Everything is wrong with me
Monday, January 31, 2005
the weekend and lines (as in queue and pick-up)
Sunday is the worst day of the week. It's not even close. Well, actually, Monday is a pretty bad day. Yeah, come to think of it, Monday is probably worse than Sunday.

Ok, let's start over.

Sunday is a very bad day. I usually spend my Sundays in various stages of nudity and disrepair, as I move from bed to shower to toilet to couch throughout the day, my body trying to figure out what to do with the several liters of booze slogging through my bloodstream. My head and body aches, so there's only one thing I can do: eat lots of greasy food.

What's worse than the physical repercussions of the hangover are the psychological ones. Sundays are the reason I stopped doing (most hard) drugs - I couldn't deal with the comedown. While flushing out all the alcohol, your body is going through all sort of chemical changes and reactions, and when this is happening my mood swings wildly between crying at a car commercial to chasing the little brown delivery guy down my hall and stabbing him in the leg because they only included ONE packet of ketchup with my sausage, egg, and cheese bagel. Fucking assholes.

Usually, the deleterious effects of Sunday are mitigated by hours upon hours on football, but this was not the case this past Sunday, the first since early September without meaningful football. And boy did I suffer. Left alone without such a wonderful distraction, my troubled-but-not-troubled-in-a-cool-way mind turned to several harmful thoughts, including but not limited to:

- "I'm dying"
- "I can't keep drinking like this - look what it does to me"
- "What kind of man am I? I'm 25 and look at what I'm doing to myself"
- "Seriously, I'm fucking dying"
- "I am fraud and a failure. I'm not sure how, but I know it's true and it sounds cool to say."
- "Why do I always smell like semen?"
- "Ok, that's it - I'm dying. Ready, 1-2-3. I'm dead. That's it. Over. Fuck."

It was a rough weekend. "Rough", however, means "fun because I got pretty damn f'ed up". Friday night I went out locally with some buddies, and Saturday night I ventured back to my old 'hood for a birthday party. I didn't drink especially hard either night: there was nothing like gratuitous "5 shots of Jaeger in an hour"-type drinking, but there was some long drinking. Do I have a problem if after drinking from 7pm on on Saturday night I got home at around 4am and decided to have some wine to help me sleep? Is this bad? Is something wrong with me?

What's terrifying to me is that this is a sign of things to come. Come this Sunday night when football season ends, I'm looking at a long string of hungover Sundays trapped in my apartment (too fucking cold to go outside) without football. These are going to be some dark, dark days.


Anyway, the party on Saturday night was a good time. It was nice to be back in the old neighborhood, and more specifically, near my favorite pizza place EVER - Rosario's, in the Lower East Side on the corner of Orchard & Stanton. Holy shit it's fucking good. After leaving the party, my roommate Brian and I quickly hit up a few bars we used to frequent and then ended the night at Rosario's, with a $16 order. Fucking A, man.

But let me back-track: I was at said party on Saturday night, a birthday party for my friend Maggie, standing in line for the bathroom, when some guy who was about 40 or so who was also in line said to me out of the blue, "It's a shame that kids nowadays are no longer main-lining heroin."

I looked at him and thought, "Dude, who are you - me?" I thought it was a pretty funny line, and said something like, "Yeah, they're too concerned with their looks that they don't want track marks. When I was young, track marks on your arms from heroin use were a sign that you were not only becoming a man, but also that you were the man."

So props to that guy, and it got me thinking about some other good/shocking lines. My friends and I would do this thing in college where we'd try to be as obnoxious as possible within earshot of others, usually really hot girls. For example, we'd be getting cash out of an ATM before entering a bar, and at the ATM machine next to us there'd be two gorgeous, way out of our league girls, and we'd play out a scene where we were in mid conversation, talking about something horrible and offensive:

Me: [getting cash, being very animated] "So I said to her, I said, 'You better shut the fuck up right now before I fucking slap the shit out of you' and you know what she said to me? Do you know what the bitch said to me?"
My buddy Bill: [enthralled] "What did she say?"
Me: "She said, 'Fuck you fat ass.' Can you believe that? Can you believe the balls on her?"
Bill: "What a bitch. What did you do?"
Me: "What do you think I did - I fucking punched her right the fucking nose. Hard too. And I said, 'Mouth off again at me, and I'll swear I'll fucking give you brain damage. I will punch, kick, bite and claw you until your brain is permanently damaged.'"
Bill: "Serves her right."
Me: "God damn right it does. Now let's go get fucked up." [me and Bill high five, walk out of ATM to horrified stares of hot girls]

I know what you're thinking, "Maybe this is why you don't get laid, asshole". But there are many other reasons besides being obnoxious that I don't get laid. Besides, it's not like these two girls were gonna fuck us in the ATM vestibule anyway, nor would they even have looked at us in the bar, so we might as well have had some fun with them.

Some advice - next time you're at a bar, standing next to a cute girl, and you want to start up a conversation but don't know what to say, use one of these numbers. You have my personal guarantee (which means absolutely nothing) that any on of these will get you laid (whether it's consensual or not is for the courts to decide):

- "So, are you a religious person?"
- "You know, they should really put a magazine rack here or something. By the way, one of my balls is MUCH bigger than the other."
- "If we had kids, I promise that I would never touch them. Unless they were really, really hot. Or if I was left alone with them. Otherwise, I wouldn't lay a hand on them."
- "You look like someone who's on anti-depressants. Which is your favorite SSRI: lexapro, prozac, paxil, or zoloft?"
- "I don't know...I don't think I need a test to tell me whether or not I have an STD. I know I don't have an STD, no matter what the test said. A lot of guys get pus-filled whiteheads on the head of their penis. Not a big deal."
- "Cool music. So how do you feel about ass-play?"
- "Seriously, women like the taste of semen, right?"
- "I've been clean for a week and a half now and it's been the worst week and a half of my life."
- "You haven't kissed a black guy, have you?"

I know, I know - you're welcome. Just use them wisely, and if you live in NYC, don't use them at all. I plan on dropping those little love bombs at various bar bathrooms all over the city, in the hopes that one special little lady will say, "I can't speak for all women, but I love the taste of semen. Looking at you, I'm thinking yours taste like a mix of burnt popcorn and hepatitis, and I'd like to find out. Care you join me in the bathroom?"

Keep your fingers crossed. Just keep your fingers crossed.

Friday, January 28, 2005
enough with the blind accordion players, "american idol", Dakota, sweaty palms, RSS, music, victory is mine
I have gotten an astonishing amount of thought- and discussion-provoking emails from you all recently. Some hilarious, some controversial, some non-sensical, and one with a picture of two guys making out with a deer (I wish I was kidding).

I've been wanting to write a post in which I compile a "best of" your emails (as I have done in the past), but unfortunately, I am really, really bad at writing these. This is because I'll read an interesting email, usually while intoxicated, and think to myself, "I should totally write about this". Then next time I'll check I'll have a lot more emails, and the good one will get buried by emails like, "Dude, are you really that fat?" and "I bet your penis is not that small" and "I'm an editor, and the period goes inside the quotation marks, not after it". (Yeah, I know, but it just looks better my way)

However, one really struck me and needed immediate publication. Tom Dedman writes:

Just thought you should know that blind accordion players are apparently not uncommon. I hail from Melbourne, Australia, and here we have a blind accordion player called Bernadette who plays in various streets all over the city. No shit, she is practically famous here. You might be onto something with that convention accident theory.
He also provided a link to an article about Bernadette that has a picture of said "blind" accordion player.

However, in this picture, we can clearly see from that Bernadette is not blind, but rather just closing her eyes. I mean, she's wearing glasses, and not the Ray Charles/Stevie Wonder kind that covers the eyes because blind people's eyes are scary and look like Werewolf eyes. Why would a "blind" need glasses like that? She's wearing the same type of glasses I wear when I get too drunk to put my contacts in their case and instead eat them.

I mean, c'mon - look at that fucking picture! She's just saying she's blind to get more fame (and as an internet quasi-celebrity, I know a thing or two about fame and eating a lot of fucking french fries)! How is it that no one has realized this before? Maybe I'll close my eyes when I play guitar and everyone will say, "Holy shit! That blind guy sucks at guitar!" and write an article about me.

And yes, maybe I'm just jealous that she thought of it first. Lucky bitch.


If you are not watching "American Idol" right now, you really need to be. I don't give a shit about the competition, but right now it's at the tryout stage. Three reasons you need to watch:

1) It's hilarious, uncomfortable, and sad all at once. These poor misguided losers get up there and sign their hearts out, most of them running the gamut from sounding like someone is stepping on their balls to sounding like they are being stabbed in the lung, only to be criticized and crushed in front of millions of people. And then they proceed to cry and make a big stink into the camera afterwards. There is no joy in the joy that a really bad person (i.e. me) can get from the agony of others, so this shit is right up my alley. Also, last time two identical (male) twins sang Boyz II Men's "I'll Make Love To You" and got all into it. It was very, very gross and weird.

2) Randy Jackson. Hey Randy, listen - we get it - you're black. You don't need to say things like, "Yeah dog yeah!" and "Aight, aight, I'm witch you" all the time.

Actually, the funny thing is that Randy only really talks like this when the black contestants are on. Seriously - watch him speaking to a nerdy white guy, and then see how he transform when some black kid in an oversized NBA jersey walks in. He's kinda like your buddy who speaks French. You know he speaks French, but you don't really think about it because in an everyday situation, who is he going to speak French to? And then you, him, and some friends go to Montreal for a weekend of pills and strippers and he's so excited he finally gets to speak French that he can't stop speaking it to everyone. It gets so annoying that you ultimately grow to hate him, and kill him in an alley.

That's kinda like Randy. I'm sure he spends all his time around Simon, Ryan Seacrest, and Paula Abdul and a bunch of stuffy TV people that when he finally sees a black person, he can't stop speaking, well, black to them.

Or something like that.

3) The guest judges. Last week, it was Mark McGrath, douchebag from Sugar Ray. This week, it was the biggest asshole and leader of the worst band on Earth, Gene Simmons. Next week, it's Kenny Loggins. I'm just waiting for an appearance from the that lead singer from the Fine Young Cannibals (also, a tip: if you do it right, "She Drives Me Crazy" is an awesome karaoke song).


When I have a kid (if I don't have one already - DNA tests are pending in Honduras, but thank god that country's poor and is scientifically on the level of 1934 Poland), I hope it's like Dakota Fanning.

I came up from the subway last night and there was an advertisement for her new movie with Robert DeNiro. And there she was on the ad, her face juxtaposed next to DeNiro's. And she ten fucking years old. Good lord. When I was ten years old, I was going to the beach and eating dead jellyfish because I didn't know any better. And she's sharing adspace with Bobby DeNiro.

Her parents are very, very lucky (that is, until she turns 12 and starts blowing dudes for heroin). I hope that when I have a kid, it's as accomplished at ten as Dakota Fanning is. However, I'm pretty sure that when my kid is ten, he/she will be sitting next to me on the beach eating dead jellyfish right with me, as my estranged wife yells at us to stop.

A boy can dream though...


I recently met my buddy Griff for lunch, who's in town from Seattle on business. When I shook his hand, he recoiled and said, "Ugh - I forgot how gross your hands are."

Yes, in addition to being fat, having poor posture, a tiny bird, bad hair, no money, and no self-esteem, I have the clammiest hands in the world. Not only that, but they are very white and I have very long, crooked fingers. My friends in college used to joke that I have vampire hands. Although I'd imagine that a vampire would have very dry hands. I don't know why, but I just do.

But if I were a vampire, at least I could use that as an excuse for having disgusting hands. Instead, mine are just plain gross. On my blue mouse-pad at work, there is an area just below where my mouse sits that's bluer than the rest, because it's sweat-stained. Yes, I managed to get sweat stains on my mouse pad. I have to take pills immediately, because if I hold them in my hand, they have about three seconds before they completely liquefy. I avoid shaking hands at all costs, especially with women. I don't mind as much if a guy gets my soaked hand in his, but when a woman gets a handful of sweat, I'm sure she's not thinking, "Wow - I hope he gets to rub those clammy hands all over my bare breasts later!"

I don't know where I'm going with this, but I just wanted to get it off my chest. So there.


Our lovely and talented sitemaster Brendan wanted me to tell you all that we now have a fully functioning RSS feed, which you can get by clicking on the link at the bottom of the index page. He even had a little article explaining what an RSS feed is. Isn't he the best?

If, like me, you have no idea what this means, don't worry about it. But apparently it's pretty cool, and will automatically email you once this site is updated. But again, I know very little about computers, so I'll just stop talking now before my monitor catches fire.


Six Songs:

- "The Light" Common
Leave it to me to find the mushiest rap song ever recorded and pimp it on this site. I don't care, I like it. I told you I'm sensitive, so stop judging.

- "White Light/White Heat" Velvet Underground
What I love most about this song is that it sounds like it was written and recorded in about eight minutes while the entire band was high. I can see Lou Reed telling the band in some small smoky recording studio, "Ok, you guys play this, and sing 'White Light' twice, 'White Heat' once, and then 'White Light' again. And I'll just make it up as I go along. Are we ready, or should we take more drugs first?"

- "Fat Bottomed Girls" Queen
Think about it: the most flamboyantly homosexual man in history singing about having sex with fat girls (unless I'm missing a hidden meaning or metaphor here, which I kinda hope I am), screaming at the end "Get on your bikes and ride!" A really gay dude and fat chicks riding bicycles: does it get any better? I think not.

- "Timorous Me" Ted Leo & The Pharmacists
I have a very love/hate relationship with this song. For example, I hate the instrumental break which is both smack in the middle of the song and at the end. I think it messes up the rhythm and excitement of the whole song. Otherwise, this song is fucking perfect. Not only because of the awesome guitar work and singing, but when the band comes in with Ted after said instrumental break (about 2:15 in), I jump up and start dancing wherever I am. I think it's impossible not to (too bad this make-me-dance part lasts only about thirty seconds).

If you haven't heard of this band, please download this song. It may rock your world.

- "1969" Iggy Pop & The Stooges
This song reminds me of walking into a party in, well, 1969. One of those slow-motion shots, where I walk in and check out the scene, and everyone's all hippied out, waving the freak fly high, all fucked up and getting more fucked up. I kinda look like Jimi Hendrix, but much fatter and much more pale. And then I walk into the middle of the room and pull out my bird. Everyone stops what they're doing and looks at me, and I spit out some tobacco juice on the ground. Then I put my bird back on my pants (remember, it's all slow-mo), turn around and walk out. Then there's a scene of me fucking a dog in a van (the dog is on top). End of scene.

- "Police On My Back" The Clash
If "Timorous Me" makes me dance, this song makes me punch shit. "Police On My Back" was a staple in the "Punch Your Balls" playlist, which I listened to while at the gym pumping iron. Also, it spawned a long-lasting private joke among my friends and I: whenever we do something stupid, we'll scream in an exaggerated and terrible British accent, "What have I done???" As in:

[at grocery store]
Me: "Brian, dude, you just fucking ran over that toddler with the shopping cart!"
Brian: [screaming in British accent] "What have I done???"

[at bar on Saturday night]
Ben: "Christ Jay - you have shit all over your pants! Did you fucking poop yourself?"
Me: [drunk, screaming in British accent] "What have I done???"

You get it.


Finally, a thank you to all of you who voted for me in the Best of Blog (BoB) awards. Turns out, I actually won. While I still don't know exactly what "snarky" means and though I've been referring to my blog as "award-winning" since its inception, I can finally not be lying when I say it. So thank you again, and I promise to use this award in any capacity that I can, including scoring women and free drugs. If it works, I'll let you know, but don't get your hopes up.

[Have a good weekend]

Thursday, January 27, 2005
the great american diet
I have a confession: I am on a diet.

Yes, I know, I know. It's very out of character. I've never before limited what I eat, except to say occasionally, "You know what? I don't want extra cheese on the pizza - it's just too much. I just had a milkshake and a grilled cheese, so if I have extra cheese on the pie I might go into a dairy seizure or coma or some shit. I saw it happen to some dude once on the Learning Channel and it was fucked up." And I know that after years of being fat and drawing strength and power from my girth, if I were somehow to lose weight, like some 21st century obese cokehead Sampson who likes to shoot cars with a bb gun when he's high, I might lose the source of my power and my entire identity.

The good news is that there's absolutely no way this diet is going to succeed. I have a better chance of going to heaven than I do of slimming down. It just ain't gonna happen.

That will not stop me from talking about it though, because hey - it's something to write about. And though I know as much about dieting as I do about pleasing a woman or not masturbating in the corner of my apartment building's laundry room late at night, I am pleased to announce Jason Mulgrew's Guide to Dieting.

"Jason Mulgrew's Guide to Dieting"
by Jason Mulgrew
illustrations by Jason Mulgrew
edited by Jason Mulgrew, with the help of SpellCheck
thought of while pooping by Jason Mulgrew

I figure that after years of get rich quick schemes, I should try creating a diet. People will do and pay just about anything to look and feel good, and I am the right mix of schemer, deviant, and charismatic leader to manipulate a large amount of people with low self-esteem into giving me money. And look at me - I'm fat as shit! All I have to do is take a couple "before" pictures, go on this diet and lose 100 pounds, take a couple of "after" pictures, and then sit back and watch the checks come in. It's really very simple, you see. Now on with the diet...

You see, dieting is fundamentally simple. Like Communism, witch hunts, and Jim Crow laws, it makes perfect sense on paper and seems easy enough: all one needs to do is make moderate changes in lifestyle to reap countless rewards, like being able to walk up a flight of stairs without collapsing or rising from your chair at your desk without your knees buckling under you so that you fall and hit your fat head on your keyboard. However, it's the application of dieting that's difficult. And here's where I come in to help.

There are three things you need to think about when you diet:

1) Why you want to stop being a fat fuck

2) Why you are currently a fat fuck

3) Stop being a fat fuck already

If you follow these three steps (and eat a lot less and exercise at least one hour a day), you are guaranteed to lose weight. Now in the words of Jesus Christ Himself, "Let's briga-briga-break it down!" (Editor's Note: we were not able to confirm if Jesus actually said "Let's briga-briga-break it down!" by press time, but from what we know of Him personally and from our Bible study groups, we assume that He did in fact say it)

1) Why you want to stop being a fat fuck

There are all sorts of reasons for dieting. Some, like me, want to diet because they fear that they may drop dead at any time, as since they graduated from college they have exclusively eaten from the following food groups: booze (beer, wine, hard alcohol, homemade wine that was actually just vodka mixed with apple juice); the fried family (chicken fingers, french fries, onion rings, nachos dipped in a fryer, sticks of butter dipped in a fryer, your finger dipped in a fryer); the cream family (ice cream, whipped cream, sour cream, cream cheese, hand cream); cheap booze (any liter of alcohol that can be purchased for under $6, very old Pepsi, homemade "sangria" made from $4 tequila, homemade wine [see above], and rubbing alcohol); miscellaneous (a tire, two folding chairs, a couple of pens, and a dog); and of course, methamphetamines.

Others, also like me, want to diet because they are not getting the attention of the opposite sex. They're tired of going out with their friends and being ignored by the attractive people they lust after, something that bothers them so much that they go home and light their arm on fire or immediately buy a gun. Therefore, they want to make a change so that they too can be viewed with the same lust they view this sexy bitch (both of them). Also (from what I can remember), having sex feels pretty good, so they'd like a piece of that action if possible.

I personally have another reason for dieting, a combination of the two above: I firmly believe that if given the proper tests, my doctor would declare that I am not healthy enough for sexual activity. There is no doubt in my mind about this. I've written before how my heart races when I stand up quickly or pee, and how I can't even look at a flight of stairs without needing to take a nap. I can't imagine what a round or two of passionate, consensual love-making would do to me, since after masturbating I need at least a week to recuperate, having to stay in bed twenty-two hours a day and stay away from operating any and all heavy machinery.

So the first step is knowing why you want to diet. Not only that, you must focus on these reasons, never allowing yourself to forget the ultimate goal: "One day, when the opportunity presents itself, I would like to have an orgasm without worry whether or not my heart will explode."

2) Why you currently are a fat fuck

The second step, in case you didn't notice from the "2)" and the bold text above, is figuring out why you currently are a fat fuck. Is it because you eat unhealthy foods? Is it because you eat a lot? Is it because your whole family is fat? Is it because you don't move unless you absolutely have to? Is it for all these reasons, in addition to believing that deep down fat really is sexy?

All these reasons apply to me (well, except the whole fat being sexy thing - believe me, that's the last thing I'm thinking when I'm in the shower whipping the wash cloth onto the vast expanse that is my back, trying to clean areas that I have not been able to touch nor have been exposed to direct sunlight since pre-school).

I think my biggest problem is portions. My doctor and I spoke out this the last time I visited him and tried to score some painkillers, sleeping pills, anti-anxiety meds, laxatives, whatever. He made a great point when he said, "Jason, I don't believe in the whole 'low carb' thing. Think about it - look at all the Orientals. The main staple of their diet is rice, and they're very skinny - and, might I add, great at math. The problem is portions. How many times have you split a box of spaghetti with a roommate? Do you know that there are eight servings of pasta in a box? It's portions, not the carbs. And please, put your penis back in your pants. There's nothing wrong with it, and I know you're just saying something's wrong with it so that I'll touch it. You are a sick man. A sick man with a baby's penis."

I just like to eat a lot. For example, a lot of times I'll order a large pizza with the justification that I can eat some now, and still have enough left over for another meal or two. Sadly, twenty minutes after the pizza arrives, after a lot of screaming and tears, all that's left is an empty box and half of that little white plastic table they put in the middle of the pizza so the box top doesn't get crushed onto the cheese (I keep forgetting that this is NOT candy, something I don't realize until I'm choking on the fucking thing).

Another problem: beer. For all it's wondrous qualities (giver of strength, wisdom, sexual prowess, an excuse to do/say whatever you want, object of blame when you "accidentally" download three gay porn clips), beer isn't the best thing for you and your belly. It's basically a lot of calories and carbs mixed with just the right amount of poison so that when the proper amount is ingested you think, "You know what? It can't be too hard to fly. I think those who tried to do it before and failed were just pussies. I'm gonna go to the top floor of the parking lot to test this out."

So if you are seriously trying to lose weight, you're going to have to cut down on the beer. Fortunately, that doesn't mean you have to stop getting messed up. Straight alcohol is very low in calories, and will get you much drunker much more quickly. Also, to my knowledge, pills are very low in calories as well (thought I only went to med school for one year - long story).

3) Stop being a fat fuck already.

You have decided why you need to stop being so fat. You have figured out precisely why you are fat. And now the hard part: stop being a fat fuck already.

First, you have to change your eating habits. Cut down on the bad stuff, eat more of the good stuff. Different people have different approaches to this. I'm trying one of those diets in which you eat six small meals a day instead of three giant meals. My daily diet is supposed to consist of:

- Morning: two eggs, oatmeal
- Mid-morning: protein bar
- Lunch: salad with tuna or chicken
- Mid-afternoon: protein bar
- Dinner: piece of chicken, fish, or beef with vegetables
- After dinner (if necessary): protein shake

I thought this would work, first and foremost because the protein bars are delicious and quite filling. There's one flavor called "double fudge brownie", and believe it or not, it tastes kinda like a brownie, albeit a stale brownie that looks like a turd. Also, the protein shakes, though I won't be confusing them with milkshakes anytime soon, aren't too bad either. And I like eggs, oatmeal, chicken, tuna, and beef! Doesn't this look so good on paper???


Sadly, I have not been able to follow this verbatim. I use yesterday's record of consumption as an example, with the diet prescribed as above and the actual food I ate in parentheses:

- Morning: two eggs (with three types of cheese - monterey jack, american, mozzarella - in a tortilla), oatmeal (two sausage patties)
- Mid-morning: protein bar (protein bar)
- Lunch: salad with tuna or chicken (chicken caesar salad with approximately one cup of caesar dressing and two- to three-hundred croutons, rice pudding)
- Mid-afternoon: protein bar (protein bar)
- Dinner: piece of chicken, fish, or beef with vegetables (cheeseburger (with lettuce), fries, large Nestea, half pint of ice cream)
- After dinner (if necessary): protein shake (Nesquik chocolate milk)

So this really is the hard part. However, I will remain "committed", especially since I just spent $120 on protein shakes and protein bars, because it's not like I have over $20,000 in student loans to pay off or anything. Nor a $2600 computer to pay off. Nor a credit card bill that's so high I'm embarrassed to write the amount. So spending over $100 on protein shit is completely acceptable and fiscally responsible.

But in the battle of losing weight, dieting is only the one half of the equation. The other half is exercising. I can not speak to this at this juncture, as I have been advised by my doctor not to exercise for at least four weeks. This is not because I sustained some glorious injury in a game of sport, but because I have an unglamorous affliction: athlete's foot. Terrible, terrible athlete's foot. I mean, this shit is GROSS. My feet are literally rotting, and go from pink to red to purple to blue throughout the day, and smell like a homeless guy's balls. Not that I've ever smelled a homeless guy's balls (sober). But it's bad. Really, really bad.


So there you have it: my guide to dieting. I know, I know - it's pretty fucking awesome, and you're welcome. All I ask for is that when you follow it, for everyone pound you lose you send me $10. I don't think that's asking too much. They say you can't put a price on neither health nor beauty, but I disagree - it's $10 per pound.

[If you are too poor to send me $10 per pound lost, please contact me and we can agree on something mutually beneficial (and by "mutually beneficial" I mean "you give me a handjob and I don't spooge all over the back seat of your Chevy Lumina but rather into a perfectly positioned soiled pair of boxers")]

Good luck. With the right combination of thinking positively, eating right, and exercising, you can work your way to a new a better you!

(Or just throw up after you eat - you know, whatever really. Who gives a shit.)

Wednesday, January 26, 2005
I planned something special for you guys today, but shortly after I started working on it this morning, I realized that it was gonna be big. I kept at it, trying to get across what I wanted to say and it got bigger still, but without getting any closer to being finished. And now it's 3pm, and I'm staring at a giant post that's only half-way done.

So therefore, knowing that I will not be able to complete what I gots to do to make you all happy, I'm going to use one of my free passes and say that I'll get back at you tomorrow. I hope this doesn't adversely affect our relationship; you must realize that I do this not out of spite, hatred, or jealousy because you can remember the last time you stuck your penis in something warm that wasn't coming out of a microwave (for the male readers) or because you get to wear all sorts of cool skirts and comfy underwear and not get beat up for it (for the female readers). I do it out of love - I want to give you all I have, and if I can't, then I'm not gonna half ass it.

(And hey - at least I'm telling you this now, so you don't have to keep checking back)

So have a good day, and a wonderful evening, and we'll all meet back here tomorrow.

Jason MJPAE Mulgrew

Tuesday, January 25, 2005
nyc subway shit-show
There is quite a fucking ruckus going on here in New York City right now. And it's all because a homeless person (isn't it always the fucking homeless?), trying to keep warm, started a fire in a signal room a subway tunnel. The result was a relatively minor fire with massive consequences: two subways lines - the A and the C - have been crippled and may not be restored to normal service for three to five years.

[You can read the entire article here. If not, it's not necessary to read the article to understand the rest of this post, and I summarize the article below.]

[Christ, I have to do everything for you.]

Before we get too into this, I know that I often write about the subways in NYC, but I spend a lot of time on the subway. This is partially because in a fit of delirium I chose to move and lengthen my commute from 15-17 minutes door to door to 45-65 minutes door to door, and partially because I like to troll the subways at night, preying upon unsuspecting drunks who have passed out on the train - not robbing them of their cash, but rather rubbing my bird on their legs or arms or chins or any exposed skin. Sure, most of the time it's the drunk hobo types I do this to, but every once in a while I'll come across a passed out frat boy, and, well, it's like Christmas.

But I write a lot about the subway because when I'm on it, I do a lot of thinking. I'm either on the subway going to work in the morning, when I'm thinking about things like, "God, I'm tired as fuck" and "I wonder if today is the day that my boss finally breaks down and punches me in the face?" and "Does it make me gay that I had a dream about blowing Justin Timberlake last night and right now I'm the happiest I've been in years?" Or I'm on the subway heading home from a stressful day at work, when I think of all kinds of different things like, "I should definitely pick up some wine for tonight" and "What is the actual definition of 'stalking'? What's the difference between stalking and standing outside a woman's apartment building drinking cheap gin, crying, and masturbating?" and "Man, I hope when I go to sleep tonight I have another dream about blowing Justin Timberlake - that was fucking awesome!"

But it's also because my commute in the morning can completely make or break a day for me. Some days, you'll be lucky and have a short wait before an empty train comes, allowing you to get a seat, hopefully next to a lovely young Puerto Rican princess who smells like roses and poor. You'll start the day on a good note, and it'll carry over to the rest of the day. For example, when your boss asks you in the afternoon about whether you're finished with the task he assigned to you four days ago, instead of hiding under your desk and saying, "Um, Jason isn't here - he died, so go away", you can confidently say, "No sir, I am not finished. As a matter of fact, I wasn't even listening to what you were saying, because I had had an undercooked Whopper for lunch, and it took every fiber of being to prevent me from shitting myself all over your office. Now what was it again that you wanted?"

On the other hand, there are mornings in which you can wait for several trains, each one more crowded than the next, finally having to force yourself onto one. Then you're treated to a 50 minute subway ride, your face three inches from some guy's stank mouth, as he decided to eat some hot garbage for breakfast with this morning coffee. Then the day is much different - when this happens, I usually black out with rage, but from what I pieced together last time this happened, there was a lot of broken glass and a baby crying. But I really don't remember.

And because some homeless guy (who has not been found by the authorities, probably because he doesn't have a home), the commute of a whole shit load of people is fucked. Some highlights from the article, in case you didn't read it:

* the fire was started in a room no bigger than a kitchen, which is unguarded and impossible to fireproof
* this caused "the worst damage to the subway infrastructure since September 11, 2001", and will take "several millions of dollars and several years" to repair (after 9/11, the four stations that were closed after the attack were opened within one year)
* the A line will run one-third of the normal amount of trains; the C will no longer exist
* the A-C have a combined ridership of 580,000 each weekday
* only two companies in the world can repair the signals: one in Pittsburgh, the other in Paris
* there are dozen of these kitchen-sized signal rooms throughout the NYC subway system
* quote of the day from transit historian Clifton Hood, who has been waiting his whole life for this moment: "It seems astonishing that a single signal room would be so central to the operation of the line that it would take five years to recover from"

Allow me to join in the chorus of New Yorkers when I say, "Are you fucking kidding me???" One little fire caused by a homeless person trying to keep warm has devastated the NYC subway system and made the commute of half a million New Yorkers much, much worse? Good lord.

I feel for these commuters. I wouldn't wish what they now have to experience on a daily basis on my worst enemy. Well, maybe I would, but what I'm trying to say is that is really sucks. The impact of this subway nightmare can not be understated; this is the kind of shit that lowers property values in the affected areas, because no one will want to move somewhere where the commute will be such a hassle.

But what disturbs me most is that something seemingly so inconsequential has had and will continue to have such a devastating impact on the city. There are "dozens" of these signals rooms located throughout the NYC underground, all not fireproofed and unguarded. Indeed, unless this homeless person was a spymaster or ninja, they are also easy to gain entrance to.

Remember, this is one small fire in a signal room, on a Sunday afternoon, on the lines of one of the lesser-ridden subway lines, and it still will affect the commute of almost 600,000 New Yorkers every day for the next three to five years. What if a bunch of crazies were to plan an organized attack on a few these signal rooms? What if they hit some of the bigger, more important lines, and did so during the weekday? Can you imagine a more efficient, less deadly way to completely shut down the most populous city in America, and financially the most important in the world, for an extended period of time? If we can use this incident to hypothesize further, the city would be in complete and utter chaos for weeks, if not months.

If a homeless guy can do this (again, no offense to the homeless guy - I'm sure he's very skilled in the art of sabotage), what could someone who's thought about and planned this do? And who would be able to stop him? Are there any protections currently in place (nope), or will there be (not with the MTA budget the way it is)?


Ah, there's really nothing like living in New York. Greatest fucking city in the world. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to abuse some of my prescription Xanax.

Monday, January 24, 2005
vindication and bliss (yes, another fucking sports post)
I should not be at work today.

My head is pounding, my complexion is ruddy, and my eyes are bloodshot. I have the shakes, the chills, and the runs. I'm not answering my phone, I can't focus on work, and I've spent half of the day either in the library "resting my eyes" or on the can reading every article from philly.com.

The source of my current pain is an unbelievable joy: the Philadelphia Eagles are going to the Super Bowl.

I still can't believe it, so I'll write it again: the Philadelphia Eagles are going to the Super Bowl.

I hesitate to write such sweeping, grandiose statements like, "This is one of the best things that has ever happened to me" or "My life as I know it will forever be different", but to be honest, they do apply here. Call me shallow, tell me that I don't have my priorities straight, say I'm racist for once putting a sign on a public beach that said, "We Don't Want No Ricans Here", but it's true: I am in complete and total rapture, all because of a football game.

These feelings are impossible to understand or to explain to anyone who is not a sports fan. I know that I have done nothing, save for karmic support, to help the Eagles get to the Super Bowl. But yet I have dedicated a large portion of my life and energy rooting for this football team. For years I have followed them, watching every possible game I could and reading everything written about them - from the days of Randall Cunningham and the Gang Green defense (when I knew all the words to the unintentionally hilarious "Buddy's Watching You", a song about then-coach Buddy Ryan), to the bleak days of the Rodney Peete-Ty Detmer-Bobby Hoying-Koy Detmer-Doug Pederson QB shit-show. And now finally, for only the second time in the team's history and the first time since the 1980 season (when I was one), the Eagles are going to the Super Bowl.

The game itself yesterday was tense. During the first half, I remarked to my buddy Greg that I'm not entirely sure why I'm a sports fan, since Eagles games are usually a terrible three hours for me, as I sit on the edge of my seat, fidgeting like a crack baby after a case of Red Bulls, and drinking faster than I can swallow. Fortunately, I was surrounded by a good group of hardcore Eagles fans, and though the game was relatively close throughout, everyone in the bar felt confident (and drunk). My original plan was to stay a little bit sober so I could watch and remember the game, but I guess I forgot how good Bud Light drafts taste. The good news is that I had about fifty wings (though I don't particularly like wings) and a half-pound burger during the game, so that kept the alcohol at bay and allowed me to have rational thought processes like, "Man, the Falcons are killing us with that off-tackle run" and "We need to stretch the field out a lot more than we're doing", rather than drunken observations like, "I wish I was at the stadium so I could get a hot dog" and "Why do black people have so many tattoos? Don't they know that you can't really see them? Why don't they just get white ink on their tattoos, so they can be more easily seen? I have a boner."

And as the Eagles pulled to a 27-10 lead with only three minutes left in the game, it took every ounce of my being to hold back the tears of joy. Yes, I almost cried over a football game. I'm not ashamed to admit it; after all, I'm a Cancer, so I'm very sensitive. I usually only cry under three circumstances: 1) every time I hear Elton John's "The One"; 2) after a really good poo after a really good sandwich; and 3) whenever I notice that the sour cream has gone bad. But yesterday - I think my allergies were acting up, because it was getting a little misty in there.

I thought the partying would continue all through the night, but sadly, shortly after the game my compatriots all left. I too eventually left, when it became apparent that I could no longer fit any more beer or wings into my body (a sad realization that I did not take well) and, oh yeah, when I stumbled into the bathroom and on the way back the bartender offered to call me a cab (I took that as my cue to leave). My recourse was, of course, to go home and drink a bottle of champagne in the shower - I mean, duh. In an alcoholic frenzy, I had drank a bottle of champagne on Friday night, because it was the only thing in the fridge. So on Saturday, while stocking up on goods before the blizzard, I got another bottle (in addition to a ton of meat products, beer, and loads of chocolate syrup) because I had enjoyed the first so much. I had to get sober, because I couldn't call out of work today, so I sat in the tub, shower head aimed at my feet and the water flowing down the drain so that the rest of my body was dry, drinking champagne. And yes, I realize how weird this is, and how flawed my idea of "getting sober" is. And no, I don't care, because it was fucking awesome.

And now I'm here at work. The beers, shots, champagne, and greasy foods did quite a number of me, and Vegas currently has the over/under on my heart attack at 4:30pm. It doesn't help that I was sick all weekend with a fever and the chills, which I completely ignored in order to - surprise surprise - drink and get high with my roommates as a blizzard raged outside, keeping us in all fucking weekend. And while there's very little worse than having a massive hangover on a Monday, it's all good, because the fucking Eagles are in the fucking Super Bowl.

And now the hard part: waiting. The Super Bowl isn't until February 6, so until then I have two weeks to read all sorts of articles from football analysts and experts saying the Eagles don't have a chance against the mighty Patriots. I'll save my analysis for later, because I need to bask in the warming glow of being a winner. I don't get this chance often, so if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to nursing my hangover, reading about the Iggles, and staring at the giant (well, moderate) erection I have. I don't know if it's me, but it looks a little bigger than usual. But, I admit, I am a little high, so that might have something to do with it. Oh well.

Friday, January 21, 2005
sports, love, and longing: a tale of poo, from the first person
I don't know how I feel about making NFL predictions, because it's just too close to home now. For the fourth year in a row, my hometown team, the Philadelphia Eagles, are within one game of going to the Super Bowl - if they win, they're in. In the previous three years, they have gone 0 for 3 in this game, despite being heavily favored in the last two. After their first loss, I said, "Well, I'm glad that they got there." After their second loss, I said, "That blows - big time. But there's always next year." After last year's loss, I said, "Well there's only one thing to do now: cut my dick off with a plastic butterknife." Fortunately for my penis, the butterknife was covered in carrot cake and was thus unable to break skin. Also, I couldn't find my dick, so I just jabbed my lower stomach a few times. And then I went and ate a whole fucking carrot cake. And a meatball sub. And a can of icing. But I digress...

For these reasons, I'm not going to make any NFL predictions for this week's playoffs games. I conferred with several buddies of mine, also Eagles fans, and we mutually decided that I should not write anything about the games, lest I contribute in any way to a loss. I know what you're thinking, "I'm sure he can find his penis if he looks hard enough." But, really, I can't. You're welcome to have a look if you so desire, but god I hope you don't so desire. But if you do venture down there, I think I left an onion ring somewhere down there from a Halloween party I went to in '99. If you see it, can you grab it for me? Thanks.

You may also be thinking, "How can he contribute to an Eagles' loss?" I don't know specifically how I can contribute to an Eagles' loss, but I do know that anyone or anything associated with me is on the wrong side of karma. God and I have been notoriously feuding for years, and I'm sure that He'll take this Sunday's Eagles game as another opportunity to "score one off Mulgrew." All this because I got drunk once and called Him a card cheat and hit Him with a tree branch, and we've been going back and forth for years now.

To be perfectly honest, I really, really need the Eagles to win. Not want, but need. I don't care if they then get slaughtered in the Super Bowl (lie), but I really, really need them to win. I've written this before, but Philadelphia has the longest championship drought of any city in the US with all four professional sports teams - by far. The last championship: 1983, won by the Philadelphia 76ers. I was 4 years old at the time, and though I had just begun experimenting with meth, I didn't understand the importance of sports and winning championships.

But before I get ahead of myself and start talking about how a championship would personally change my life, I have to get back to this game, which we (the Eagles and I) have to win to even get to the Super Bowl. I don't have a whole lot going on right now, and an Eagles victory this week would mean the world to me, and fundamentally change me as a person. I might even stop telling everyone that I do not have herpes and tell them the truth (that I have eight different kinds of herpes - Thailand 2001: best. trip. ever.). I'd even possibly stop spreading all those lies about my buddy Kyle, specifically how he masturbates to music (jazz, but Brian McKnight also does the trick) and likes to wear a clown suit when he has sex.

So I have very little for you right now. I'm feeling kinda sick, partially because of the game, but partially because I forgot to put my contacts in this morning, so for lunch I had some frozen yogurt with staples on top, thinking they were sprinkles.

I'm antsy; I don't know if I wanna go home and go to sleep, or go home and get high, or go home and start boozing. It'll probably be a mix of all three, especially since we have some amazing weed. Last night, my roommate Brian and I smoked and stayed up until 4am trying to build a sexy robot out of our X-Box, some hair gel, a few raw pieces of chicken breast, aluminum foil, and a turtle, but we found out eventually that we stink at building sexy female robots. Also, Brian killed the turtle because he thought he said something about his mother. Serves him right - that turtle was a dick anyway.

And I'm tired, and needy. I don't ask for much, but I'd really like to have an Eagles' win. So bad. So, so bad.

All I ask for is that you think of me this weekend. Know that from 3pm to 6pm (est), I will be living and dying with every minute. Psychically send me some good wishes, and hope that if things don't turn out the way I want them to, I don't start punching everyone and everything around me. And hope that if things do turn out the way I want them to, I don't go one a four-day binge and lose my job. Unless in the course of said binge I get laid. Because then it'd probably be worth it.

So have a good weekend. Go out, have a good time, get messed up, and pray to God that when Monday morning comes I'm not in jail.

[Well, actually, don't pray to God - I don't want Him getting any props until He apologies for stealing my car. Asshole.]

Thursday, January 20, 2005
mo' blind musicians, CC, hangovers, email, music
Last night after work I was on the subway, going over to my friend Holly's house for a visit. It was almost 8pm, so the work rush hour had passed and the train was fairly empty. I slumped down in my seat, a hulking mass of shit and vice, and listened to my iPod. And then something amazing happened: a blind accordion player entered the train.

This is not remarkable in and of itself, but what's remarkable is that it was a different blind accordion player than the one I had the run-in with a few weeks back.

I know NYC is a big city and all, but what are the odds that there'd be two blind accordion players vying for the change of rush hour commuters? Seriously, how many blind people play the accordion? Is that the easiest instrument for the blind to pick up? Or was there some bizarre accident at an accordion players' convention that left everyone blind, forcing them to roam the subways of major cities for change? What the fuck?

This crossed my mind only for a second before I thought about what would happen if the blind accordion player I saw a few weeks back came on the train and saw (sorry, heard) this new blind accordion guy on his turf. Images of two old blind guys with accordions strapped to their chests whacking each other with their canes and blindly (literally) throwing punches at each other quickly filled my head, and before long I was in hysterics. This blind guy was standing in the middle of the aisle, playing his accordion looking for some change so that he can eat, eliciting pity from every other commuter on the train, while I sat in my chair, my red, tear-streaked face buried in my hands, shaking with laughter as I envisioned the two blind guys clumsily fighting each other, knocking each other down, their accordions making all sorts of weird sounds as they attacked each other, fighting to the death.

Does it make me terrible person that this was the highlight of my week? Probably. But more importantly, do I care? No. Not really.


Country Crock has introduced a line of side dishes (mashed potatoes, chicken rice, and mac and cheese) that come in their trademark containers and are microwaveable.

One word about these: STAY THE FUCK AWAY (well, that's four words). I only had the mac and cheese, but good lord it is fucking good. My plan was to eat a third of the 23 oz (that's 1 pound, 7 ounces) container as a side for some sausages that I had grilled up. Unfortunately, that plan did not come to fruition and I wound up eating the whole fucking container in one sitting - a pound a half of mac and cheese. I think by the end of it I had throw my utensils across the room and was sticking my face in the container, making noises as I scarfed it down like I was simultaneously having sex and getting beat up. When I was finished, I put some mozzarella cheese in the empty container, heated it so the cheese melted ever so slightly, and ate that too. Good lord.

Man it was fucking good. Don't say I didn't warn you.


I've been noticing that my hangovers have been especially vicious over the past few months, and this is not acceptable. I don't know if it's aging or what, but I'd kinda like to lessen the effects of having 30 Bud Lights so that I don't need a roommate to help me use the bathroom the next day.

To this end, I've been training. Before, I usually didn't drink during the week. If I didn't go out on Thursday night or any other weekday night (which I've been trying to cut down on because I'm so fucking broke), I would maybe have one beer at home if the mood struck me, but that's it. Come the weekend, I'd have, oh, about 100 alcoholic drinks (beer, mixed drinks, shots, gasoline, etc)

But now, I have a regiment: to lessen the effects of my weekend hangovers and prepare my body for the binge drinking, I've been having two beers per night, every night. This is the first week I've done this in earnest, and I think it'll work this weekend. Of course, the problem is that after having two drinks, it's very, very hard to not have another. But that's why I think two is good...for me personally, three is the threshold. If I have two beers, I can stop and be ok. If I have three, there's an 80% chance I'm going to have a fourth. If I have a fourth, there's a 90% chance I'm going to have a fifth. And if I have a fifth, there's a 99% chance that someone is going to jail and someone's life, and genitals, will never be the same.

So wish me luck this weekend. I'll be sure to report back.


I have completely lost control of my email inbox. I love your emails, but god DAMN I'm fucking popular. Unfortunately, I can no longer guarantee a response to every email I get. I hope you understand and I hope this doesn't make it weird between us. I encourage you to keep sending me emails and I'll do my best to respond, but if I don't, it doesn't mean I don't love you - it just means that I don't like you as much as those who email me naked pictures. It's helpful if you appropriately subject your emails (i.e. "music suggestions", "need some advice", "come to my apt and touch me in the basement (wink wink)", etc) and send them to jason@jasonmulgrew.com rather than through the "contact me" page. And for those of you who are going to write an email to me with the subject line, "Pictures of my boobs" and instead not have pictures of your boobs but ask me to put a link to your blog on mine, well, if I ever find you, I will fucking kill you. Simple as that.

I'm sorry, but I can't spend two hours every night writing emails. I have other more important things to do, most notably comb over my genitals for any abnormalities, then subsequently arouse myself, then slowly bring myself to climax, then, well, just kinda hang out and feel ashamed.


Six Songs:

- "Alex Chilton" The Replacements
I fucking love this song. Cowbell, an acoustic break-down, clapping, a wicked solo - it's got everything. Fucking A. That's really all I can say.

(And yes, I know that rhymes)

- "Skating Away" Jethro Tull
Three things that come to mind about this song: 1) it's very dainty; 2) it's very British (not related to being dainty); 3) there is some crazy acoustic guitar playing. Also, Ian Anderson is tied with Lindsay Buckingham for the "Performer Who Makes Me Most Uncomfortable When I See Them Performing Because They Go All Crazy And Act Real Weird And Shit" title.

- "Happy" Bruce Springsteen
When my old college roommate Mike (who I also went to high school with) got married, he and his wife used this song as their wedding song. And with all due respect to every other wedding I've been to, this song blows all other wedding songs out of the water. Very original, very appropriate, and very good. Kudos to Mike and Lee on this one - good job.

- "Say You Miss Me" Wilco
Wait - you're telling me that Wilco existed before Yankee Hotel Foxtrot? What?

This is a nice little ditty that makes me sad. And we all know how much I love making myself sad, and how much help I need doing it. Because when it's 4:30 in the morning on a Saturday night and I'm lying in bed with a sausage roll and the spins, full of booze and disappointment, trying in vain to beat off to Maxim, I simply can't get sad. Not at all.

- "Sad And Lonely" The Secret Machines
Whenever I hear this song, I see a red-headed tattooed stripper with incredible fake boobs working the stage and pole as though God had made her for one purpose and one purpose only: to slide her stunning body around the platform like the sexiest fucking snake in the world and drive lonely and/or obese men wild.

Oh wait - I have seen that, in real life. Unfortunately, the lap dance she gave me was surprisingly sub par, but I have to take some of the blame here, because I had such an erection and was so overwhelmed and boneriffic that I was cross-eyed the whole time and I think I had a mild seizure half-way through, so I think that made her a little uncomfortable.

Oh, and it's not a bad song either. I hadn't heard it since I was at the strip club that night until it was recommended recently by reader Erik Mazmanian. So thanks Erik, for bringing back a wonderful memory.

- "Falling" Ben Kweller
This song sounds like a pretty, happy love song, but I'm not really sure it is. But whenever I hear it, I see a video montage in my head of me and Elisha Cuthbert being in love. A clip of us laying in a field during spring, eating grapes and laughing - us at a baseball game cheering after a home run - us on a rowboat splashing water on each other - me punching some guy in a wheelchair as she screams in horror - us at a movie as I watch her face when she laughs - she and I slow dancing in a park at night among trees with lights on them - me naked and fucked up on coke, punching myself in the throat over and over again because she won't have sex with me while she frantically dials 911 - us in a stainless-steel kitchen cooking dinner and starting a playful food fight - the two of us in a church at a friend's wedding and as the couple exchanges vows she touches my hand and gives me a doe-eyed look - us arguing and me pulling my pants down in the middle of the room and shitting on the floor and then standing up and stomping on the shit, screaming, "This is how you make me feel! This is how you fucking make me feel!" - etc.

I don't know if this is what Ben Kweller intended when he wrote this song, but that's the beauty of music I guess.

Wednesday, January 19, 2005
In exactly one month, I will be arriving in London to start a week of fighting, fucking, and setting shit on fire.

Well, maybe I won't be doing any of those things, but it will be a week of drinking a ton and spending more money than I could ever possibly afford (thank you, weak US dollar).

I love London. I've written before about this, but I'll do so again because it's very hard to write something almost every day for eleven months without repeating yourself occasionally, so suck it.

It all started in the fall of 1997, when I fell in love with the Spice Girls. At the time I was in a very strange place, which I really don't want to get into at this juncture, but the bottom line is that I loved Baby Spice. Not liked, but loved. I've probably had stronger feelings for Baby Spice than any woman I've been with in real life (and to answer your question, no, I am not currently in therapy). My love of Baby Spice was only borderline sicko though, because at least I kept it to myself and there was no drawing blood or anything like that.


Anyway, when I got to college, I was determined to study abroad. Something about going to a foreign country, seeing all sorts of foreign girls that have no idea that I have a reputation for strangling girls during sex (not to kill them, but only to increase the potency of their "orgasm" - duh), really appealed to me. Since I had no interest in going anywhere where people didn't speak English, my options were limited. As someone who doesn't fly well, Australia and New Zealand were out of the question. As was South Africa, but I also disqualified South Africa because they have a lot of sharks there, and, well, it's fucking Africa. So that left Ireland and the UK.

My Irish-American family encouraged me to go to Ireland, the land of my ancestors, but I didn't want to. This was because Baby Spice wasn't Irish, she was British. Also, I get enough talk about "Irish this" and "Irish that" with my family, so if I went to Ireland, I would never hear the end of it. I'd be asked to recount my adventures (sans titties, cocaine, and child kidnapping) to my family at parties and holidays for the rest of my life. I really don't need that.

And so that's how I picked London. In January of 2000, I hoped on a Virgin Atlantic plane and landed in Heathrow, and thus began the greatest year of my life.

I have a lot of fond memories of London, most of which I won't divulge here because I plan on writing an epic "Ode To 2000" - the greatest year of my life (did I say that already?). But while in London, I was so broke that I had to stop eating, and lost forty pounds. I then went on a womanizing tear the likes of which will not be seen again until I get me some fame. I mean, good GOD. It was incredible. My buddies and I back-packed through Europe for a month, and suddenly we were transformed from nerds with bad hair to ultimate ladies' men with bad hair, hopping from one European city to the next, taking full advantage of the local peasant women. What a great time. Unfortunately, I think I was back in the US for three hours before I gained back thirty of the forty pounds I had lost. The other ten I gained back later that night while I slept, because I insisted on going to bed with a cheesesteak and a large canister of cheese whiz. When I woke up, both were gone. Also, I had peed the bed, but it wasn't pee, but rather a sticky, white substance. To this day, this mystery has never been solved.

And now I'm heading back. I went around this time last year and wrote about it on this site, at a time when about fourteen people were reading it (and now we're up to seventeen! keep spreading the word!). This time, I'm flying solo, but staying with my dear friend Nicole, who's in London doing grad work at LSE. I figured that if I had a free place to stay, I should take advantage of it, and any of Nicole's roommates with low self-esteem.

I have three goals for my trip to London:

1) Make me bankrupt until at least August.
Seeing as the exchange rate is murderous right now (£1 = $1.87), and knowing I have a slight penchant for overspending when I'm on vacation and filled with booze and Burger King, this should not be a problem at all. I land on Saturday at 11am, so I should be broke by Saturday at 2pm. Expect a giant "Please Donate, You Ungrateful Fucking Pricks" post shortly after my return, and possibly while I'm still away.

2) Don't do anything illegal (yes, that includes you solicitation).
I'm going to try to keep it clean and not break the law while in London. Note this doesn't apply to petty crimes like jaywalking or vehicular homicide, but rather buying/taking drugs or trying to pay anyone I see for a handjob. I have very little chance of accomplishing this goal.

3) Ruin my friendship with my friend Nicole.
Like Goal #1, this should also be very, very easy. I spoke to Nicole when she was home over the holidays:

Me: "Did you tell your roommates that I'm coming to visit?"
Nicole: "Of course I did. They're cool."
Me: "No, I mean, did you tell your roommates that I was coming to visit? Did you tell them about me?"
Nicole: "Oh stop it."
Me: "Nicole..."
Nicole: "Look, just try to be a little normal when you come visit."
Me: "Ok, I will."

Nicole, you're probably reading this, so I want to let you know that I lied when I said I would try to be normal. I will most certainly try to be as abnormal as I possibly can, acting so bizarrely that your roommates will ask you to move out, doing weird shit like:

- randomly barking
- telling everyone that I am divorced, and speaking frequently about my ex-wife, looking off into the distance as I do so, with a pained expression on my face
- saying, "I was in the war" so that people will say, "What war?" and I'll say, "I don't want to talk about it", and then it'll get all uncomfortable as it looks like I'm about to start crying
- saving only a little bit of every beer I drink and putting it back in the fridge for later, so that by mid-week your fridge will be filled with 100 cans of beer only 15% full
- telling everyone that I lost a sister to a snuff film
- saying things like, "I forgot to pack my medication, and I don't know...I just really want to strangle a prostitute - do you ever get that feeling? I mean, just fucking grab 'em and choke 'em - you guys know what I'm talking about, right? Right?"
- constantly talking about how every time I get an erection it really hurts, but at the same time it really gets me hot
- taking food stuffs from your cabinets and hiding them in random areas of the apartment
- telling everyone I'm actually half-man, half-horse, but I look more like my dad (the man) than my mom (the horse)


London. One month. Can't wait.

Tuesday, January 18, 2005
the weekend, day-by-day
There's really nothing better than a long weekend, especially when the day off is Monday. Sure, many will argue that having Friday off is superior to having off on Monday, but I disagree. When you think about it, Friday is the best day of the work week, the day when I say to myself all day long, "C'mon - almost there, you fat bastard. Just a couple more hours until you're sitting on the couch enjoying a tall cool Budweiser, watching VH1 Classic, and thinking about that Indian girl who lives down the hall who you just wanna get all messed up on gin and Nyquil and touch all over." Whereas Monday is spent thinking, "Fuck - four more days of this. I wish I had money so I didn't have to work. Maybe I should give a second thought to robbery or arson-for-hire, because something has to give." So give me Monday off any day of the week (get it? "any day of the week"? god I am fucking awesome).

A lot of shit happened this weekend, and though I don't like breaking weekend posts down by days, fuck it - I'm feeling pretty lazy right now.

Friday: Glenn Tilbrook

After work on Friday, I went over to Hoboken, NJ to a lil' place called Maxwell's to see Glenn Tilbrook play.

Some background:

1) Hoboken: I don't like it. It's basically a college town, filled with people in their mid- to late-20's all trying to get drunk and have sex. Now on paper, this sounds great, but in reality, it means bars packed with a bunch of gelled up douchebags who all work in banking in NYC hitting on girls who love their sororities and US Weekly.

And yes, maybe I'm jealous because these girls don't like me, but really, NO girls like me, so I'm not holding their disinterest in me against them. I will, however, hold my penis against them as I wait by the bar to order another drink, and hope they don't notice. If they do notice, well, I am deceptively speedy when faced with the prospect of a sexual assault charge.

2) Glenn Tilbrook: Glenn Tilbrook was the lead singer of the band Squeeze ("Tempted", "Pulling Mussels From The Shell", etc), which is one of my favorite bands of all-time (seriously). What's more, Glenn's had a quiet solo career, but he's put out some pretty marvelous stuff. What's even more, Glenn is a consummate performer, performing alone with an acoustic guitar, drinking the whole time, and talking to the crowd and taking their requests.

[As a matter of fact, I invite all over you to click through to his website several times and so that he might notice a spike in his traffic coming from my site, in the hope that he might contact me and ask him to follow him around telling dick jokes. Thank you for your help in this.]

3) Maxwell's: a hip bar-restaurant with a tiny backroom that holds maybe 150 people. This bar regularly puts on some good acts, and is known as the place where indie gods Yo La Tengo got their start. A refuge for Hoboken's hipster crowd, which is small, but present.

Verdict: very good night. Some friends and I met there and had dinner, which was lovely, but if what I had was "Hoboken's best quesadilla" then I no longer dislike the people who live in Hoboken, I pity them. Glenn sounded awesome and was entertaining as usual, drinking and going back and forth with the crowd, at one point leaving the stage to walk around among the crowd playing and singing. Good stuff.

The audience was mostly middle-aged people or people in their 30's, but there were a fair amount of young people like myself. Out of the young people present, my friends and I were the only ones who didn't rock the "Rockstar" look - vintage clothes, messed up hair that actually isn't messed up at all, sunglasses, etc.

I hate these people. I don't know why, but I have a lot of hate to give, and these people seem to be as good as any to be recipients of my hate. They're one of the things I hated about living in the Lower East Side - all these young people with the rockstar look, walking around with guitars on their back, with an air of superiority because they get it, while others do not.

Well, I certainly do NOT get it. I don't know how these people can allow themselves to be so affected: their appearance is so contrived, it's almost laughable. I thought that the number one way to be cool was not to try too hard, but these people...ugh. I'm not saying that you have to go to an 80 year-old Italian barber and start shopping at J. Crew, but when you have the same hair Rod Stewart did in 1977 and your t-shirt looks homemade but costs $80, it's time to take a step back and get some perspective.

[And yeah, maybe I'm jealous because women eat these guys up, but fuck you. There's something very sexy about being an internet quasi-celebrity. Once I figure it out, I'll be sure to let you all know.]

Saturday: "Sideways"

Speaking of not getting it...this was probably the longest two hours of my life. DEAR. GOD. I can't stress how bad I thought this movie was. I really, really need a minute here.



I admit, I expected a lot from this movie. Everyone who's seen it loves it, and a lot of friends told me that it was right up my alley. I think I should go back and punch these friends in the face for thinking that two hours of slow-moving plot, characters who I never grew to like but never grew to dislike so instead just hoped the damn movie got over as quickly as possible, and a number of very uncomfortable scenes would be right up my alley.

There were funny parts, but they were few and far between and stemmed from Thomas Haden Church acting like a 35 year-old Steve Stiffler. Aside from that, I just don't get it. Yeah, yeah, yeah...he's miserable and all that but he's also got something more than that, but I really didn't give a shit. I just wanted to go the fuck home. Christ.

I'm sorry that I can't give a better review of this movie, but I'm fuming right now. I just want to punch something, but there's nothing around that I can punch except co-workers, and most of them can beat me up. Maybe I should just move on before my head explodes, revealing a giant bowl of macaroni and cheese in lieu of a brain. I mean, fuck.

Sunday: Football

I went 4-for-4 on my predictions this week, but most importantly, my team won. Yes, the Philadelphia Eagles are advancing to their fourth straight NFC Championship game this Sunday against the Atlanta Falcons. I will leave my analysis and a prediction for later, but boy did this make my weekend much better. While I would've liked a more convincing victory and I thought there were a few times that the Birds could have put the game away but did not do so, I was happy with their performance nonetheless.

But this was nothing, and totally expected. The Eagles have lost the NFC Championship game for three consecutive years. If they don't beat the Falcons this weekend, the year is a failure. And I will eat my television. Mark my words.

But let's talk about something more pleasant...

Monday: Hearing love live

Last night, I was in my room cleaning up. It didn't get very far in this endeavor, because I kept leaving whatever I was cleaning and going over to my laptop to check the progress of various porn clips I was downloading. Then I would masturbate, then I would lay down, then I'd get up and go down to the laundry room to see some girls in their sultry "laundry day" outfits, etc. So instead I decided to work on cleaning my bathroom, and began the process of cleaning up the pound and a half of hair that I shed every time I dry off after showering, which had accumulated so much that there was about a solid inch of it covering my bathroom floor.

Remember, I live in a "luxury high rise", which basically means it's a fancy-pants dorm. There are 35 floors, each identical to each other, so that above my bedroom is another bedroom, above my kitchen is another kitchen, above my bathroom is another bathroom, etc.

As I was cleaning my bathroom, wearing short shorts and a sexy lil' bandanna, I heard some strange noises coming from the vent above my shower in my bathroom. I turned down my music to get a closer listen, and lo and behold - it was a woman making all kinds of sexy noises!!!


Now, this is probably the greatest thing that's ever happened to me. It's been quite a while since I've heard noises like that live, without paying for it. So I stopped and had a good listen. And this girl was going NUTS. I'm not talking a few lil' noises here and there - this was some real porno star shit. And I was absolutely enthralled. I thought about waking my roommate Brian up, but I decided not to - two guys, standing in a small bathroom, listening to a girl get off? Kinda weird.

I assumed that this girl was masturbating in the shower, because I didn't hear any male voices. I listened it and was just completely freaked out, turning bright red and jumping up and down with happiness. However, after maybe two minutes, the moaning stopped. I fought back the urge to yell "Bravo!" into the vent, because I figured that if I did that, I surely wouldn't get a repeat showing.

After that, there was no way I was going to get any cleaning done, so I did what any other man in my position would have done: went to the kitchen to heat up some sausages. I watched a little tv while I ate, but soon after I was finished, I felt a lil' rumble in my belly (probably because the sausages were of indeterminate age). So I went to take a poo.

As I was sitting on the toilet, I heard the woman from the bathroom above me moaning again. I couldn't believe it - it had been 20 minutes since the moaning had stopped, and she was at it again! Though I had a terrible case of the runs and my bathroom smelled like a garbage fire, I was still turned on, because she was going at it even louder than before. I mean, really, really getting into it, yelling and screaming and the like. So I sat there wiping my ass, captivated.

This went on for a good five minutes, and then I heard a guy moaning and making all sorts of sex noises. Right away I realized that she was obviously not masturbating but getting sexed up.

I couldn't believe she was having sex the whole time...it had been, without exaggeration, 20 minutes. No way some guy could be having sex with her for that long, especially since she was going crazy. From what I recall from my own sexual experiences (and this admittedly is very, very hazy), I have absolutely zero stamina when a woman starts showing interest in the love-making. In fact, I used to ask my ladies to act disinterested while we made sexy time (i.e. watch some tv, read a magazine, send some text messages, place some bets - you know, whatever they normally would do) in order to make the process last a little longer.

So I dismissed the idea of one guy having sex with her whilst she was going that crazy for 20 minutes, unless they were filming a porno in the bathroom above mine. And then I had a horrible insight: what if some guy heard her masturbating like I did, but instead of taking a monster shit, he went up to her room, suavely knocked on her door, and was invited into her bathroom to F her brains out?

This was crushing to me, and to be honest, I still haven't fully recovered. I know that that's probably not the case, but my goodness - what if I blew it? What if I could have been having all sorts of crazy sex, but instead ate some rancid sausage and pooped? These kinds of opportunities don't present themselves very often, and I blew it.

The lesson: be more aggressive. If you think about it, this is the best way to go about meeting women. If you're eventually going to get rejected anyway, what's the harm in going up to a lovely lady at a bar and saying right off the bat, "Hey, I'd like to get you home and stick my fingers in you. Thoughts?" At least you save yourself the hassle of kicking it to her all night long, and don't have to drop $50 on her drinks. What would have been the harm if I knocked on my upstairs neighbor's door to offer a hand, or yelled through the vent that I was ready, willing, but probably unable because my blood pressure was very high at that particular time? If she says no, no big deal. If she says yes, I can die a happy, happy man.

I mean, crap and crap again.

Friday, January 14, 2005
sports sports sports sports sports sports sports
And now it's time for one of my every-once-in-a-while posts that alienate 2/3 of the people who read this site: let's talk about sports. To my non-sports liking male readers, a large chunk of my female readers, and pretty much all of my international readers, I'm sorry. But really, you know you're gonna read it anyway, because it's Friday and you're super bored at work, so I encourage you to make the best of it, as I try to make it as non-sports specific as possible. Thank you for your time and effort.

Before we get into NFL playoff predictions, let's talk about two of my favorite three things: baseball and drugs (the other favorite thing being women with really, really big nipples).

Yesterday, Major League Baseball announced its new steroid-testing policy, which features much harsher penalties for those who test positive for performance-enhancing drugs than its previous policy. Embattled Commissioner Bud Selig held a news conference to announce the new plan, practically gizzing (or is it "jizzing"?) in his pants about the ground-breaking agreement and what a good move it is.

Bud, I have a question for you: have you been reading any of your local sports sections in the off-season? Do you see what a beating MLB has been taking with all this talk of "the cream" and "the clear"? While the agreement was ground-breaking in that the MLB and the Players' Union finally agreed on something (take notice, NHL), it was more of a necessity than anything else, a plan forged by the need to restore the dignity of the game, not borne of the respect and altruism between the league administration and its players. So quit your gloating and put your erect penis back in your pants.

To me, the major issue with the new, tougher steroid policy is how players who have heretofore have denied using steroids but were in fact using them will explain their sudden weight loss and shrinkage. When Jason Giambi reported to spring training last year looking deflated, he told everyone that he had lost only four pounds and had just worked out differently in the off-season. By "worked out differently", I assume he meant "stopped taking those illegal drugs that made him fucking huge." He then proceeded to have a variety of health problems, and had statistically the worst year of his career (but still collected a $12 million paycheck).

So what happens when the rest of MLB players report to camp in February? Giambi has already ruined their excuse for being noticeably smaller, so I wonder if when asked point blank by reporters any player will come out and say, "Well, training in the off-season was particularly tough this year, what with me no longer being allowed to take all those steroids I've been relying on for the past few years. So I wouldn't expect any big numbers from me this year. But hey - I've had a good run, and I'm rich as a mother fucker, so suck it. Next question please."

Probably not, but that would be fucking awesome.


Ah, the NFL Playoffs...really, there's nothing like them. Sure, baseball playoffs are really great, and hockey is pretty awesome too (NBA - eh), but football is special because it completely transforms Sundays in January into much more than hangover recuperation time.

Honestly, there's not a lot better than waking up at 12:30pm on a Sunday afternoon, your head spinning from the night before and your breath smelling like a mix of Captain Morgan's, cigarettes, and gyros, and rolling from you bed onto your couch to watch football. Of course, then there's the requisite bacon, egg, and cheese bagel to be consumed at the start of the 1pm game, then an order of wings, nachos, poppers, et al to gorge yourself upon for the 4pm game. I mean, if that's not heaven, I don't know what is.

But alas the NFL playoffs have been particularly tough for yours truly over the past few years, a proud and long-suffering Philadelphia Eagles fan. The Eagles have advanced to the NFC Championship game in each of the past three years, but have lost each contest, two of which were at home. Not good. Not good at all.

Six weeks ago, I could ejaculate just thinking about this team, not needing to call on my assortment of pornographic films, nor dial any 1-900 numbers, nor creep around my local yeshiva, surreptitiously spying on all those lil' Jewish boys and their sexy lil' beards. But then after a poor performance at Washington, the loss of star player Terrell Owens against Dallas, and two horrible (though lame duck) loses to finish the season, I'm scared. Not scared in the "I hate werewolves" way, but in the "keep all things flammable or toxic away from me" kind of scared.

But enough about me, let's get on with the picks.


New York Jets at Pittsburgh Steelers

Part of me really wants to pick the Jets. I'm a big believer in running the ball and playing good defense, both of which the Jets do well. Unfortunately for the Jets, the Steelers do both those things too, and they do them better.

I think the Steelers take this game, because:

1) They're rested and at home.
2) The Jets are coming off a huge win against the Chargers (see diatribe about the Vikings below).
3) The Steelers are better than the Jets nearly across the board.

That being said, I would not be surprised if the Jets take this game (although with the playoffs the way they are this year, that can be said about every game).

Indianapolis Colts at New England Patriots

This will be the most interesting game to watch because there are so many storylines. You've got Colts' kicker Mike Vanderjagt mouthing off, Peyton Manning coming off a monster season but with a history of playing slightly better QB than me when he plays the Pats, the element of bad weather, and of course, the dreamy Tom Brady.

My pick? The Pats. Why? Simple: I can't see the banged-up Pats secondary containing those wide receivers (give me a minute here). That being said, in the history of football, there's always been the classic chicken-and-egg argument when it comes to QB/WR combos. I remember being a kid and getting into an argument with one of my friends who said after Steve Young's ascendancy in San Fran, "Anybody can be Joe Montana when they have Jerry Rice to throw to."

I don't think this is the case with Peyton Manning (nor did I with Joe Montana), and I think Bill Belichick knows this. I think he's smart enough to worry less about containing the trio of Harrison, Wayne, and Stokley and instead focus on getting to Peyton Manning, which they have consistently done in the past, far better than anyone else in the league. I can't bring myself to take the Colts in hostile environs on a cold, slow field against a team that has owned them in the past. To me, regardless of what happens after this game, this is where we learn if the Pats are a dynasty. If Bill Belichick can stop a quarterback that has had (statistically) the greatest season in the NFL with a patched together secondary in which I might see some snaps in nickel situations, we all owe him and his team a tip of our caps.


St. Louis Rams at Atlanta Falcons

I have absolutely no idea what to make of this game, or these two teams. This is partially I saw so little of the Falcons during the regular season, but also because the Rams have more personalities than my schizophrenic cousin Will.

So with a flip of the coin I go with the Falcons, for no other reason than their track record. The Rams played in the weakest division that I can ever remember and beat a really bad team in the Seahawks (who lost on a dropped TD pass) to advance. Sure, Bulger is playing very well and Atlanta has a dome, but I still have to go with Atlanta, though I can't offer a single definitive reason. Can I pick both? Because I really have no idea.

Minnesota Vikings at Philadelphia Eagles

I hate, hate, HATE what the Eagles have done since crushing Green Bay in early December. They played poorly against a surprisingly feisty Redskins team, played poorly and lost TO to a bad Dallas team, and rested just about everybody in their last two games, which was some of the most boring, crappiest displays of football I've seen in recent memory.

Having said that, here comes a diatribe...

Football is a game of minutiae. This is played out every week in the league in a variety of "if" scenarios: if only the running back had the extra inch to get the first down, if only that linebacker got to that pass a half-second earlier to deflect it, if only the cornerback hadn't jumped at the play action fake and lost that half-step on the receiver, etc.

But if we recognize the importance of minutiae when we talk about on-the-field analysis, so must we recognize the importance of subtlety when we hypothetically analyze games. And nowhere is this recognition of subtlety more important than in knowing the difference between a team playing with momentum and a team that has blown its load.

(Are you still with me?)

Last week, the Minnesota Vikings went into Green Bay and dominated from the start. Both their offense and defense were clicking on all cylinders, and they pulled out a victory that many didn't expect them to achieve, especially so easily. The beat the fuck out of that Packers team, and there's no question about it.

The question is: do the Vikings take that momentum into their game against the Eagles this weekend, or did they blow their proverbial load against Green Bay?

My take: they blew their load. Two reasons:

1) Brett Favre played some really bad football last week. My dad has a theory (that he's proud that he thought of on his own, but it's a sentiment shared by just about every person who knows a good deal about the NFL) that Brett Favre is good for two or three "What the fuck did he do that for?" plays per game. An example is in the divisional playoff last year against the Eagles, when Favre was under pressure and simply threw the football as high as he could in the air, to have it picked off by Brian Dawkins.

Favre had more than two or three of those type plays (albeit not as dramatic) against the Vikings, which I can't recollect right now because I don't have the fucking tape in front of me. He played very poorly, and I have no doubt that this was a major factor in the Vikes' win. I think the moments of Brett Favre being able to put it all together and dominate a team are getting fewer and farther between by the week.

2) Are the Vikings as good as they were last week? I don't think you'll find a person outside of Minnesota that says yes. This is an 8-8 team that has consistently played with no heart, dropped 7 of their last 10 games, and has a star that is not only a dick (but pretty fucking funny), but a selfish player.

I know that the Vikes really brought it against the Packers last week, but this week they're not playing the Packers. They're playing a well-rested team that has been down this road before, and was 7-1 at home this year (the loss coming in the garbage-time last game of the season against the Bengals). Sure, the Eagles' offense has sputtered, but their defense has played very well. Throw in the fact that Moss' ankle leaves him at less than 100%, and I have to take the Birds here (even though it's much cooler to take the Vikes, because everybody's doing it).

I know - I'm picking all the home teams, and the odds of that happening are very slim. But hey, I can do and say whatever the hell I want, since it is my website. Jerkoff.


So that's it. Be advised that there will be no post on Monday, because like most of America I will be off (I never thought I'd love a black person more than Jeff Goldblum until I realized that I got off from work on Martin Luther King Day). So have a safe and kick-ass weekend.

Thursday, January 13, 2005
coke, the commute, the Mummers, emails, music, and voting
I've noticed that over the past few days on the site I've been overly extolling the virtues of cocaine. Sigh.

Boys and girls, I would like to go on record to say that not everything is good about cocaine, and some things about cocaine are bad, and even horrible.

First and foremost, it's expensive. Not like "a couple bucks here and there" expensive, but "I just spent and went through $50 worth and I need about $100,000 worth more to make it through the next few hours" expensive. It's because it's hard to have just a little, so you often wind up spending more than you bargained for.

Second, it's illegal. This means that in order to get cocaine, you have to deal with and associate with a bevy of unsavory characters, who may or may not threaten to stab you in the heart if you piss them off or eat all the salsa they have in their fridge, even if you promise that you'll buy them more right away. Additionally, if you get caught with it, you're going to go to jail (but I wouldn't worry about getting caught with it and going to jail unless you are a minority and poor).

As someone who's had his struggles but has been clean for well over six hours now (ok, forty minutes), seriously, cocaine is bad news. It makes you jittery, irritable, and the comedown is like the worse day of your life times ten. So if you've never done it, don't start. [Most] Drugs aren't [that] cool, and it's [sometimes] not worth it. So don't do it. And if you don't believe me, just listen to Duran Duran's "White Lines". That should scare you straight, but not in the sexuality sense.

And if you're a hypochondriac who constantly thinks he's having a heart attack, then you really should stay away from cocaine. Otherwise, it's gonna be a pretty embarrassing scene when your roommate has to take you to the emergency room at 4am on a Wednesday because you think you're in cardiac arrest and you have this conversation with the female doctor:

Doctor: "So you think you're having a heart attack?"
Person Under the Influence of Cocaine: "Yes."
Doctor: "First question - take any drugs tonight?"
Person: [pretending to be offended] "No - of course not! No!"
Doctor: "Are you sure?"
Person: [pretending to be even more offended; flailing arms] "Am I sure? Of course I'm sure!"
Doctor: "So if I were to give you a drug test right now, it would show that there are no drugs in your system?"
Person: [realizing the charade is over, trying to make light of the situation] "Well, no, there's no way I would pass at all. Not even close. If 70 were passing, I'd be in the 30's, maybe 20's. I don't know - can I get below a zero?"
Doctor: "That's what I thought."

The moral: don't do drugs.

We now rejoin our regularly scheduled programming already in progress...


This morning, I was a little hungover, having gone out for some brewskis last night with Ace, Don, and AGU of Slack. Still I managed to get out of bed and start the day, with the promise that when I got to work I'd go to the nearby Burger King and get myself one of those new double croissant sandwiches, which have egg, cheese, bacon, AND sausage, and of course a Yoohoo. Fucking A.

However, when I got to my local 96th Street subway station, I learned that the downtown trains were not running. Hmph. The station was in chaos, as people were scrambling to figure out how they were now going to get to work. I walked up to the NYC Transit employee, a very large black woman in her little glass-encased booth (I know - a super fat black lady working for the MTA? Next you're gonna tell me that some cab drivers are actually not speaking English into their cell phone headsets as they do 45 up Madison Ave! Crazy!). I asked the MTA employee if the trains were running downtown from the 86th Street station, the next closest station, and she said yes. So I started to walk to 86th Street.

This was an inconvenience, but not a major one. See (give me a moment here), I take the local "6" from 96th Street every morning. I take this one stop only, to 86th Street, where I switch to the express "4" or "5" train. This gets me to work much faster, as the "4"/"5" express makes stops at only 86th-59th-42nd-14th-etc, whereas the "6" local stops at 96th-86th-77th-68th-59th-etc all the way down. So instead of taking the train one stop, I had to walk a couple of blocks. No big deal.

[If you're having trouble following this because you too are hungover, click here to see a NYC subway map.]

But when I got to the 86th Street station, it was pure pandemonium. People were flipping out, and there was a lot of pushing and yelling and a lot of anger. Also, there was a homeless guy doing a Michael Jackson impression, and, if he wasn't crazy and I wasn't terrified of him, I would have marched right up and told him that it was the worst Michael Jackson impression I had ever seen.

Apparently, there were NO downtown trains running at all, from 96th Street or 86th Street or whatever station. People started yelling, "There's no service - go to the westside" (meaning cross Central Park to the west side of Manhattan, where one could get subway service downtown).

And now I was pissed off. I was hungover, hungry, and it was cold and wet outside. Fortunately, there was this GORGEOUS woman at the corner, crouching down and tending to her lil' dog, providing me with an awesome view of her abundant cleavage. I'm serious; I hadn't seen a cleavage shot that good in a while. It was one of those "Lady, you should thank your lucky stars there's a police officer standing on the corner because otherwise I'd have you tied up in my buddy's attic in thirty minutes" moments, because she was just that hot.

I think I need a minute here.



So I began my walk downtown to work, hoping to catch a cab, but things looked bleak. The lines for busses were wrapping around corners, and everyone was trying to hail a cab, yet very few were successful. I called my manager to tell him I would be late, and explained the situation on his voicemail. Then I had an idea: I could call the "Operations" department at work, which always sends out emails about expected delays or street closures or car delays when it's raining. This was perfect, since I could possibly get some information about the subway closures and at the very least alert them that many people would be in late.

I spoke with some guy in Operations, told him that there are no trains running on Lexington Avenue, and he was surprised. He told me that he hadn't heard anything about this, and I was the first one to call him about it. I told him that I wanted to give him and the firm a heads up, he was gracious, and we hung up and I continued walking.

When I got to 77th Street (the next subway station), I was very surprised and relived to learn that there were no problems there and everything was running normally. It turns out that there was some sort of police investigation that closed down the 96th & 86th Street Stations momentarily, but things were back to normal. Nice. So I hopped on the train, and made it to work (still 45 minutes late).

I felt silly on the train into work. There I was, freaking out, thinking that the entire east side of Manhattan was paralyzed by the trains not running, information I got from no official source but fellow commuters pissed off and trying to get to work, when really it was an isolated incident at two stations that lasted no more than thirty minutes. I'm such a silly boy.

When I got into work, I opened my email and saw an email from the Operations department sent to everyone in the New York office at 9:18am, saying,

"We have learned of possible delays on the downtown 4-5-6 trains along Lexington Avenue. We are working now to verify this, and will provide additional information as it becomes known to us."

I checked my cell phone, and saw that I had called Operations at 9:15am.

Then, I noticed another email from Operations, again to everyone in the New York office, this time at 9:34am:

"We have not been able to verify reports of delays on the downtown 4-5-6 trains along Lexington Avenue. All trains are operating normally."

Um, oops.


I know I'm pretty late on this, but the Mummers Parade on New Year's Day was a major success. And by that I mean I got drunk, had a good time, and managed to not poop in my sweatpants, get arrested, or get beat up. That, in my book, is fucking success.

However, I don't have any stories for you, because I just don't remember (George Carlin has a great bit in which he says something to the effect of, "You know, everyone always tell these crazy stories about the '70's, but I don't have any, because I was too fucked up and blacked out").

This is a far cry from last year's parade, when I returned home in the afternoon and was so drunk I tripped over my mom's living room coffee table, did a somersault, and then got up a puked all over myself in front of my little sister.

My sister: [looking warily at me convulsing on the couch] "Mom - I think Jason's gonna throw up!"
Me: [quietly puking all over myself] "No I'm not!
My sister: "EWWWWW!!!"

And we (Froggy Carr) actually came in first, which hasn't happened in a long, long time (maybe 1988?). Of course, like I mentioned when I wrote about the Parade before, we didn't win a big prize (I think the club got something like $700), but we have bragging rights. Of course, I'm only home about ten weekends a year, but still, it's nice.

And now there's only 352 days until the next one. I don't think I can make it.


I am really, really trying to get back to all of your emails. I'm sorry for such delayed responses, but, well, there's really just too many. But I'll get back to you, I promise.

And please keep in mind you need not always go through the "Email Me" page to send me an email; you can just send what's on your mind to jason@jasonmulgrew.com.


Six Songs:

- "Take the Fifth" Spoon
This is a perfect song to put on when it's Saturday night, and you and your buddies are standing in your living with your jackets on, ready to go out, finishing your last beers. A staple in our pre-gaming playlist, "Tonight We're Gonna Touch You In The Basement".

- "Lover, You Should've Come Over" Jeff Buckley
This is the saddest song ever. There is no competition. I'm getting all choked up and sobby just thinking about it. Lines like "It's never over/My kingdom for a kiss upon her shoulder" remind me of Pablo Neruda (I read poetry because I'm very in touch with myself) and make me feel faint. And no, really, I'm straight. I'm just really, really sensitive.

- "Nothing Compares 2 U" Prince
If you have not heard the live Prince version, which is a duet with NPG member Rosie Gaines, then you MUST download this. Prince wrote this song, and does a much, much better rendition than Sinead O'Connor (who, by the way, has a greatest hits - can someone tell me how this is possible? Is it her version of "Nothing Compares 2 U" sixteen times?)

- "Let's Pretend We're Bunny Rabbits" The Magnetic Fields
Every time I hear this song, I think, "Why the hell am I not in this band?" ("And when we've had a couple of beers/We'll put on bunny suits..."). Hilarious, but not so much that it detracts from the cool sound of the song.

(That doesn't make any sense at all)

- "Bron-Y-Aur Stomp" Led Zeppelin
I'm gonna say something pretty intense here, but here I go: this is my favorite Led Zeppelin song. "III" was their first album I bought, and this foot-tapping, bass drum-driven acoustic Zep jam blew my fucking mind, when all I really knew about Led Zeppelin were songs like "Heartbreaker", "Black Dog", and "Dazed and Confused". Fucking dynamite.

- "Crown Of Love" Arcade Fire
I tried to resist this band, because the hype around them is way too out of control, and I'm a big fan of disliking anything that's cool to like. But damn, this is a beautiful song. And all hell breaks loose when there's about a minute left. Intense.

[Music suggestions are always welcome. To send me some, email me at jason@jasonmulgrew.com and write "Music Suggestions" in the subject line.]


I owe a big "thank you" to you guys for really answering the call and voting for me in the BoB awards. Not only is it no longer embarassing for me, but as it stands now, I'm actually winning, so good job (but voting closes on Monday, January 17th, and I don't think I'll be able to hold onto that lead until then). However if I do win, at least it'll be something cool to tell my agent, who's no longer returning my calls since I sent that picture of my scrotum to his cameraphone.

("Agent"? What?)

To vote (for me hopefully), click here.

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