tonight and let it marinate. Fuck."
- "Seriously, I think I am having a heart attack."
4:51, 5:41, 6:22
Times I saw on my clock as I woke up intermittently throughout the night, worrying about the above topics. I'd like to take this time to go on record to say that six months of therapy for my sleeping problems worked wonders.
Therapist: "How are you Jason?"
Me: "Really tired. Can I get some sleeping pills?"
Therapist: "No. Now tell me again about your parents' divorce."
Me: "Didn't we talk about that last week, and every week before it?"
Therapist: "Yes, and let's do so again."
Me: "I really don't think that's the problem."
Therapist: [interrupting] "So you say the problems at home started in first grade..."
Time I eventually got out of bed (I usually get up at 7:45)
Time I got to the elevator on my floor and pushed the "down" button.
Time I finally got to the lobby, after waiting for the elevator for ten minutes. Surprisingly, another elevator is broken in our building. After each of the three was shut down for a week for repairs, causing incredible homicide-inducing delays, there is another problem. This time, one of the elevators has a loose cable. And, of course, it's going to take a week to repair it, because that's the minimum amount of time it takes to repair any problem in an elevator that services 1200 people. I'm expecting next to see a memo from the management saying:
"Please be advised that elevator #2 will not be in operation for the next ten days. The button for the 19th floor does not light when it is pressed, and we will be repairing this faulty button during this time. We apologize for the huge inconvenience this will cause, and how it will basically ruin every day for you for the next ten days. Thank you for your cooperation and fuck you."
Time I got to the subway at 96th & Lexington.
After just missing the previous train, time the next subway train finally came.
Time, in minutes, the train sat in the station, with its doors open and packed with people, before moving. Five minutes may not seem like a long time, and it isn't a long time when you're catching a beejer or getting a lap dance. But five minutes trapped in a cramped train, after you've already waited for your elevator and said train for over twenty minutes, standing next to an extremely fat woman who's breathing through her mouth and doing so VERY loudly - that can be a very, very long five minutes.
Time, in minutes, it took me to get from my apartment into a moving train.
Time, in minutes, this should take.
Time, in minutes, it took me every day to get from my apartment door to my office building when I lived on the Lower East Side.
(Can you tell I'm still a little bitter about moving to the wasteland that is the Upper East Side? Because I am. A lot.)
Level of hatred, on a scale of 1 to 10, I felt for a (different) morbidly obese woman sitting in front of me (as I stood) on the train, reading the paper no more than two centimeters away from her face. Seriously, the paper had to be touching the tip of her nose. This got me very pissed off and led to this fantasy exchange:
Me: [breaking down] "God damn it! Why do you have to read the paper so close to your damn face?!?"
Fat Woman: [sad] "I have bad eyesight!"
Me: [getting angrier] "Well maybe if you didn't eat so many fucking hoagies your eyesight wouldn't be so bad, you fucking truck!"
Minutes late I was to work
Number of times I was corrected by co-workers or superiors in our Tuesday morning status meeting for misstating what I was working on, misstatements due to ignorance, incompetence, exhaustion, and anger.
WORST. MORNING. EVER.
I am going home at 6pm and getting $12 worth of Taco Bell, eating a pint of Haagen Dazs Vanilla Caramel Brownie, getting high in my tub, rubbing one out, and then going to bed at 8:30.
Monday, November 29, 2004
Did you miss me? Well, I missed you. And yes, in that way. It's good to be back.
Well, actually that's not true at all - it's not good to be back. I've spent the last five days overeating, drinking, and eating my dad's prescription painkillers like jellybeans (sorry dad). When my alarm went off at 7:15 this morning, I nearly pissed myself out of anxiety, and my commute this morning took over an hour, during which I nearly shat myself because my stomach is not ready to digest foods that do not contain at least a half stick of butter or a cup of heavy cream. So it's actually horrible to be back. Absolutely fucking horrible. Thanks for asking.
Three things of note which have been sorted out in my post-gorging haze:
1) Way too many of my family members read this site.
I should note that "way too many" family members reading this would be one, since I don't think any aunt or cousin or whatever wants to hear about me masturbating with a Santa hat on or getting fucked up and nearly choking to death on a sausage.
Knowing that my family reads this makes me very uncomfortable. The first thing my uncle said to me when I got to his house on the afternoon of Thanksgiving was, "So when are you coming out?" (referencing Tuesday's post). Sure, my mom and dad do not read it, but I told them if they ever do to read it to lie to me and say that they haven't/don't (following my old relationship axiom: "If you cheat on me, just don't tell me, because otherwise I'll murder you"), so I guess I'll never know.
But really, is this not my fault? Did I not start this using my real name, and even passed it on to some older cousins? Did I not think that this would come back to haunt me?
The question is whether the price of fame is worth it. I am ok with everyone in my family knowing intimate (and I don't mean "intimate" in the pretty, making love slowly while listening to R&B way) details of my life, as long as I have internet quasi-celebrity status and all its accoutrements? The answer: I guess. I only see my family rarely, so I can deal with it. As far as the accoutrements of internet quasi-celebrityness, there are none. Definitely not in the "free and easy beejers" department. Definitely not there.
2) I am the worst poker player in the world.
In addition to being drunks, my family are also gamblers. This is a relatively new phenomenon; I remember after Thanksgiving (and Christmas) of last year playing poker around my aunt's house until the wee hours of the morning and taking everyone's money. I was on fire - at one point I stepped outside to get some air, and three hot chicks showed up out of nowhere and blew the shit out of me. Seriously. Ok, well, not seriously.
Last year, my family seemed new to the whole poker thing, but that didn't stop me from brutalizing them and bragging about it ("Well, I have 2 Kings here, but then - wait a minute - what's this? Oh, that looks like a third King. And something else is here in this pile of cards that I have before me - can anyone make this out? It looks to me like 2 Aces. Can someone please check this? My eyesight is poor. Is that 3 Kings and 2 Aces? So I win? Oh good. I am going to donate this Church, first thing in the morning. Also, you guys suck. I'm ashamed to be related to you. I haven't seen a beating this bad since my last girlfriend threw out my Oreos because they were stale. One.").
But this year, my family really upped the ante. As Thanksgiving was drawing to a close, my uncle pulled out a full set of poker chips, and we began to play (first Texas Hold 'Em, then 7-Card Stud).
And boy, was I off. Like, really, really off. I said before we even started that I was due for a loss, since I had been playing some most excellent poker. Of course, realizing this did not stop me from talking a good game, calling my cousins (both male and female, ages 16-22) "chumps", "losers", and, as I got drunker, "cockasses".
The bad karma came back to haunt me, because I was cold. Ice cold. It was as though some of the cards I was getting were in another language, and not even part of a standard deck. By 2am, I think I had once gotten dealt a 14, three of my cards seemed to be in Russian, and one just said "You suck at this, fatass." It was awful.
Also, we were playing dealer calls wilds, so that means the person dealing while dealing could say, "Ok, in this hand, 7's are wild", so that any 7 could be any suit, any number or face. And in about twenty hands, I think I got maybe three wild cards. And each time this happened, a competitor would have five of a kind or a royal flush. Not good.
But I'm happy to report that I battled back at the end, and after seven hours (!) I left with my $20 buy-in back and an extra $20, which went straight up my nose the next night. Good times, and I'm looking forward to playing again on Christmas, when I hope to be a little more lucky, and a little more high.
3) Home improvement projects in my house are never announced.
My dad realizes that his two sons are failures. Sure, we're both good at reading and stuff, but I can barely turn on a light and my brother uses the tool set my dad got him before he went to college as cooking implements and utensils. This causes much distress to my dad, who I have mentioned, has tattoos and loves only two things: fixing shit and cigarettes (oh, and Bad Company - he loves that fucking band).
Also, my brother and I are incredibly lazy. I remember growing up I'd do anything to get out of doing some home improvement-type project, and to this end I've faked numerous maladies, including but not limited to diarrhea, a hamstring pull, seizures, and a drug overdose that got me out of redoing the basement for a whole week (score!).
But my dad still needs us for home improvement projects, because at the very least we can lift things or hold them in place. Sure, we may not take orders well, like when during the last project he asked me for an allen wrench and I handed him a picture of a puppy that I thought was cute, but at the very least we're bodies with hands.
Because my brother and I avoid home improvements projects like women avoid me after I've had thirteen drinks or whenever or all the time, they are never announced. This was the case this past week, when my dad called my brother over to his house (where I was staying), and when he arrived my dad said only to my brother and I, "I need yous to take a ride with me."
"I need yous to take a ride with me" is the death knell, the phrase that sets off the alarm in my brain that screams, "Manual labor is imminent! Manual labor is imminent! Avoid at all costs!" My brother and I have learned to recognize this phrase instantly as the beginning of something terrible. We learned very early that when my father said this, he wasn't planning on taking us to get ice cream or to the flower show. No, that usually means a trip to Home Depot or the hardware store or I don't know - some other manly place with tools and shit.
And so we went to Lowe's to get twelve feet of flooring for my mom's kitchen. My dad explained that the project, which would be undertaken the next day, would be easy. Nothing about moving a refrigerator and stove and "tracing the measurements" and "making cuts" sounded easy to me. So what did I do? I left Philly, and came back to NYC that night. Instead of helping put in a my floor in my mom's kitchen, I got into NYC at 10pm on Friday night so my roommate Brian and I could sit in our living room pounding Bud Lights, going through them so quickly and being so lazy about it that instead of getting up and getting a beer, we were grabbing two at a time and sitting them on the table in front of us, because we are the laziest drunks in the world. And, oh yeah, we're awesome.
In my defense, I did call the next day to see how the project was going, and my dad said it was going quite well, thanks in no small part to the fact that I was not there to fuck it up and say things like, "Can we take a break? I really want some coconut cream pie" or having exchanges with my dad like:
Me: "Dad, my arm hurts. Is it supposed to hurt like this when I hold this cutter-thingee?"
Dad: [smoking] "Jase, you haven't even done anything yet, except stand there, complain that your legs hurt from standing, and read your sister's US Weekly."
Me: [screaming, then storming off] "Why can't you accept that I'm not like you, dad?!? You just don't understand me!!!"
Dad: [smoking, shaking head] "Christ."
And so another Thanksgiving is in the books. And now, the shit show begins, as Christmas rapidly approaches. One word: bring on the egg nog!
[And yes, I know that's five words. I'm trying some new cerebral humor on you guys. Hope you like it!]
Tuesday, November 23, 2004
Ah, Thanksgiving: the holiest day in the Christian calendar and my personal favorite holiday.
Many non-Christians don’t know this, but in the Christian faith Thanksgiving celebrates the day in 1961 when Jesus Christ beat Satan in the now infamous “Shake ‘Em Down, Break ‘Em Down” arm wrestling match in Santa Ana, California. Historians and theologians alike are still debating about the exact circumstances and sequence of events, but what most agree on is that Satan had way too much sangria before the match and was not at the top of his game and Jesus was saying really, really racist things (apparently, two days prior, a group of African-American youths had stolen His car, a sweet cherry red ‘vette that He had picked up at a state auction only three weeks before, and He was very upset about this).
I’m not quite sure how “pilgrims” and “Indians” got involved in Thanksgiving, since historical research has proven that the pilgrims actually never left mainland Korea and Indians, just like the unicorn, the phoenix, and women who aren’t completely fucking nuts, are a myth. I blame the bastardization of the Thanksgiving holiday entirely on the Jews, who have had it out for Christ for over 4,000 years and have been trying to take the “Christ” out of “Thanksgiving” since at least the early 1980’s, possibly even before then.
[I’m really coming out firing today, eh? In two paragraphs, I’ve made fun of Christians, blacks, women, Native Americans and Jews. Do you see what the holidays do to me? What kind of stress they put me under? I knew I should have waited until January to stop taking that damn Lexapro.]
Also, Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, for fairly obvious reasons. Any day on which all I have to do is wake up and eat until I throw up is ok with me.
Thanksgiving, which is often held on a Thursday, gives rise to the night before Thanksgiving, which is the “biggest drinking night of the year.” The entire American population, knowing that they have the day off work the next day and only have to overeat, spends the night before Thanksgiving getting bombed. Yours truly has a Thanksgiving Eve ritual which involves a $10 all you can drink draft special for five hours, followed by an evening-ending Reuben and bowl of French Onion soup at 3am, and a drive to check out the hookers at 12th & Locust to see if Touchy Heather is around (I never loved anyway like I loved Touchy Heather. Let’s talk about something else before I fucking lose it.).
In addition to the traditional Thanksgiving activities – eating, drinking, trying to ignore the smell of marijuana smoke wafting from the bathroom after Uncle Teddy and his new girlfriend Starla come out of it – my family has its own unique Thanksgiving tradition: gambling about whether this is the year I finally come out of the closet.
Yes, it’s an age-old tradition in the Mulgrew household. This lil’ game started in 1997 during my senior year of high school after my dad caught me singing, “Everything I Do (I Do It For You)” to a poster of Johnny Depp. Two months after that at Thanksgiving dinner, I had fallen asleep after my third slice of pie and fourth Percocet, but as I drifted in and out of consciousness, I overheard my family talking about the following five topics:
1) Jason is gay, right?
2) I don’t think so.
3) No, I’m pretty sure he is.
4) Yeah, you’re right.
5) When do you think he’ll tell everyone?
I vaguely recall (the Percocets were very delicious) that many of my family members chose 2004 as the date that I would come, nay, hop, skip, and jump out of the closet, and there’s like a $400 pot at stake here.
So to any family members reading this, for a 40% cut, I’ll tell everyone I’m gay. Seriously, I really need the cash. Just make sure you talk to me about this before I hit the egg nog, because you know what kind of terrible drunk I am when I get all filled with alcohol-laced dairy.
In the meantime, it is very important this time of year to be thankful for what we have. So below I have whipped up a short list of what I am thankful for, in no particular order (but the last one is my favorite).
I am thankful for:
- baked macaroni and cheese
- the push-up bra
- easily spreadable butter products (i.e. Country Crock)
- fat women who don’t care that they’re fat and really know how to have fun
- the live version of Elvis Costello’s “Motel Matches” from “Goodbye Cruel World”
- getting letters in the mail
- ice cold cans of Natural Light
- the Pill
- having my own bathroom
- a really fucking good cheeseburger
- my iPod
- $3 shots at Blue & Gold
- the lovely Hispanic women who do my laundry for me
- really, really gay men
- potatoes au gratin
- Terrell Owens
- slow dancing
- dads with moustaches
- taking egregiously long hot showers
- women who tan
- VH1 Classic
- my bookcase which makes me look really smart
- my job (seriously)
- Red Bull
- when women wear blouses and they move a certain way that the fabric between buttons collapses and you catch a glimpse of their boobies
- creamed chipped beef
- growing a beard
- Otis Redding
- Sam Smith’s Nut Brown Ale, Guinness, Newcastle
- baked ziti
- throwing the old pigskin around
- King Charles II
- hotel rooms
- my family and friends and blah blah blah
- breakfast meat
- Adriana Lima (good lord)
- Luden’s Wild Cherry cough drops
- sour cream
- Glenn Tilbrook’s live performances
- being hungover on a Saturday in the fall when it’s 47º and rainy and staying in bed in the cold sheets, blankets and pillows until 3pm
- Citrico Gatorade
- my beard/pubes/chest hair/back hair trimmer
- when women wear skirts
- old people who curse a lot
- fat black women who can really fucking sing
- keg beer
- Bloomsbury, London
- getting high and listening to Beulah’s “Hello Resolven” fifty times in a row
- watching people beat the shit out of each other
- Bill Murray
- Limewire and the entire Gnutella network
- you all passing on this site/linking me on your sites so that I’ve obtained a modicum of “fame”, which in turn has gone straight to my head and when my roommates ask me to do the dishes or clean up causes me to yell, “Do you know who the fuck I am?”
[I won’t be posting for the rest of the week, since I will be out of work and home in Philly resting. And by “resting” I mean worsening my relationship with my family by refusing to wear pants. Have a happy and safe Thanksgiving, and for those not in the US, have a good rest of the week.]
Monday, November 22, 2004
Nothing to post today. I actually have something, but it's only about 80% done, and I'm not going to be able to finish it. And I can't give you something that's only 80% done; that's like making yourself a nice chicken parm dinner, but being so damn fat you can't wait until it's fully cooked, so you take it out of the oven before it's done and eat it anyway, and wind up giving yourself Salmonella food poisoning and spending the next two days with your head over your toilet throwing up and your ass in your tub shitting because you can't do one without doing the other.
I know, I know - I let myself down too. But I'll get you tomorrow. Promise. And I don't mean that in the "Daddy's just going to the store and he'll be right back Jason" way, I mean it for real. Promise.
Hugs and kisses,
Thursday, November 18, 2004
R. Kelly and a Yankee wife, Southern ladies, burgers with poison, the cokehead GM, music, email, off
R. Kelly is quickly becoming the most hilarious celebrity on the planet. I'm sure that many of you have heard, but another R. Kelly sex tape has surfaced. Though this one doesn't have any pee or underage girls involved (we don't think), it purports to be a threesome between R. Kelly, the wife of NY Yankees' outfielder Gary Sheffield, DeLeon, and an unknown woman.
This came to light after a self-proclaimed minister in Chicago contacted Sheffield's representatives and asked for $20,000 to "counsel" Sheffield's wife and to make sure the tapes were destroyed.
I'm not really surprised by this: another R. Kelly tape is like the latest installment of the Bond films, so it was only a matter of time before something popped up. What does surprise me is the fact that Sheffield, a notorious headcase, is being so supportive of his wife. His exact comments were, "I have not seen the alleged videotape, nor do I care to...I love my wife, and I vow again to stand by her through any trial or tribulation."
I refused to believe that Gary Sheffield said this, since the guy eat steroids like I eat dumplings (read: a lot). This is what his reps have spun for the media, but I'm sure his reaction was actually closer to, "I'm'a kill you bitch!"
But of course in any situation like this, there are a litany of humorous quotes or media clips. On of my favorites comes from Sheff's wife's mother, courtesy of that bastion of journalistic integrity, the NY Post, who says,
Richards [Sheffield's mother-in-law] admitted to The Post that her daughter had a relationship with allegedly kinky crooner Kelly. But she said the affair was so tumultuous it drove her into the arms of another man — Jesus Christ.Right after she dated R. Kelly, she was saved, but she was a gospel singer from age 3? What, was she doing gospel because she just really dug the music? Also, do you think that a traumatic event, like say, recording a sex tape threesome, led her to Jesus Christ? Also, what does Jesus Christ think about getting R. Kelly's sloppy seconds?
"Right after that episode she was saved," she said of her daughter, who has been a gospel singer since she was a 3 years old.
Three things we have to take away from this (our lives depend on it):
1) R. Kelly, stop making sex tapes. Just stop. I read somewhere (and I may be completely making this up) that a lot of celebrities film sex acts in order to prove consent - it's a lot easier to dispute a rape charge if you have a video of your accuser asking you to stick three fingers in her butt. I understand that, and after hearing that I have since set-up a secret camera in my bedroom, but all I have so far is hours and hours of me beating off. But really R, the tapes have gotten out of control. Do us a favor, and stop. Or, do me a favor, and do one with Angelina Jolie in it. I'm more than ok with that.
2) Remember my marriage dealbreakers? How I can't marry a woman who smokes, won't take my last name, has fooled around with a friend, or has small boobs (by the way, this has haunted me more than I could ever have imagined, since I get plenty of (ok, one) emails like, "Well, I'm hot, and young, and really want to marry you, or at least have sex with you, but I smoke, so you're out of luck - asshole")? I think we need to add a 5th:
5) I can't marry a woman who has been in a sex tape with anyone, especially R. Kelly.
This is absolutely non-negotiable. Good lord - I get fits just thinking about it. I have a hard enough time when any girl I'm dating is not a virgin; if she's been on a sex tape -
You know what? I can't even talk about this, since I feel like I'm going to throw up. Let's move on.
3) The "unknown woman" has already inspired a number of jokes between my friends and I:
My roommate Ben: "I just wish you would wash the dishes after you use them."
Me: "Well that's funny, because I just wish your mom would own up to being the unknown woman in the R. Kelly/Mrs. Sheffield tape."
My roommate Brian: "Dude, you have a voicemail message from your mom on the machine?"
Me: "Oh really?"
Brian: "Yeah, she said that since you work at a law firm, she needs your advice, because she's ready to admit to the public that she's the 3rd woman in the new R. Kelly tape."
R. Kelly. What a terrific person. I now promise to name my first son "R".
In my capacity at work, I have to talk on the phone a lot to people who I don't know. Sure, I still do way more personal phone calling, but believe it or not, yes, sometimes I use the phone for more than talking about how fucked up I'm going to get tonight or how hot that waitress from Brother Jimmy's was.
Anyway, there's this one girl who I talk to fairly regularly, and she has the sexiest Southern accent I've ever heard. Don't get me wrong; I hate the South. I've been quoted at saying the only two things they have in the South are heat and racism, but man, this accent is something else.
The thing is, it's so disarming that I can't even articulate properly. I'm usually calling about some big financial deal, and when she answers the phone with that sweet, sweet voice, I find myself stumbling, "Hi, um, Shannon. This is Jason Mulgrew, from, um, well, that's not important. I'm calling to see, well, how are you? That's rude of me, isn't it? Here I am going on and on about me, and I haven't even asked how you are doing. So, uh, how are you doing? You know, I can neither see nor smell you, but I'm sure you look and smell great today. Not that I don't want to see or smell you. Do you have any plans to visit New York anytime soon? Have I ever told you that I'm kinda famous on the internet?"
This is not an exaggeration. It's getting to the point where I think she's starting to screen her calls, because I've been getting her voicemail a lot recently.
So great. I'm scaring women who I haven't even met yet. Nice.
Over the past, oh, four months, I've been slowly reading Fast Food Nation. See, grad school has killed any leisure reading I used to do. I don't do the assigned reading for school, so when I read a leisure book, I start to feel guilty and think to myself, "Man, I really should be reading my school stuff instead. God I feel dizzy from all the apple pie."
The funny thing is that I'm currently at the part talking about the e:coli outbreak at Jack-in-the-Box in the '90's, and I actually find myself craving a cheeseburger. Not Jack-in-the-Box, because I've never had one of those, but rather an In-and-Out burger, which I haven't had since July 2002.
(Did I really need all those hyphens?)
Why does Brian Cashman, GM of the New York Yankees, always look like he's coming down from a week-long coke binge? Seriously, look here. And here.
Good god, man. Take a nap or some shit.
- "Pride and Joy (Acoustic)" Stevie Ray Vaughan
Unbelievable. I never thought an acoustic, 12-string guitar could sound like this. I makes me happy in my pants.
- "Badge" Cream
Eric Clapton is really lame nowadays. He's all old, and clean, and really, there's nothing cool about being old and clean. Cream is where it's at. The solo in this song is so amazing perfect, I actually cry when I hear it.
- "We Will Become Silhouettes" The Shins
I like this band, mostly because it's very cool to like this band. And this is a very cool song, and real foot-tapper with nice harmonies.
- "Piece Of Clay" Marvin Gaye
You wanna talk about crying when you hear a song? Good lord - this one gets me. Big time. I have to talk about something else.
- "Marry Me" Drive-By Truckers
Good ol' fashioned Southern rock, this song makes me wanna fuck, fight, and, oh yeah, get married, all at the same time.
- "The Chokin' Kind" Joss Stone
Joss Stone's new album, Mind, Body & Soul, stinks. She tries to be way too diva, and fails. Fortunately, "The Chokin' Kind" is on her first album, which is filled with smooth R&B covers. The #1 album I copied and gave to girls I wanted to bang in 2003. Alas, it didn't work.
Update your address books bitches, because we've changed our email address. I don't know why it took me so long to realize lycos sucks, but from here on out send all email to email@example.com. I tried to keep it to "eiwwm", but your username as to be at least six letters, so that's why we have "eiwwme".
And now that we're using gmail and its massive storage space, you can send me those nudey/booby/compromising pictures without it filling up my inbox! Ain't life grand?
[Also, not posting tomorrow, as I'll be out of the office. So have a good weekend or something.]
Wednesday, November 17, 2004
there is a hole in my esophagus and one day it's going to drive me to murder
I suffer from terrible, terrible heartburn. I think this started in the summer, but I don't remember much of the summer, since when the temperature rises above 80 degrees I consistently feel faint and regularly lapse in and out of consciousness, as my body hair causes my body temperature to rise to well over 130 degrees. I was actually dead from heat stroke from August 8 - 12. Seriously, check the archives.
At any rate, I constantly have terrible heartburn. This is not surprising, giving my eating and drinking habits, which most doctors would call "not good". Other doctors may call them "I can't believe you live like this and you're still alive - it defies medical science. Also, you have herpes. Big time." But come on - sure, maybe one time I ate a live firecracker because someone stuck it in my pile of mashed potatoes, but really, who are they to judge? Assholes.
But just because it's deserving doesn't mean it's any less debilitating. Actually, it really sucks ass. It feels as though fire has borne a hole through my esophagus, which makes eating and swallowing very difficult. I burp a lot, but they're not like normal burps. Imagine getting ready for a big, loud-ass burp, posturing to force it out, but instead nothing happens. Rather than letting out a giant one to inspire your friends to say, "Sweet dude", you're left with a momentarily paralysis of breath and a fireball that tastes like this morning's mozzarella sticks tumbling up your throat. Not too much fun.
But truth be told, I don't really give a fuck about this most of the time. Sure, it's acutely uncomfortable, but I have other things to concern myself with (i.e. lunchmeat, boobies, hot dogs, breasts, etc).
The problem is that the heartburn adversely affects my drinking. This is not good. I'm not a doctor, but if you're suffering from painful heartburn, it's probably not best to come home and have some red wine, then some white wine, then a few beers, then a few vodka-diet cherry 7-Ups, then some more beers, then finally two slices of pepperoni pizza and a chicken roll, which is what I did on Friday night (and yes, ladies, I am single).
Thus Saturday was not my finest hour, what with the hangover and the heartburn and the whole "I peed in my bed in my sleep" thing. Since I've never been a big believer in "medicine" or "condoms" or "treating people the same regardless of their race", when Saturday evening rolled around, I started drinking again. Some say laughter is the best medicine. To them I say, "You guys are gay. Have you ever had three martinis in an hour? You don't feel anything at all, except warm."
My "drinking through it" plan of action has worked through numerous illnesses: the remnants of hangovers, stomach bugs, that time I got malaria in Guadalajara from either a mosquito, the two prostitutes I made love to (though there was no love at all in what we did) or that guy Ted who I made out with in the pool after he gave me all that free coke - whatever.
But with the heartburn, the "drinking through it" plan just doesn't cut it. It actually, not so surprisingly, makes it worse. Each sip feels like it's taking another layer off my esophagus. Each burp (or near burp) feels like my stomach and throat is on fire. When it gets really bad, each sip of vodka causes me to have a mini-spasm and bolt upright, wince in pain, and paraphrase the old guy from "Braveheart" and say in my best Scottish accent, "That'll wake you up in the morning."
I talked to my doctor about this. My doctor is very cool. When I went it for an STD test, his first question was, "So do you have anything weird on your dick or your balls?" (using that language). He prescribed some Nexium, which works sometimes, but he also said that I'd have to change my lifestyle if I wanted the heartburn to go away (I also asked if he could prescribe some Percocets for me, but he told me to get the hell out of his office).
This was confounding for me (the need to change my lifestyle, not the refusal of Percocets, although both were pretty confounding). As a relatively spoiled person who, despite being in terrible shape, considers himself nearly invincible, I said to my doctor, "Um, no. I don't want to change anything. Can't you just give me a pill or a shot or something and make it go away? No? You're telling me we can put a man on Mars, but we can't cure heartburn? We can create super babies that are capable of flying an airplane, running a marathon in under three hours, and building giant robots that in one fell swoop can easily destroy a whole city, but you can't cure my acid reflux? What do you think I am, some kind of jerk? You know what? Fuck you. How about that? Did you like that? Because here comes another - fuck you. Wait, hold on, I think I hear someone coming. Oh, here it is: fuck you. Fucking asshole."
I'm realizing now that I've been writing this for a while and I don't really know where I'm going with it, so let's get to the point. The point is that this weekend was the first time in a while that yours truly has not been able to imbibe his favorite beverages unencumbered by pain, and it was certainly the worst ever. The results of my failed "drinking through it" plan have still lasted until today, Wednesday, as I still feel discomfort, most likely remnants of the boozing this weekend. Or maybe I'm just having a heart attack.
But hear me now: if I can't drink at my own volition, there are going to be serious problems. Not problems like, "Damn it - I just made pancakes and we're out of syrup" problems, but problems like, "Daddy, who is at that large man running up and down the halls of our apartment building with a flaming ax? And why is he stopping so often to put down the flaming ax to try to rip off his pee-pee?"
I don't have much, but I have my booze. Take that away from me, and all I've got left is a lot of back hair, a dick the size of a wine cork, and two roommates who are constantly masturbating in my bed when I'm not at home. God and Heartburn: Do not fuck with me. You are entering a world of pain, betrayal, anger, lust, and borderline homosexuality. Slowly back away now, and everything's cool. Advance, and do so at your own peril. But if you're gonna bring it, you'd better bring it all. [pausing for dramatic effect] Because I will not lose.
[Well, I probably will lose, but I just said that to sound tough. And I don't even think it worked.]
Tuesday, November 16, 2004
one (quick) football note and a few words about advertisements
All I'm going to say is that the Terrell Owens signing was very good for Philadelphia, as a city and a football team. That's it. I'll take his celebrations, his complaining, his tantrums - whatever - since he has 12 touchdowns and the Eagles are 8-1 (well, I could have done without the terrible "Desperate Housewives" intro, but his acting was so bad he redeemed himself).
Shit, TO could knock up my sister and I'd still love him. Well, actually, I would love him if he knocked up my sister, since that means we'd be rich, so that joke doesn't work. How about: he could kill my sister, and I'd still love him. Does that work? Or am I going to get an email from someone saying, "Dude, not cool - my sister really was murdered by TO"? Whatever.
Anyway, some terrible fucking commercials, while I sit here rotting and waiting for an ad agency to hire me:
1) The Dr. Pepper commercial with Smokey Robinson and B2K.
Smokey, simply put, you are a legend. One of the founders of the Motown Sound and one of the most distinctive voices in American music, you have written and sang countless hits that millions of people around the world know by heart.
So I ask you: do you really need the money? I have to say "yes", because I don't know what the hell else would possess you to do this terrible commercial with that awful group B2K. I don't even know what the hell "B2K" is, and yet you're acting all chummy with them and carrying on like a god damn asshole. At first, I was angry. Now, I'm just embarrassed for you. Either get a new agent, or give me a ring. I don't have much money, but I'll give you a couple of bucks if it means maintaining your dignity.
[However, props to the ad wizards at Dr. Pepper for putting this woman in a commercial. I have no idea who she is (apparently, she's famous in Mexico or one of those Mexico-type countries), but I will be standing outside her home shortly, acting sketchy and planning to do something criminal.]
2) All Sprint PCS commercials, but especially one with the cowboys.
I don't know how to tell you this, Sprint PCS, so I'm just going to come out and say it: you fucking suck. I don't even know how the Better Business Bureau allows you to run these commercials in which you talk about your good reception, because you have the worst reception, by far, of any of your cell phone company. I'm pretty sure that there are cell phone companies run by Gypsies that have better reception than you guys.
In one of your recent commercials, your boneriffic spokesman talks about how cowboys, who are on the road a lot, can easily send pictures from anywhere. Let me tell you something: I live about a mile and a half from Times Square, an area many would call the world's center of entertainment, and yet I have to stand in strange positions (on my toes, holding a hanger, with one finger in my ass) in my bathroom tub in order to get clear reception on your service. I work a baseball's throw away from Wall Street and the New York Stock Exchange, an area many would call the financial center of the world, and yet my cell phone is so useless it's basically a shiny piece of glass and plastic that lights up.
And you're going to create a commercial in which you brag that cowboys in the middle of nowhere will have no trouble sending pictures? Sending pictures? I can't make a call in Manhattan that's longer than thirteen seconds before my reception goes out, but a cowboy in Idaho going to have the three minutes it takes to send a picture? How do you sleep at night?
You have terrible reception. And you stink. You fucking stink. I hate you.
That is all.
3) The State Property ads currently splayed all over NYC buses and subways.
I don't have a picture of this ad; I spent a good hour or so today on the web looking for the one that is currently on the MTA's busses and in subway cars, but, much like when I tried to start eating mac and cheese with utensils rather than my hands, I failed, so linked above is the artist bio from Roc-A-Fella records.
It stinks, because I really wanted to be able to show you all how terrifying these guys look in this ad. I don't know if the current ads are for music or clothes or whatever, but I do know that they're why white people are really, really scared of black people. Seriously, the ad shows a bunch of very intimidating black guys standing around, looking very angry and tough, staring back at me on the subway as I lick the cheese that fell from my from my bacon, egg & cheese bagel onto my jacket during my morning subway ride.
But good lord - there have been times when I've seen this ad on a bus, stopped in my tracks, thrown my wallet in front of the bus, and ran screaming in the opposite direction. It's that scary, and I don't scary easily, unless a werewolf is involved. Or bugs - I hate bugs.
[God, I really am terrified by bugs. Now I'm going to have a nightmare tonight. So thanks.]
Monday, November 15, 2004
unscathed, Peterson, ODB, booze
Once again, I have survived unharmed. The IT people have come and gone, my computer is (apparently) fixed, and I am still employed. Sure, I spent the morning sitting in the chair opposite my desk in my office, staring at the IT guy as he went through the nooks and crannies of my computer, sweating like a fucking monster, rocking back and forth, and saying novenas, but I made it - unscathed.
The lesson? I can't be fucking touched. I just can't. Everything always works out for me. And yes, I am concerned I might be jinxing myself, but I'd prefer to not think about that very much.
Some things we learned since last Friday afternoon:
- Scott Peterson is guilty. Like, even the law say so.
I was on the phone with my roommate Brian when the Scott Peterson verdict was read. Brian works for an entertainment news show, and we just happened to be talking when 4pm rolled around and the verdict was announced (seriously, it was a total coincidence and not because I am secretly a media/gossip whore who regularly buys US Weekly).
When the foreman said, “Guilty”, I could hear the yelps of joy from Brian’s co-workers, but Brian and I were silent, totally shocked. This isn’t because we thought he was innocent; we couldn’t believe he was actually not going to get off for it.
[silence for a five seconds, listening to Brian’s co-workers yell in joy and high-five]
Me: “Well, he is guilty.”
Brian: “Oh god yes.”
Me: “I mean, they shouldn’t have even had a trial.”
Brian: “Who goes fishing on Christmas Eve, leaving his wife, who is eight months pregnant with their first child, home alone?”
Me: “Also, after doing that, who dyes his hair and tries to goes to Mexico with $10,000 in cash and four cell phones while awaiting trial for his wife’s murder?”
Brian: “You know what pisses me off most about this? They tried to blame the Satanists. Everyone’s always shitting on the Satanists. Just because they worship Satan doesn’t mean they're murderers.”
Me: “I’ll tell you – this is why I hate the media. But you know what else stinks?”
Me: “Now there is a precedence in which someone who committed a high-profile crime actually paid for it. If Peterson were to have gotten off, that would have basically been my green light to go on that shooting/arson rampage that I've always wanted to go on."
Brian: "The one you told Ben and I you were going to start after the New Year?"
Me: "Yeah. Because, you know, it'd be sensational, and since I'm an internet quasi-celebrity, I'd get a high-profile attorney, and the media would be all over it, but I'd get off, even though the evidence against me would be overwhelming."
Brian: "Pubes and other body hair scattered everywhere..."
Me: "Empty packets of Taco Bell mild sauce scattered around my victims' bodies..."
Brian: "Photos of you standing naked in the burning buildings masturbating and drinking vodka-cranberry out of a giant pot..."
Me: "Exactly. But now, I have to rethink this. Which sucks, because I was really looking forward to it."
Brian: "You should buy a gun anyway. We drink and curse way too much not to have a gun in our apartment."
Me: "Well, now I know what I'm getting myself for Christmas!"
- Old Dirty Bastard is dead, passing his moniker to his 13 children, heretofore known as Young Probably Cleaner Than Their Father Bastards.
Well, I can't say I didn't see this coming. The father of 13, who's had just about every meltdown possible and who has been in jail for drugs and has been in a shoot out with police, succumbed to something on Saturday. I really hope when the autopsy comes back it shows that ODB died of something lame, like instead of "fatally high levels of crack cocaine found in bloodstream", it says, "asphyxiation due to cheese doodle caught in trachea", or instead of "heart failure (abnormally large heart) due to drug use", it says, "cerebral hemorrhage due to fall while trying out new roller skates".
What is hilarious is that many people in the press are calling ODB (also known as Big Baby Jesus, Dirt McGirt, Osirus) a "genius". Good lord. At least when Christopher Reeve died and was lauded as the Greatest Man And Actor The World Will Ever See And Know And He's So Good He's So Much Better Than Jesus And Jesus Doesn't Like Him Because He's So Damn Jealous, he wasn't shot twice, and almost charged with attempted murder.
I would call Albert Einstein a genius. I would call Stephen Hawking a genius (and a prick - long story). I would call the inventor Burger King's Hershey Sundae Pie a genius.
But I would not call Old Dirty Bastard a "genius". I would call him "some fucking crazy-ass black dude".
But still, let's give him a proper send-off, and recall what he sang in the international hit the Mulgrew Family likes to listen to every Christmas Eve before being tucked in to bed, Wu-Tang's "Dog Shit":
You're the type of bitch don't appreciate shitMay he rest in peace (and god help the choir of angels).
Never had shit, so you won't be shit
That pussy there, couldn't satisfy a hair
On my body, treat me like a lolli and slob me down
*SLURP, SLURP* I'm Doo Doo Brown! [laughter]
Tossed salad, oh you in some shit now
Callin me a dog, well leave a dog alone
Cause nothin can stop me from buryin my bones
In the backyard, of someone else's house
Ol Dirt Dog, but I'm not dog out
Here comes Rover, sniffin at your ass
But pardon me bitch, as I shit on your grass
That means hoe, you been shitted on!
I'm not the first dog that's shitted on your lawn
- I can't be left alone when there is alcohol in the apartment.
On Friday night, my roommate Brian and I were sitting in our living room, drinking wine, and watching tv. Both of us had plans for the night, and we quickly plowed through the red wine, then moved onto the white wine. Soon, that was gone. At that point, Brian left to go meet some friends, leaving me alone. I started drinking beer. Then "Braveheart" came on. And the wheels came off.
"Braveheart" is one of my favorite movies ever. But it is not a good movie to watch drunk and alone.
So I sat alone in my apartment, drinking, watching "Braveheart" and getting very emotional. This was not helped by the invention of a new drink. Once the beer ran out, having no tonic or cranberry juice or Red Bull immediately available, and realizing that if I were to drink vodka straight while alone I might as well just end it all, I mixed the vodka with the only thing left in the fridge: Diet Cherry 7-Up.
Diet Cherry 7-Up is a very good mixer. So good that you don't even taste the vodka. So good that you don't even realize how much vodka you're putting in your drink. So good that you may or may not get a little teary over "Braveheart". So good that after watching "Braveheart" you download "The Electric Slide" to cheer yourself up, listen to it 20 times in a row, and actually do the Electric Slide on the last eight or so listens. Also, on the last three times, you take your pants off, grab your penis, and make your penis do the Electric Slide with you. And yes, you are single.
At any rate, I eventually met up with my friends, who were at a party in the West Village. Everyone who came to the party was asked to bring a dessert. I didn't know the hostesses of this party, but wanted to make a good impression, so I brought a half-eaten can of Cool Whip, straight from my fridge. I thought this was a great idea at the time. I still think it's a great idea. The hostesses, not so much.
I don't remember much after that. I remember the party, and then going to a nearby bar. I remember getting up to take a piss, and while doing so, thinking "Holy shit I'm fucking drunk", then going back to the table and whispering to one of my friends, "Holy shit I'm fucking drunk - I need to leave", and sneaking quietly out into the pouring rain/sleet. I don't remember this at the time, but - surprise surprise - when I woke up, there were remnants of white pizza (i.e. crust) on my bedroom floor.
Thus, Saturday was a tough day. I almost checked myself into the hospital on three separate occasions, convinced I was having a heart attack. Instead, I went to the grocery store to buy some vegetables, shampoo, and Gatorade (total cost: $65.82), and promised myself that this week I was going to start going to the gym again, first thing Monday morning.
I didn't go to the gym this morning.
But hey - the important thing is that I still have a job (for now).
And the important thing is that, well, I can't think of anything else. I'm just so glad I didn't get fired. So I'll stop now.
Friday, November 12, 2004
Well, the shit is hitting the fan. Searchmiracle has rendered my work computer essentially useless. The internet is barely working, slowed, stalling and crashing every five minutes, I can't get access to work stuff and databases that I need to access to do my job, and I'm getting super pissed off and I really have the runs (thank you Taco Bell leftovers for breakfast).
After speaking with the IT people this morning for almost an hour, the Big Dogs are being called in and they're going to do some major shit to my machine. So that means it's a matter of hours before I am unemployed.
Of course, after I lose my job because of this site, I will no longer be posting. Instead, I will spend hours aimlessly walking around Central Park, saying to myself, "You asshole - did you have to use your real name on a website about being a complete deviant? What the hell were you thinking? And really, you invited the IT people to come check out your computer? Are you fucking serious? You download at least three porn clips a day on your computer, and spend the rest of your time making stupid jokes about overeating and the homeless and overeating the homeless on a website. You are an asshole, a complete and total asshole, and you deserve to be unemployed. Now whose dick to I have to suck to get some pizza around here? I'm fucking starving already."
So that's all I got for today. I may try to post later (thought it's already almost 3), after the heat dies down, but I don't know if I'll be able to.
If I don't, have a good weekend. And, if I never post again, have a good life. If you see me outside your building, scruffy and dirty and taking a piss on your wall while humming the "Ghostbusters" theme to myself, give me a fucking dollar, or at least a little bit of a massage, will you?
Thursday, November 11, 2004
a question, Thai, tv, boobs, linking, the refractory period, music
My roommate Brian and I always ask thought-provoking yet completely absurd questions of each other (see 8/24). It's sort of a psychological exercise in which we can jump right into the core of each other's beings, hopefully without wearing any pants and having "forgotten" condoms.
Last night I was feeling a bit wishy-washy about love. I occasionally get a little wishy-washy, as I am a Cancer, so I guess that means I'm emotional. I also have trouble not pissing myself when I do coke; whether or not this has to do with being a Cancer, I'm not sure.
But mostly I was emotional last night because another holiday season is quickly approaching and that means one thing for me: masturbating in front of the mirror with a Santa hat on.
[Man, today would be a really bad day for my parents to start reading this. Gay sex with my roommate, doing coke, and watching myself jerk off. My god, I'm sorry.]
Anyway, the question was, "Brian, would you give up everything for a woman?" Brian, who at the time was smoking a cigarette, took a deep drag, looked off into the distance, and finally said, "Well, it depends on how much I have."
For example, right now I don't have much going on. Sure, I have a good job. However, I don't have any money. I blame this not on my terrible spending habits ("Even though mine works perfectly fine, I think I'm going to buy a new iPod, since it's only $400") but on the fact that NYC is entirely too expensive. Also, I'm addicted to alcohol.
I don't have many friends, and I don't especially like the ones that I do have. I'm pretty sure my friend Greg tried to poison me three weeks ago (because of current legal issues, I can't get into the details at this time).
My family, which for years has thought that I have potential, is getting impatient waiting for me to capitalize on this potential (I don't know how - starting a business? running for office? starting some sort of espionage syndicate?). But they are learning each day that this "potential" was really just laziness well-concealed by constant self-aggrandizement. Therefore, they are turning against me. Although not entirely positive, I'm pretty sure my mom tried to push me down a flight of stairs last time I was home. Also, my dad stabbed me in the shoulder. Three times. Well, twice in the shoulder, once in the upper arm.
Other than that, what else do I have? I'm going to school, but "going to school" is the best way to describe it, since all I'm really doing is showing up, sitting there, leaving, and then not thinking about it again until the next class. I have this website, which is nice and good and all and gets me the occasional booby picture (thanks again Kevin), but it has made me both undatable and unhirable, once I get canned when my employer finds this.
So yes, I would give all this up for a woman. And it doesn't even have to be a particularly attractive women. I would prefer a woman who isn't a paraplegic, but if not available, I'll make due.
For those in NYC: if you like Thai food, you have to go to Sea, on 2nd Ave between 4th and 5th (there is also a much fancier one in Williamsburg, but that's in Brooklyn, and, well, you know).
The food is absolutely amazing. Well, I shouldn't say "the food" is amazing, because though I've been eating there for three years I've only ever gotten one entree: chicken pad thai. But it's unreal, and they give you about two pounds for only $8. To go with it, get the Tip-Tum Fritters. At least 29% of the reason I'm moving back to the neighborhood (in June - ugh) is to be in the delivery area of this restaurant.
Now I'm fucking STARVING. And when I use all caps like that, you know I mean business.
Three shows that have changed my life this week but I will probably not watch again: "My Big Fat Obnoxious Boss", "Rebel Billionaire", and "Wife Swap".
Speaking of tv, the Victoria's Secret commercial about their new push-up bra (without padding!) should not be allowed on television. Seriously. Every time this comes on when I'm eating, I immediately spit out whatever food is in my mouth, for fear of choking from having a seizure looking at those gorgeous mags*.
I'm sorry, but I have to stop writing about this.
[*mag is a derivation of "maggies", which is a derivation of "saggy maggies", meaning, literally, large, cumbersome and unattractively saggy breasts. However, my friends and I have devolved the term from its original definition so that mags means large, and more often that not, wonderful breasts. As in, "My god, look at the fucking mags on that broad! Holy shitballs!" So there.]
The nicest thing any other bloggers who read (and for some reason enjoy) this blog can do is to link me on your site. That is the bestest compliment in the whole wild world. You don't need to ask if you can link me, because you absolutely can. Seriously. I don't care if your site is trying to raise funds for your local neo-Nazi candidate; if it'll bring be more readers, and one of those readers happens to be a woman of ill-repute who after too many shots of Jager is willing to stick her hand down my pants, well then that's perfect.
Cool term: refractory period. Generally, it is the time of various biological processes, but sexually speaking it is the recovery phase after a man has an orgasm during which it is physiologically impossible for him to have another orgasm. In layman's terms: the time between blowing loads.
Women, though they unfortunately have to deal with pregnancy and menstruation and making out with guys thing, do not have a refractory period, and are capable of having repeated consequential orgasms (I don't really believe this, since everyone knows that women being able to have orgasms is a total myth, like Sisyphus and black people being able to vote).
I don't really know where I'm going with this, except to say that when I was younger and had first discovered the joys of masturbating, my refractory period must not have been longer than five minutes. I was a machine (sadly).
But I think all that self-love at such a young age has taken it's toll, since now we're looking at a refractory period of at least four to five days, and longer in summer. My goodness - it's almost like I have to go straight to bed after beating off because I'm so exhausted. There have been times when I beat off before bed, then almost called out of work the next day because I couldn't get out of bed to go to the bathroom, let alone masturbate again.
[Man, I really hope my parents aren't reading this. I don't know what's gotten into me today.]
- "Heroes And Villains" Brian Wilson
When I listen to this song, I can't even tell which sounds are being made by voices and which are being made by instruments. The whole album, Smile, is amazing. A cappella: cool when Brian Wilson, Boyz II Men, or anyone else famous does it, not cool when you do it.
- "To The End" Blur
What a pretty song, all about getting wasted, arguing with your lady, and having a terrible break-up (right up my alley). Can someone please tell me what she's singing in French? Please?
- "Natural Born Killaz" Dr. Dre and Ice Cube
Arguably (ok, very arguably) the greatest rap song of all time, and at the very least the most influential for me. My dorky friends and I used to roll up to high school football games blasting this song. And yes, we were virgins. "You never sleep, 'cause every time you doze/You catch blows to the mutha fuckin' nose". Does it get any better?
- "Two of Us" The Beatles
Arguably (ok, very arguably) the greatest love song of all time. I just want to listen to this in a country house with a beautiful woman on a warm spring afternoon. And then we'll have sex. And then she'll order me a pizza. And then she'll have her friends come over, and they'll all have sex while I watch a football game. Also, the pizza will have chicken fingers on it.
- "Around The Way Girl" LL Cool J
A true urban love poem. I listened to it recently and was suprised how dated it was when I heard the line, "Perm in your hair or even a curly weave/With your New Edition Bobby Brown button on your sleeve." Damn - that was like eighteen years ago!
- "Put A Little Love In Your Heart" Jackie Deshannon
If you can listen to this song without singing along, you are an ice-cold robot Communist asshole and you're going to hell. When you get there, give me a ring - I'll swing by to say hello and give you a high-five.
Wednesday, November 10, 2004
two observations observed after observing people at work
[No time for introductions]
[Or is it "moustache"? I think the more common spelling is mustache, but I prefer moustache, so that's what we're gonna go with from here on out.]
There's a guy who works in my building. I don't know him personally, but I've seen him around. I suppose he's an attorney, but I'm not entirely sure; he may be a firm administrator. At any rate, he's well-to-do. He's white, of average height and build, a little thin on top, but seems to be otherwise very vibrant and healthy (and no, I don't have a man crush on him).
The thing is, over the past month or so, he's been rocking a moustache. He never had any facial hair before, and now he has this weird moustache thing going on.
At first, I thought it was a joke. He seems like a funny guy, so I thought he was either doing it on a dare or had a lost a bet, which should tell you how ridiculous it looks on him. But that was over a month ago, and he's still rocking the 'stache.
My comment is this: for white guys, there has been an unspoken moratorium on moustache growing since 1989. Effective on January 1 of that year, if you had a moustache prior to that date, you could keep your moustache without fear of repercussion, reprisal, or reprobation. After that date, you were/are not allowed to grow a moustache, unless either a) it's a joke; b) someone dared you; or c) you lost a bet. This is entirely non-negotiable.
1) Race. This only applies to white guys. Black guys can grow a moustache at any point in time and look cool. I went to high school with a black guy named Derrick who I am convinced had a moustache from at least age 6, possibly earlier. The same applies to Hispanic guys, especially those with the pencil thin ones (still, no one has explained to me how they do this - I think I would look most totally fucking excellent with a paper thin line of hair outline my overly chubby cheeks).
Asian guys are a little more difficult. On the one hand, the average Asian can never grow a moustache, and rocks the "I have 20 long hairs on my upper lip" look, also know as the "Jason Mulgrew in 9th grade" look. But on the other hand, the Asian people are responsible for one of the greatest moustache incarnations of all-time: the Fu Manchu. Verdict? Asian guys can grow the moustache whenever they like.
2) Totality of facial hair. This only applies when the moustache is used as a stand-alone facial hair look. This does not apply if the moustache is part of a goatee, beard, or some other crazy concoction. My favorite crazy concoction is the mutton chops look, sported here by George Westinghouse, founder to Westinghouse Electric Corp, the precursor of CBS. It is also rocked by George's descendent Kenny Westinghouse, shown here after just finishing off his thirteenth can Coors Extra Gold.
An example of when it's ok for white guys to grow the 'stache: when I was a sophomore in college, one of my roommates, the recently married Mike, had a brother, Eustace, who at the time was a senior. We worshipped Eus and his roommates, because as soon as we came in as freshman, they took us under their wing, invited us to their parties, got us drunk, etc.
During their senior year, they decided to have a moustache party, meaning any guy who wanted to get into the party had to grow a 'stache. They hung signs and huge banners all over the campus, saying mysteriously, "Got 'Stache? 2/12".
The party was a huge success, but I missed it. At the time I was dating a girl long-distance, so I presume I went to see her to do my best to convince her that no, I was not making out with other girls at bars after they'd had too many kamikaze shots, and that no, I had never and would never pay for sex (surprisingly, our relationship ended).
But seeing those guys around campus pre-party with their moustaches was absolutely fucking hilarious. I've been trying to convince my roommates to have a moustache party, but unfortunately they are almost completely hairless (so much so that we call my roommate Ben "Baby Ben", because naked he looks like a big baby, although not as hot).
At any rate, them's the moustache rules. I don't make them up; I just follow them.
[Well, technically I did just make them up, but whatever]
I work with a lot of women, whether they are administrators, associate attorneys, or partners. And let me tell you something, the rocks on these women's fingers have to be worth upwards of fifteen lives in any third-world country.
Good lord - I consider myself a stalwart of heterosexuality, a true man's man who doesn't know how to wear a scarf, says things like, "How hard can it be to plan a wedding?", and would rather eat his own poo than go shopping for shoes. But there have been times when I've walked into these women attorneys' offices and been distracted by the glare coming off these rings.
Two things to discuss here as well:
1) The fact that all day long I see engagement rings that are larger than at least three of the moons of Saturn is really going to warp my perception of the whole "buying a ring" process. How am I supposed to go to a jeweler with a bag full of nickels, a Sega Genesis, and some old Playboy's and expect to get a decent-sized ring?
I'll tell you what's going to happen - one day, far, far away from now, when I dupe a woman who has just the right amount of low self-esteem and psychosis into marrying me, I'm going to wind up mortgaging my life away for a giant fucking ring. I know this. I can be a sucker for perception with this kinda thing, and I know that I'm going to spend the first ten years of my married life making Christmas presents out of construction paper and popsicle sticks and eating bologna at every meal because I went $30,000 into debt to make myself look good to get my lady some bling-bling.
Damn it all to hell.
2) The reason that these women have giant rocks is that they're fiancées are all very successful. I've never heard a very successful woman in my profession (or around my profession) say, "My fiancée is a social worker" or "My fiancée is a graphic designer, but he also waits tables." No, they all say, "My fiancée is head of equity research at Morgan Stanley" or "My fiancée is vice general counsel at Merrill Lynch."
On top of that, it's sort of par for the course for older men to date younger women. Many of the women I know in their late 20's have serious boyfriends/fiancées/husbands who are in their mid to late 30's, possibly older. This bothers me, but also offers me hope.
It's gross for me to think of any of my female friends dating anyone over 30 (and we're only 25!). I don't know why...but it just does. Why would a 25 year-old girl want to date a man who's...well, old? Why would a 25 year-old girl not want to date, say, me instead? I certainly have less hair (on my head) than most 30 year-olds, so what gives? Is it because I'm impotent? Look, the doctor said that Cialis isn't right for everyone. I'm working on this - trust me.
On the other hand, it makes perfect sense to me why an older man would want a younger woman. I don't even need to explain this, but if I were 35, single, and rich, you'd better bet that I'd be trolling the bar scene, looking for some hot, dumb 22 year-old to buy gifts for and tote around town. As a matter of fact, I'm currently doing close inspections of middle/junior high schools in and around the Upper East Side, just so I get dibs on any up-and-coming hotties as early as possible.
(You know, I'm just gonna quit now before I fall too far behind)
Tuesday, November 09, 2004
I usually like to do email posts at the end of the week. I don’t know why, but it just feels right. What better way to end the week than by sharing some of your feedback? That is, aside from going to happy hour with your co-workers and trying to make out with the pregnant one?
But I’ve been really dragging my feet recently in this department (the emails, not the trying to make out with pregnant co-worker – she shouldn’t be at happy hour anyway).
I don’t want to give the impression that when I do an email post, I sit back and let you guys do all the work. On the contrary, it’s very hard for me to do these posts, as I have formulate answers to the serious questions posed to me, like, “What gives you the runs more often – Chinese or Mexican?” [Chinese] and “What’s the best method of birth control?” [Fucking a dude] and “I just turned 18, my breasts are too large and wonderful for my slim waist, and I really want to meet a quasi-celebrity. What should I do?” [Cash the $8000 check I’m sending you and move to NYC to live with me so we can spend all day and night slow-dancing].
I’ve tried to do this post on the past couple of Fridays, but I’ve been out of the office (at least partially) for four of the last five Fridays. So you’re getting it on a Tuesday, because I finally have the goddamn time.
Also, I’ve been terrible at managing emails. It’s just too damn many. I’m not saying this to impress you, I’m saying this to both apologize for my delayed responses and also to get you to stop, damn it (unless nude/compromising pictures are involved – WOMEN ONLY). Until an intern is hired, I’m afraid I’m going to be a very bad emailer. My apologies.
So anyway, onto the emails.
The first comes from Jessica Labowitz from my hometown of Philadelphia. She writes:
I decided to e-mail you 1) because I felt sorry for you, and 2) because you made a mention to Point Break today in your blog.First, Jessica’s email address goes to the highest bidder. We’ll start the bidding at $25 and a six-pack of Molson.
As most of my friends know, I am damn near obsessed with Point Break. I agree Keanu is hardly the actor he is paid for, but the Keanu-Swayze combination is cinema gold. It's like ebony and ivory, living together in perfect muscular harmony. This movie, for me anyway, is a perfect visual masturbatory display of golden tans and cropped football jerseys and dark brooding eyes. I have, at some point in time I'm sure, watched this movie and felt something, down there, in my pants. With no stimulation required. It is fabulous, and is certainly the best $6.99 I ever spent. And we all know women are much harder to stimulate visually than men are. Am I a sexual oddity? Perhaps. Am I glad I found my cinematic G-Spot? Definitely.
I'm sure you understand how I feel - I'll bet a movie about a stray dog eating a twinkie out of a dumpster can get you all hot and bothered. If you have any similar experiences, I would love to hear about them.
Second, after reading Jessica’s email, I have to agree: the Keanu-Swayze combo is gold. I personally believe, however, that this has less to do with wooden but admittedly sexalicious Keanu Reeves than the modern-day legend that is Mr. Patrick Swayze.
The Outsiders. Red Dawn. Road House. Ghost. I could go on for ages. I would be remiss if I didn’t confess that I, like Jessica, felt a little something down in the basement when my dream came true and Patrick Swayze finally (finally!) dressed in drag in 1995’s To Wong Foo, Thanks For Everything! Julie Newmar, thus single-handedly making 1995 the greatest year of my life.
I need to take a deep breath here.
Thirdly, as far as similar experiences of cinematic arousal (non-porn category), three examples come immediately to mind:
1) The Michael Douglas-Demi Moore sex scene in Disclosure. It must have been in about 1996, when I was 16 or 17, and this movie came on late night at my house. I remember seeing that scene, and thinking, “Well, this changes everything.” Good lord. It’s very hard to get over Michael Douglas being involved, as he is a total goober, but wow. Her boobs…just…incredible…can’t…type…must…play with…self…
2) The pie-eating contest in Stand By Me. Something about a bunch adolescent boys, eating a bunch of pie, and then throwing up – I don’t know, it just gets me.
3) The scene in A Bronx Tale in which Sonny says to the bikers, “Now yous can’t leave” and the Italians stomp the shit out of the bikers. Nothing gets me like Italian machismo baby – nothing!
And if such a movie exists in which a stray dog eats a twinkie out a dumpster, please send me the title as soon as possible. Thanks.
Kevin from Tucson sent me arguably the greatest email I’ve ever gotten.
On August 23 you posted how you got wasted and told a girl that you were the Predator in Alien v. Predator. Personally, that’s the funniest shit I've ever heard and knew that if one night I got the proper amounts of booze and weed in me, that I would undoubtedly perform these lines on the most-sober looking girl I could find. Amazingly I managed to recite your lines verbatim and with a straight face. I then threw in: "Yeah, my Dad works for Warner Bros. and was a producer for Forrest Gump. I was the kid on the bus who wouldn’t let Forrest sit down".Kevin, someday, when I am Pope, and you die, I will make you a saint. I’m not sure how that whole process works, or how I’m going to actually become Pope, but I will make your canonization my life’s mission.
We then had "one of those" conversations which lasted for a solid half hour in which I can't remember a fucking thing. Later on that night she apparently got extremely shit-canned, and well... showed us her cans.
The picture is attached.
Lot of emotion on this email. First, pride, knowing that although I am completely unable to score, I have helped someone, even in some small way, see some boobies.
Second, arousal, since the boobies are, frankly, spectacular. They have to be fake. And I am totally ok with that.
Third, sadness, in the “Why the hell can’t this happen to me?” vain. I thought of the damn line! It’s my damn line! Is there no justice in this world?
And finally, hunger. I was rushed this morning and only had some oatmeal, foregoing my usual oatmeal-mozzarella sticks-bologna trifecta, and I’m dying for a sub right about now.
Kudos Kevin. Kudos, you magnificient son of a bitch.
This one’s from Jennie in Chicago:
This past weekend I was at a party here in Chicago with about 35-50 people present. I'm sitting there with my old college roommie drinking and your name came up. We then spent the next 30 minutes discussing you and your quasi-celebrity status. At the mention of "quasi-celebrity status" some guy we don't know turns around and says "Wait, what's the chance that you’re talking about that blog guy Mulgrew?" Yep.First off Jennie, you should have definitely put out for him. Any guy who not only reads this site but is also confident enough to actually approach women about it at a party has balls of steel and will be a success someday.
Only problem is he wasn't remotely attractive at all, but yet he thought this connection was huge and pointed to the fact that we (either of us girls, cause as you often point out and he apparently agreed with, any girl will do) should talk all night and maybe exchange numbers or emails at least. I only wish I had your email with me and had given it to him saying it was mine...he could have been writing you dirty provocative emails making reference to what we could have done on the swing hanging in the loft where the party was, which you might have enjoyed.
[Seriously, can you imagine the balls? “I don’t know you, but I overheard you discussing a website that discusses such topics as pornography, obesity, and alcoholism and in the process uses a wide variety of swear words. I would like to say that I also read this site, and let you know that it is my sincere hope that perhaps I can get you drunk, take you home, and give you mouth babies.” Balls. Fucking balls.]
Second, have we learned nothing from this site? You write, “Only problem is he wasn't remotely attractive at all.” Isn’t this site all about getting past the superficial and getting to know and love a person for what they are on the inside?
That even if a man is so morbidly obese that his doctor has informed him that no, he is not healthy enough for sexual activity, he is really good to animals and should be given a pity beejer?
That even if he looks like Meatloaf (as Bitch Tits in Fight Club) and acts like Philip Seymour Hoffman’s character in Happiness (the twelve people who saw the movie are cringing right now), he one time gave a homeless man half a turkey sandwich, and therefore he should be loved without pants?
I mean, come on! Let’s see some growth people! I actually could care less if you put out for random ugly guys, because I’m looking for Number One here! I’ve been doing this for nine months, and nothing? Not one lousy lay? None?
[Excuse me, I have to go get some air.]
[Also, could you tell me a little more about the swing? Please?]
I’ve said before that I love getting your emails. Sure, it may take me a long time to respond, and sure, my responses may only be one word, and sure, maybe that one word doesn’t have anything to do with your email and is usually some kind of racial slur, but I really like your emails. I have low self-esteem and most of my friends are trying to destroy me, so hearing from the web community at-large does wonders for my confidence.
However, if you’re going to send me email like this, please don’t bother (I got this one when I was sick last month).
I hope you don't die, man. Where else will I be able to read about a guy like me unless I write emails to myself? I like knowing there's another degenerate in NYC who masturbates all over the place and wishes that people were naked all the time and you could just stick your dick in strange women's asses on the subway and people could sniff each other's assholes like dogs. Jennifer Lopez is on the Letterman show and she's giving me wood right now!A simple “hope you feel better” would have done just fine.
Man, you said you wished you masturbated in work more often. Well, it didn't work for me. I was fired 3 weeks ago after some wussbag asshole caught me masturbating in the men's room. He tattled on me and I had to explain my jerking off to the president. I was asked to leave after I said something like, "I was in the bathroom moving my bowels and then I got the sudden urge to feel myself. So I couldn't help it. I mean, I'm sure you've had those urges, too, Mr."I'm just gonna collect unemployment and stay home and jerk off excessively.”
Oh, oh, shit, I also gotta tell you about the time I jerked out my roommate. Last summer he and two girls walked in on me jerking off naked in 90 degree heat on a day our air conditioner broke. I cursed him out for walking in on me and not immediately leaving. You see your roommate jerking off, fuckin turn around and leave! Am I right? Well, the next day he was packing to move out so I started jerking off again to piss him off. I was slapping my meat silly and making all kinds of fuck sounds. Then I walked in the hallway completely naked with my cock in my hand and I stood in his doorway and was pumping. He looked at me and called me a fuckin' disgrace. 4 seconds later I ejaculated towards him and it landed on the floor. He picked up a football and hit me right below my belly button. I ran towards him and punched him. He backed away because he didn't want my cum on him.
That's it. Maybe you'll make a recovery and still live.
Can anyone tell me how to block certain email addresses? Please?
My buddy Hal from Manasquan, NJ sent me this email after the Sox’ World Series win:
Theo Epstein vs. Tom Brady.This is a toughie. I admit, my expertise in this area is limited, as I am heterosexual (politically at least).
Who do you think could get the hottest chick right now in New England?
Obviously Epstein is riding a high with the Sox victory, but Brady has brought New England two Super Bowls in the last 3 years and he's got the athlete thing going for him.
If the city of Boston ever holds a public charity event where those two guys are appearing, I'm taking a day off and going there. The flock of talent that would show up would be breathtaking…
On the one hand, you have Tom Brady, superstar NFL quarterback who’s brought the Pats two championships in three years. And, oh yeah, he’s dreamy.
On the other hand, you have Theo Epstein, boy wonder GM who is responsible for creating the team that brought Boston its first World Series win in 86 years. Also, he’s not bad looking, and he went to Yale.
Even though New England is a baseball town, and I think the one Sox championship means more than if the Pats were to win ten championships in a row, I’ve got to go with Brady. The reason? The body. If I’ve learned one thing about women, it’s that they like guys with good bodies. If I’ve learned two things about women, it’s that “no” means “no” only if you’re a quitter.
I don’t know why a woman would rather have a man who can lift heavy weights over a man who’s so suave he can tell a slavery joke at an NAACP fundraiser and still be everybody’s best friend, especially when in the end we’re all going to be old and gross anyway (and no, I’m not bitter). But women love good bodies.
And Hal, you’re right - if there’s ever an event where those two are appearing, well, watch out. I’ll catch a ride up with you, and when I’m taking a piss at a rest stop, you can alert the Sex Crimes Unit of the Boston PD, because no one’s going to walk away a winner after that function.
Our last email comes from Becky Engels in Montréal, Canada.
I’ve been reading your blog for a couple of months and it seems that you want to pick up a chick who will sleep with you, or at least show you their boobs.And a hell of an idea it is.
So here's my idea. You have a ton of readers, and you'd be surprised at how many of them are women who get sent a link to your blog from friends (which is how I found you). Also, I bet there are women from all over the country reading (I’m from Montréal, so you might have a few Canadian readers as well).
You should offer your services if they ever come to visit NYC. You could be their tour guide and the tour would always end up at a bar. So, even if they don't want a long term relationship, at least there's a chance they'll get so drunk they'll sleep with you, or at least show you their boobs. Since they've spent the day with you, and know what your story is before even meeting you, I think it's safe to assume that they won't be totally disgusted by you.
This is sounding harsh, it's not supposed to.
I’m completely serious. I’m a chick. The first time I went to NYC I would have loved to have had a tour guide with a sense of humor that could get me drunk.
Anyway, just an idea.
So, there you have it, lady visitors to NYC. For just three and a half minutes of the worst sex of your life, you can have me, Jason Mulgrew, Internet Quasi-Celebrity, Fashionista, and NYC Socialite, show you not only all the tourist attractions that NYC has to offer, but all the hip places that aren’t in your “Let’s Go” guide. Together, we’ll cavort around town, laughing, drinking, and when you’re not looking I’ll look down your shirt.
So that’s my offer. You needn’t worry – alcohol, as well as any numbers of narcotics (if necessary), will be provided to ensure a forgettable experience for one and all. All those interested should email the address in the box in the upper right. I look forward to hearing from you soon and taking pictures of you with my penis on your forehead while you’re passed out!
Monday, November 08, 2004
another wonderful, wonderful wedding
Alas, another wedding is in the books, this time my friends Matt and Katie's. This one was in Trumbull (or Monroe or wherever - one of those sleepy, quaint CT towns, where everyone is white and pretty and fit and wears Brooks Brothers or J. Crew or Abercrombie & Fitch and listens to Dave Matthews or Three Doors Down). And, sadly, I was kind of a pussy at this wedding.
Well, not entirely. Let me explain.
Like I wrote on Friday, this one had an afternoon reception. I was interested to see how this would turn out: would the drinking stop when the open bar closed at 5:30? Or would it continue until my heart stopped beating? How late would I stay out? How many appetizers would I be able to eat before throwing up? Would I be able to pocket any of said appetizers for private after-hours consumption in my hotel room? Which bridesmaid and/or groomsman would I try to seduce? You get it.
The church ceremony was at 11am, and it was lovely. One thing that pisses me off about the church part of the wedding is the whole communion bit (indulge me here). Not all of my friends are Catholic, and those who are Catholic are not very good Catholics. Still, these people go up to receive communion at the mass because they don't want to be the only one left behind sitting in the pew, looking like some terrible sinner who hates god and regularly burns down churches and has same-sex love on the weekends.
I am a terrible Catholic. God and I are not on speaking terms right now, for reasons I don't want to get into at this juncture. While walking into the church and noticing a huge baptismal font, my buddy Joe said, "Hey Jay - do you think if you touched that holy water it would singe the skin of your fingertip?" I touched it, and, wouldn't you know it, it did.
According to the Catholic faith (and, admittedly, despite 18 years of Catholic education, this may be wrong), one cannot receive communion if one has a mortal sin on one's soul (I really should have used the second person "you" in this sentence instead of "one"). Mortal sins include but are not limited to: murder, passing bad checks, missing Church on Sunday, arson, having sex out of marriage - you know, shit I do on a fairly regular basis (well, except that last one).
(I'm feeling very parenthetical today apparently)
So therefore I do not receive communion while at wedding masses. I'd rather be a bad Catholic than a hypocrite, so I'm the only one left in the pew at weddings while all my Catholic and non-Catholic friends go up to receive the body of Christ. I don't think I really have a point to this (am I trying to stress that I am strong in my convictions? do I want to impress you with this? am I trying to attack my friends who receive the communion? why is relish so fucking perfect on hot dogs?), but I thought it was something worth mentioning.
Back to the wedding. The reception was a blast. I started with beer, but it wasn't sitting right, since I was a little hungover from the night before and it was still only 12:30 in the afternoon. So I went with my old stand-by: vodka cranberry.
Four hours and more than a few vodka-crans later, I was in the middle of the circle on the dance floor ripping through my repertoire of dances: the Sprinkler, the Cabbage Patch, and the Running Man, but also some Jason Mulgrew originals: the Cement Mixer, the Flamingo, and My Baby's Crying. Also, I'm pretty sure the bride and groom's families know me now as "Matt's gay friend", because I was doing the dance where you mime lassoing someone, pull them close to you and then dance all up on them. I could have chose anyone to do this to: perhaps the bride, who I know well, or a bridesmaid, many of whom I know well, or any of the countless women on the dance floor. Instead, of course, I chose the groom. Not a good choice. And yes, there is a video. And yes, I will do everything within the realm of the power bestowed on me by being an internet quasi-celebrity to make sure this video never sees the light of day.
The good news is that I discovered a pretty funny thing to say to people when you're playing the catch-up game ("Where are you now? What are you doing?"). Matt (the groom) was one of my best friends in college, but he wasn't in the core circle of my friends. See, unlike most of my friends, Matt's a nice guy: he doesn't get shit-housed because it's Tuesday afternoon and he doesn't have anything else to do, he doesn't spend most of his time writing anonymous hate letters to the bitch at Who's who spent all night dancing with him but left as soon as the lights came on, he doesn't grow marijuana plants in his closet, etc. So Matt and I maintained a friendship that existed outside of both our "inner circles" of friends.
The result is that there were a lot of people at the wedding from his circle who I kinda knew and had met maybe once or twice before, but didn't really know. So I had fun conversations like:
Person I don't really know: "So how have you been? I haven't seen you in forever!"
Me: [sighing] "Well, good, you know. I don't know how much you heard, but it was a little rough there for a while. But I'm clean now, and have been for over a year."
Person: [awkward] "Oh, well that's great. Great."
Me: "Yeah, you know what they say - 'one day at a time.' So, we'll see."
Person: [still awkward] "Well, I'm gonna run, but it was nice to see you."
When the reception ended at 5:30, everyone boarded the bus to head back to the hotel for drinks at the hotel bar. Within minutes of sitting down, I, along with at least half of the passengers/guests, feel asleep. I don't know how long we were in the bus for, but when we got back to the hotel my plan was to change and then head down to the hotel bar. I went up to my room, sat on my bed, and then passed out. Hard.
When I woke up, it was 10:11. I figured I would order a pizza, eat to recharge, and get ready and head out. The pizza took almost an hour to arrive, and by the time I had finished eating it (the whole fucking thing), it was almost 11:30. So I finished up some wine I was drinking, and passed out again. Hard.
(Lame, I know. I am still upset with myself, but it's very hard to stop a drunk, overweight person from falling asleep if they are so inclined.)
Still, it was a hell of a time. Anytime you mix free booze, old friends, and a celebration of love, you can't go wrong. Unless my Uncle Teddy is there and he's all coked up. Because then it can get ugly. Fast.
But fortunately, my Uncle Teddy was not invited. And fortunately, though they've been fun, I won't be going to a wedding for a long time (unless any of you invite me to one). I'm looking forward to getting back to my roots and spending all of next weekend in NYC, dropping $6 for each beer or vodka tonic I drink, ordering a $15 burrito for dinner, and generally rabble-rousing. Perhaps I may even go to a museum, or do something cultural. Or perhaps I will take in one of the various shows that this great city has to offer. Or perhaps I'll get drunk and pass out in the shower. Probably that last one, but you never know.
Friday, November 05, 2004
I'm leaving work in less than an hour to head to CT for my second wedding in as many weekends.
To be honest, I don't know if I can do it again. The thing is, this one is an afternoon reception, rather than an evening one. That can portend good news, as that should mean that I should stop drinking when the open bar closes at 5pm or 6pm or whenever.
Or, that could be really bad news, as I could continue drinking after the open bar closes, perhaps several hours after the open bar closes, until I wake up on some random road in rural CT with a package of uncooked, half-eaten hot dogs crushed my half-naked body and a sleeping hitchhiker lying next to me, sharing with me a knapsack full of Bibles and used-up batteries for a pillow.
But we'll see.
[Have a lovely weekend]
Thursday, November 04, 2004
election leftovers, my midterm, Ray Lamontagne, TO, and music
A couple of things leftover from the election:
- I want to stress to my international readers (how fucking cool am I?) who have been inundating my mailbox with missives with topics ranging from "You guys are fucked" to "I'm so sorry for you" to "Check out my boobs!" to "You guys are idiots" that many Americans are not idiots. We are good people, we are smart people. Many of us understand your feelings about the US and agree with them.
But the fact is that we got beat, plain and simple. The Other America spoke a little louder, and thems the breaks. But please know that many Americans are right with you, and this election was not representative of the views of all Americans (this should be fairly obvious with 48% of the vote going to John Kerry, but still I wanted to clarify).
For you Canadians, reader LL in Georgia (who proves that yes, liberals do live in Georgia) sent this to me. So get ready, because I am not going to live in Jesusland (there are just no decent strip clubs).
Also, for the record, according to site counter statistics, I have three times as many readers in Singapore than I do in the whole Rocky Mountain time zone in the US. What gives here? Is the Rocky Mountain time zone against me, or am I just a demi-god in Singapore? Please explain.
- One of my friends, a Bush supporter, said he voted for GW because of Iraq. His logic was that though GW got us into the mess in Iraq, he'd rather see what GW can do in the next term than hand the mess over to Kerry, who doesn't seem to have a concrete plan.
Let's say I'm a shareholder in a Company X. Let's say the CEO of Company X, with a small group of lackeys, has decided it would be in the best interest of the company and the market as a whole to take over Company Y. The CEO believes in this so much he does so without getting permission of the Board of Trustees of Company X.
So Company X takes over Company Y without permission of the Board and uh oh - it doesn't work so well. Company X starts losing money, as it diverts more and more funds to Company Y. The employees are Company Y are pissed at the new management of Company X, and start impeding efforts at integration and, uh, start chopping off people's heads. And the market as a whole gets jittery because of this uncertainty with such big, powerful companies.
So now we have a CEO who has pissed off the Board of Directors, is losing his company money and hurting its reputation, and has fucked up the whole market.
As a shareholder, would you vote to leave this CEO in, watching passively as he runs the company into the ground by ruining his credibility, damaging the company's reputation and ultimately losing you money? Or would you rather have another high-ranking executive in the company take over to try to right the ship?
Hell, it's all moot now...
- One last unforeseen terrible result of this election: more Will Forte as George Bush on "Saturday Night Live". He and Seth Myers as John Kerry have got to be the WORST presidential impersonators in that show's history. My roommate Ben walked into the living room the other night when SNL's "Presidential Bash" was on TV, saw Will Forte playing George Bush in a debate, and after watching for a good thirty seconds said, "Wait a minute - is he supposed to be George Bush?"
I think I'm going to have to brush up on my Bush impression and use it as my in to get on SNL. Also, I'll have to lose 80 pounds, but that's no problem - bring on the cocaine!
Earlier this week, I got the results of my midterm back. I got a (drumroll please)...B.
B is ok. I was actually thinking I'd get a B-, which is the standard grade for, "Well, you don't really know anything about the material, but at least it doesn't look too obvious and you write reasonably well." So I'll take the B.
What's weird is that there were two questions on the test for which we had to write essays for, and both our answers received a grade. After taking the test, I thought I had completely bombed one, but aced the other.
The first question, based on the readings which I didn't do, was something like, "What does Professor Billington say about the icon and the axe and the bell and the cannon in Russian history?" I had absolutely no clue on this one. I think I started it by writing something like, "Professor Billington is a wise man, who knows much about Russian history, particularly about the importance of the icon and the axe and the bell and the cannon and its place in said history." I then wrote at length about the icon ("beautifully crafted, psychologically important"), the axe ("both weapon and tool"), the bell ("wrung during the good and the bad times"), and the cannon ("a weapon, but so much more - a symbol of Russian might").
I think I got tired of the sound of my own bullshit halfway through and wrote out the lyrics to R. Kelly's "You Remind Me Of Something" (It's something about your love that's got me going crazy/Baby, you know I want you real bad/And girl I really like your freaky style/How can I be down with you?).
The second question, based on the lectures, was something about Muscovite princes (I've already forgotten), I aced. I even threw in dates and a Russian word or two. So nerdy. So, so nerdy.
Grade for first question: B. Grade for second question: B.
A few friends and I saw Ray Lamontagne last night in the make-up show for a date he missed back in September.
This guy is really, really good. I've pimped him a million times here, and if you haven't downloaded any of his stuff, do so now. He was joined by a stand-up bass player, but for the most part, it was just he and his guitar up there, going off. I thought about why I think he's so good, and I think it's because his songs are so simple that anyone can relate to them.
Ok, that's the worst explanation ever - let me try again.
For me, Ray Lamontagne is to music what Charles Bukowski is to literature. Both are bare-bones, and don't come at you with big words or complex sentences, or sweeping orchestral arrangements or noisy feedback. At the same time, both are deeply emotional and genuine. But what's more, both, after reading or hearing them, inspire a sort of visceral, dichotomous reaction: something like, "Man, why didn't I think of that? It's so simple" and "Well, it's because I'm not nearly as talented as they are express certain feelings in such astute, poignant, and simple ways."
I just read that over, and we REALLY have to move on here, because I'm nearly completely incoherent.
This Terrell Owens-Ray Lewis feud is really hilarious to me. The long and short of it: TO was traded to Lewis's team, the Ravens, in the offseason. TO made a stink, got the trade rescinded, and now is playing extremely well with the Philadelphia Eagles. This past weekend in the Eagles' victory over the Ravens, TO did a dance imitating the one Lewis does during games and when he's introduced. Lewis and other Ravens were not happy.
TO has always been vilified for this celebrations, and, to an extent I agree with this. Celebrations are ok, but sometimes they are just a little too much.
Below is part of an article from www.philly.com, in which TO answers those who criticize him for celebrating. Some background: in 2001, Ray Lewis pleaded guilty to misdemeanor obstruction of justice charge and agreed to testify against two of his friends after a double-murder at an Atlanta-area nightclub in January 2000. Somehow, despite his involvement in a double murder, Ray Lewis is the face of the NFL. Read below (Terrell Owens is speaking)...
"I've never had any off-field problems. I've wanted to say it for a long time, but since Joey [Porter, Steelers' LB who expressed support for TO in his celebrations and was first to bring up that Lewis was involved in a murder but is incredibly popular] put it out there, you have a guy like Ray Lewis, who I thought was pretty much my friend. This is a guy, double-murder case, and he could have been in jail, but it seems like the league embraces a guy like that. I'm going out scoring touchdowns and having fun, but I'm the bad guy. So I don't understand it, I really don't.I have to say that I whole-heartedly agree with TO on this one. The fact is that Ray Lewis was somehow, in a strange way, tied up in a double homicide. Yet the league has made him their poster boy and NEVER mentions this. Can you imagine if your friends killed two people, you obstructed justice, later pleaded guilty to obstructing justice, then testified against your friends, and EVERYONE at your place of employment knew about it? Do you think your boss would come into your office and say, "You know what? We're going to start featuring you in a lot more advertisements and hype about this company. I was want everyone to know that you, someone whose name is associated with the killing of two people, are associated with us, your employer. This is a tremendous idea."
"I listen to ESPN and all the guys that report on there, it's really funny...I just take it with a grain of salt and I keep ticking. I know they're looking for me to do something [off the field] or something to come up, but it's not going to happen."
In an instance of art imitating life, or something like that, Owens' words quickly made it to ESPN yesterday evening, with a panel of analysts that included ex-Eagle Mike Golic expressing sympathy for Lewis and condemning Owens for bringing up the murder business. ESPN also read a statement from the Ravens, who thought they'd traded for Owens' rights last March, then were forced to accept a fifth-round draft choice instead when the NFL brokered a trade to the Eagles. "Like the rest of the NFL community, we would expect nothing less from Terrell Owens," the statement said.
Then, on ESPN's "Pardon the Interruption," Tony Kornheiser and Michael Wilbon found rare agreement, bashing Owens for bringing up Lewis' brush with the law.
I don't think so.
- Six Songs
1) "Kiss Me Like You Mean It" The Magnetic Fields
Any song that's about making out with the Lord, even if they're not really talking about the Lord, well, I'm all for it. Even if you don't like music at all and prefer total and complete silence, download this song.
2) "What About Now?" Lonestar
Ah, country music. This song is one of my favorite country songs. Whenever I hear it, I just wanna grab my gal (whose wearing pig-tails and Daisy Dukes of course), hop in a pick-up truck with her, throw a shotgun and a ton of chewing tobacco in the back, and just drive across this great land we call the U-S-A, stopping intermittently to have sex in fields, drink some whiskey and do some line dancing, pray, and shoot the occasional black, homosexual, or pro-choicer. God bless America.
[And no, I'm not still bitter about this election. Nor am I currently starting a petition which calls for the Northeast, the West Coast, Chicago and anyone cool who reads this site to secede from the US.]
3) "Raspberry Beret" Prince
Yeah, I know, everyone knows this song. But seriously, this has got to be, what, one of the top seven or eight songs of all-time? Do you think Prince wrote this and said to himself, "Oh yeah - I'm pretty fucking awesome. Now I'm going to spend the rest of my life being androgynous and really fucking weird."
4) "Kathleen" Josh Ritter
This song reminds me of those late-high school suburban parties where all the guys are standing around, drinking keg beer out of plastic solo cups, talking about the girls at the party, but one girl there is just heads and shoulders above the rest. That's what this song reminds me of. Not that I went to those parties in high school, as I spent most of high school gang-banging and in and out of youth detention centers.
[Also, it reminds me of a girl that I have a HUGE crush on right now. The good news is that I'm pretty sure she doesn't read this site. If she does, well, I should just head back to the "Erotic" section of Craigslist.
5) "Strange Currencies" REM
My favorite REM song (very underrated - the song, not the band). That's really all I can say. Except: Michael Stipe came out of the closet in 2001? How did I miss this? Why did I not learn this until two weeks ago?
6) "I Was Just Thinking" Teitur
This guy opened for Ray Lamontagne last night. He had me when he said, "This next song is ten years old, and I'm 19. [pause] Actually, I'm 27." This is the song. I like him because he's from the Faroe Islands, and I just love all things Scandinavian. Well, not the food. Or the weather. Or really anything except the women. Definitely love the women.