Everything is wrong with me
Thursday, March 31, 2005
search words
I am and will most likely continue to be too busy for a proper post today, but rather than give you nothing, some search terms entered into google, yahoo, etc that brought people to this website in the past 24 hours (keep in mind this is just one day's worth of sickos - god I love the internet):

"scott peterson" 1989 band real name brian

freddie mercury was he a homosexual

ex is drinking a lot

how to say fuck me in Russian

no email response love rejection

asian how to grow a beard

fucking a dog on the beach

i was the whore at the bachelor party

std testing for koreans

growing up gotti in bahamas

hungry moose topless

gentlemen's crotch pics

taste of semen

the meaning of "she was asking for it" in terms of sexual harrassment
Love the last one. We should really explore the space on that one. I've made a mental note about this and hope to get a discussion going in the future.

Wednesday, March 30, 2005
me = wedding crazy, a good email, beisbol predictions, the smell that is gone
There's no chance of me getting any work done today. This evening, I have my main fantasy baseball draft (stick with me - this post isn't about sports - not this part at least). I've been in a league with the same guys for 5 years now, so I'm really looking forward to this. Our league is called "Iron Sheik" , named after Hulk Hogan's archrival, the, um, Iron Sheik. Originally, Iron Sheik was the name for our college intramural softball team, where yours truly batted .800 and was widely considered the greatest singles hitter Boston College intramural softball had ever seen, as well as an above-average third baseman. However, despite my performance, I often hit tenth (yes, tenth) in the lineup, as our manager, my good friend and former star of "Average Joe: Hawaii", Bill Hansen, discriminated against me. Somehow, Bill, who truly is "average" when it comes to softball, batted lead-off and played 2nd base, one of the most coveted positions on the diamond. And yet I batted tenth and was put at 3rd, and almost useless position in softball. Asshole. And no, I'm not still bitter.

When we started a fantasy league, the name "Iron Sheik" seemed like a good choice, since most of the guys on the team were in the league. Thus, Iron Sheik started with a mid-season baseball league in the summer of 2000 (also known as the greatest summer of my life - more on this much later). Since then, roughly the same group of 11 guys have done a league together each season for baseball, football, and basketball. The draft tonight is for Iron Sheik XVI. We've come a long way.

And so I'm doing nothing today, and yet I have to pass the time. How am I passing the time (aside from doing fantasy research)? Why, making a guest list for my wedding of course!

Yes, I know it makes me totally crazy to think of who I'd invite to my wedding when I should focus on having sex first, but please hear me out. Everyone around me is getting engaged or getting married or even (gulp) having a kid. This all completely flabbergasts me...I can't imagine even going on a date again, let alone actually getting married. But last night I met up with a friend for drinks who's sister is getting married, and she told me something interesting: 150 people is a standard-sized wedding, with the bride getting 75 guests and the groom getting 75 guests.

My immediate reaction was "150 guests?" My second reaction was, "God I'm so lonely." Then I thought again about the 75 guests that I would invite to my wedding. It's an interest exercise really, because you essentially get to rate your friends. Kinda like, "Well, I like Ted, and we had a lot of great times in college, but I haven't really spoken to him since. However, he's doing really well so I imagine he'd give a pretty big gift. On the other hand, he roofied my sister and tried to have his way with her. We'll put him as a 'maybe.'"

But 75 guests for me would never cut it. I'm about as Irish-Catholic as they come, and though I only have one brother and one sister, my father is one of ten kids and my mother is one of six. I did some quick math and figured out that if I were to get married today, I'd have to invite 72 family members. Note this applies to immediate family, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and first cousins only and does not include the wedding party or any of my friends, which I obviously have a lot of.

The good news is that I'm not getting married any time soon, so until then maybe a couple of family members will keel over or disappear or whatever. Also, when I do get married, I imagine that most of my bride's family will not be able to attend the ceremony, as they will be unable to leave Uzbekistan, so she'll only have her half-retarded sister and two of the girls she works at the beauty shop with in attendance.

But the point is that we are getting old. And it sucks - big time. Also I am crazy, but you knew that from the start.


A good email from Alex in St. Louis. Not the Email of the Week, but a good one nonetheless.

I know that you touched on this earlier, but I wanted to give you yet another fantasy that you can masturbate to.

Things that I learned from this article:

1) My childhood sucked.

2) April 27, 2002 was one hot night for a group of teenage boys.

3) Never marry a woman named Jennifer Miller.

Also, she had sex with a group of teenage boys and only got 25 days in the clink? What the eff? Can you imagine how long you would be in jail if you did that to a group of young women? If it was only 25 days of you being ass raped it might actually be worth it.
Well, that's pretty well put. I'm not gonna add anything because if I did I might have to change the title of this blog from "Everything is wrong with me" to "I can't stop fucking talking about teenage boys that have sex with adult women", but yes, if I could have sex with a room full of hot 17 year-old girls (15 is a tad too young), I'd seriously consider going to jail for a month, because:

1) At least I wouldn't have to go to work;
2) I would have some great masturbatory fantasies for the rest of my life (from the sex with the teens AND the jail ass-rapes);
3) I'd get the kind of instant street-cred that only comes with jail time.

(Also, am I really hot in St. Louis or is it just the same group of people emailing me? It seems that at least once a week I get an email from someone from St. Louis, sometimes more. I should probably just move there if I'm so damn popular, because things aren't exactly working for me in NYC.)


Quick and dirty baseball predictions (because if I write any more about sports someone is going to assassinate me):

National League

East: Atlanta Braves
Central: St. Louis Cardinals
West: San Diego Padres
Wild-Card: Florida Marlins

American League

East: NY Yankees
Central: Minnesota Twins
West: LA (or Anaheim or whatever the hell they're called) Angels
Wild-Card: Boston Red Sox


Florida over St. Louis
San Diego over Atlanta

Florida over San Diego

NY Yankees over LA Angels
Minnesota over Boston

NY Yankees over Minnesota

World Series: NY Yankees over Florida

Individual Awards

MVP: Albert Pujols
Cy Young: Pedro Martinez
Rookie of the Year: Chin Hui-Tsao

MVP: Manny Ramirez
Cy Young: Randy Johnson
Rookie of the Year: Jeremy Reed

"Theeeee...Yankees win!"

God I fucking hate the Yankees. At least my hometown Phils, in an effort to keep up with their division rivals (Braves - Hudson, Marlins - Delgado, Mets - Beltran, Pedro), went out an added John Lieber and Kenny Lofton. Sweet.


By the way, still no word on what stunk up my office yesterday. The good news is that my meeting at 3pm was canceled and the office now no longer smells. I'll probably never know what it was, so I'm just going to blame someone else. That always seems to work.

(And wish me luck in the draft tonight)

Tuesday, March 29, 2005
the big stink
Major fucking dilemma: my office smells like puke. It may sound like I'm going for a cheap laugh by writing that (it doesn't get any cheaper than using the word "puke"), but my office really does smell like someone vomited somewhere and then did a half-ass job of trying to clean it up. When I opened my door this morning, it was like getting hit in the face with an old sock, so much so that I let out an audible "Ech" in the otherwise silent office area, prompting our group secretary to say, "Is something wrong, Jason?"

I did some searching and it doesn't appear that there's any sort of visible vomit stain. As a veteran of secretly throwing up, I checked all the spots I might puke if I had to do so in my office - under my desk, on the other side of my desk, in one of my drawers, all over my balls because I couldn't move anywhere fast enough - but nothing.

However, it still reeks really fucking bad. My manager came into my office this morning and immediately made a face of disgust - a face not like one would make if they caught their parents making love, but maybe a face they'd make if they caught their weird hipster cousin giving her tattooed/pierced boyfriend a handjob in the yard after Thanksgiving dinner (and no, this didn't happen to me).

Sensing my manager passing judgment on me ("Damn, not only does he suck as a worker but he also has body odor"), we had this exchange:

Me: "Do you smell that?"
Manager: "Yeah, it stinks."
Me: "I don't know what it is. It's not me."
Manager: [believing it is me, trying to diffuse the situation] "It's not a big deal."
Me: [getting defensive] "No, no really - it's not me. When I came in this morning, it smelled like this."
Manager: [having no interest in arguing with a smelly person] "Really, it's not a big deal."
Me: [more defensive, hyper] "Oh, I know it's not a big deal. I'm just surprised my office smells like this, because this isn't coming from me."
Manager: [uncomfortable, silence for two seconds] "So can you swing by my office when you get a chance?"

So my manager thinks I smell like throw-up. Great.

About an hour after this encounter, we had our weekly update meeting. I love the meetings, because I feel so important: sitting around the conference room overlooking Manhattan in the big comfy chair, speaking loudly into the speaker phone, all the while scribbling things down and drinking water, looking serious, smart, important. Sure, I may actually be thinking about how getting high in my bathtub, but whatever.

This meeting was different though because a short time after plopping down in the comfy chair, I noticed that I now stunk like my office. Whatever the source of this stink, it had now transferred itself to me. So the whole time I sat through the thirty-minute meeting, I was sweating (more than usual) and worried that someone would say, "I'm sorry to interrupt, but does anyone smell that? It smells like someone drank a quart of semen and an onion and then threw it back up." Fortunately, no one said anything.

But the whole experience made me VERY self-conscious. Was it really me that smelled like stale puke? I checked my breath and it seemed fine, but I brushed my teeth anyway. I smelled my pits and they seemed ok, but I still put on more deodorant, so that now I have a nice half-inch thick layer of white covering my armpit. My only guess was that it could be my pants, because I just got them dry-cleaned. I tried smelling them, but I could only smell my balls, which give off a fainter but equally offensive smell: ham and eggs left on an asphalt street for three days in the July heat.

I had my office door open, but decided instead to close it, lest people walking by pick up the stink. Running out of options, I made a decision: I would get something pungent for lunch, hoping that the smell of the lunch would essentially cancel out the smell the of stale vomit. Not knowing what else to get, I decided to go with tuna.

Terrible, terrible decision.

It didn't work at all, and instead added another awful smell to the mix. As it stands right now, I'm sitting in my office which smells like puke and tuna. Also, because I've had the door closed in order to keep these smells to myself, not only has the smell started to cling to me, it is also hot in my office. And I just got an email from my head boss to my manager and I saying that we should meet in my office at 3pm for a short discussion. I am fucked and there is nothing I can do.


So that's my day. How is yours going?

Monday, March 28, 2005
broke on a Monday
I am in a very crappy mood today, for several reasons:

1) It's Monday. Fuck.

2) The weather. There's nothing like 40 degrees and heavy rain to add that extra spring to your step in the morning. It's March 28, and the forecast for the next week is 50 degrees and rain every day. I know it's early, but I don't know what happened to spring and I miss it. Growing up, I remember months of sunshine and temperate weather sandwiched between the extremes of winter and summer. However, I haven't seen a decent spring in a long time. Like last year, I know it's going to be 50 degrees for the next six weeks, then we'll have one week of 70 degree sunny weather, and then it'll be 90 for the next ten weeks. I know this and I hate it.

3) Work. It's becoming more and more apparent that I'm not cut out for the 9-to-5 lifestyle.

This morning I woke up, saw that the weather was cold, gray, and rainy, and thought to myself, "God, I am so fucking tired. I can't wait until tonight so I can go back to sleep again. I hope something good happens today, because I'm hanging on by a thread here." Fortunately, God must have been eavesdropping at the time, because on my way to work I saw a bike messenger almost get hit by a bus and my stomach still hurts from laughing so hard. That, and on Saturday night I was drunk and ate a pizza box. So we're struggling in the stomach department. Big time.

This same type of thinking goes on on Sunday night, as I lay in bed, hoping my sleep apnea doesn't finally get me. All I can think about, besides having sex with some girl's boobs, is that I can't wait until Friday evening when I'm done with work and the weekend starts.

And to be honest, I don't hate my job. In some ways I actually like it. But as much as I "like" my job, I like waking up at noon, eating a giant stack of pancakes, going back to bed, and finally getting up and leaving the apartment at 4pm much, much better. Thinking about this leads me to a sort of quasi-existential crisis: What sort of life do I lead when I'm constantly waiting to go to sleep again or waiting for Friday to come? And why do black people get tattoos in black ink? Shouldn't they instead get tattoos in white ink, so that they'll stand out more? I mean, you can even make out what they are most of the time. Do you see white people getting tattoos in white or pink ink? I don't get it.

And so all sorts of things go through my head:

[Scene: Two Jason Mulgrews in a basement rec room, sharing a joint. Jason Mulgrew 1 sits on a bean bag, drinking a can of Budweiser. Jason Mulgrew 2 stands over the stereo, which is playing Bon Jovi's "Bad Medicine", looking through cds.]

Jason Mulgrew 1: "Dude, let's quit our job and try to write the blog professionally."
Jason Mulgrew 2: "Are you crazy? 'Write the blog professionally'? What the hell does that even mean?"
JM1: [angry, defensive] "I'm not sure what it means, but I'm just trying to help. Let's face it, we don't have many marketable skills and we're not very good at anything, except for writing racist propaganda on the internet. We're also pretty good at making enemies."
JM2: "Well it's a stupid suggestion. And you are an asshole. And it's not really racist - you know we totally want to have sex with a black chick."
JM1: "You know what? If you're going to place yourself above the discourse by spewing invectives at me, then I'm just going to leave." [stands to leave]
JM2: "First, you're high. Second, fine, go ahead and leave. Third, I hate you."JM1: "Well I hate you too. I'm going to masturbate." [moves off camera]
JM2: "Oh, that's your answer to everything, isn't it? Any time there's a problem, you just run away from it to pleasure yourself. When are you gonna stop with that and face your problems instead of running for the moisturizer?"
JM1: [kneeling over toilet with pants down around ankles and Maxim on spread out on sink, beating off and sobbing] "Not now."

4) Money, as in I have none. This weekend, my roommates Brian and Ben went home for Easter, leaving me to my own devices in the apartment. I was thrilled to be alone. It's not often that it happens, so I try to take advantage of it when it does (note: by "take advantage" I mean "make milkshakes with double stuff oreos in them"). My plan was to go on a three day bender and it started promisingly enough, as on Thursday night I met up with my buddy John for a fantasy draft (our team is stacked) and then went out for some drinks and some basketball watching.

But while home alone on Friday afternoon, I decided that I would look into my finances. Bad, bad idea. I knew this was a terrible decision the minute I logged into Citibank and checked my account balance. And that was probably the best part. Let me break it down for you:

- Current monies in bank account: -$1,673.23 (I have a $2000 overdraft, so that means I have $326.77 until I get paid later this week. Well, technically I owe the bank almost $1700 and have nothing, but thank god for overdraft)
- Current debt owed (including student loans, credit card debt, and computer left to pay off): $29,304.14
- Amount spent per month on debt and rent (not including food, booze, entertainment): $1,899.58
- Scale, 1 (least fucked) to 10 (most fucked), of how fucked I am financially: 8.6

This is not good. Not good at all. I took me about 45 minutes to figure this out, and 2 minutes after learning this I was on my hands and knees on my bathroom floor, throwing Xanax, Bayer, and NyQuil down my throat in a last ditch effort to keep my heart from exploding and my brain from saying, "You know what? Later" and leaving me entirely.

But I know this is all entirely my fault. I make decent money (though not that decent), but I stink at saving/spending. For example, while thinking about money-saving tactics, I thought, "When I go home to Philly, I'm not taking Amtrak anymore. It's pointless to spend $50 each way when I can get home and back from $30 on NJ Transit. Also, maybe I should go to the Caribbean. Maybe I can do a long weekend in Vermont in the spring, Oktoberfest in the fall, and the Caribbean next winter!" I then spent the next 30 minutes online looking for Caribbean vacation deals. God I suck.

And my weekend was ruined. I didn't go out Friday OR Saturday night, making me the biggest loser in the world. Instead, I sulked around the apartment, smoked ALL of my roommate Brian's pot (sorry dude) and felt sorry for myself. And now it's Monday, it's cold and raining, and I have a full week or work ahead of me. Crap and crap again.

Desperate times call for desperate measures, and so I have made a decision: I'm selling everything. I realized that I have a lot of junk that I don't use, and so I'm getting rid of it. And to prove that I'm serious about this, I'm going to sell one of the most important things in my life, something that formed me as a person as much as any teacher or relative did, something that has always been there for me, through thick and thin: my porn collection.

I have in my possession 13 VHS tapes of pornography that I have collected over the past ten years. Each tape is special to me and has its own story. Each has given me a lifetime of good memories and boners. Each has given me solace on many a cold, lonely night (or day or whenever). But they must go.

The rise of the DVD, coupled with the computer revolution and the emergence of file-sharing, has made these porno tapes near obsolete. Sure, they're still good and viewable, but I hardly ever watch them. I do have a VCR, but it's a combo TV/VCR with a 13" screen, a purchase I made at the nadir of my loneliness, and it's used only to view these tapes. I can sell these tapes and the TV/VCR, make a decent buck, and use the money to pay down some of my GINORMOUS debt.

But please, do not inquire as to whether you can purchase the tapes. Because of their sentimental value, they can only go to a select few people, people who I know will take care of them and treat them with the respect and reverence they so right earned over the years. A have a few buyers in mind, and I will begin to contact them shortly to arrange a deal.

In the meantime, I will do my best to scrimp and save. I'll start slowly, and work my way up, because I know it will be a longer process. For example, today I stole an apple from my cafeteria. Score. Maybe next week I'll steal a bag of chips, and before you know it I'll be walking out of there will a frozen yogurt machine. Patience is the key. Patience is my friend.

Thursday, March 24, 2005
long lost/homeless love, books, my moms, eotw, songs, good friday
On Tuesday I was walking around Union Square when I randomly saw a girl I slept with five years ago. I was just minding my own business, rocking out to my iPod, when I saw this woman and thought, "Hey, that girl looks like Stacy. Hmph." Upon closer inspection, I said to myself, "Holy shit - that is Stacy!" Of course, I didn't approach her, because after our dance of love I stopped speaking to her entirely and haven't spoken to her since. This is probably because I had a girlfriend at the time, but really, it was a long time ago, so I can't definitively make that call. Also she was a terrible lay - it was like fucking a mannequin that had been microwaved in an attempt to replicate normal human body heat (I'm sure she said of me "It was like fucking a rug with a pen cap sticking out of it").

Anyway, when I got home, my encounter (or lack thereof) with the old flame prompted this exchange between my roommate Brian and I:

Me: "Dude, I randomly saw this girl I slept with five years ago on the street."
Brian: [pondering for a few seconds] "You mean, like, she's homeless?"

No, Brian, "on the street" does not mean she's living on the street. Although to be honest, if she was in fact homeless I probably would have approached her, because I'm guessing she would have put out for me again ("Hey Stacey, why don't you come back to my place and get warm? Then I'll make you a turkey sandwich if you let me take pictures of you slow dancing in my bathroom in the nude. Well, you can wear a goalie mask, but otherwise completely nude.")

But the whole thing made me feel old. I saw someone I slept with five years ago? That's kind of a strange thing to happen to someone as young as me. However, I am 25, so I guess I am getting old.

I don't know - I have no idea where I'm going with this. All I know is that I'm getting drunk tonight and nothing can stop me. So let's just move the hell on...


I despise when bloggers have parts of their blog like "What I'm Reading". I'm sorry, but I don't give a fuck what you are reading. What's even worse is when what these bloggers are reading are esoteric, dense academic works, ostensibly saying, "Hey everyone - look how smart I am!"

Now, having gotten that out of the way, of course I'm going to tell you what I'm reading. Hypocrite? Sure. Closet Annie Lennox fan and borderline pedophile? Totally. But do I call it like I see it? Hells yes.

Two books you have to read:

1) LA Diaries by James Brown (no, not the Godfather of Soul).

The publisher's description tells you all you need to know:

Plagued by the suicides of both his siblings, heir to alcohol and drug abuse, divorce, and economic ruin, novelist James Brown lived a life clouded by addiction, broken promises, and despair. Beautifully written and limned with dark humor, these twelve deeply confessional, interconnected chapters address personal failure, heartbreak, the trials of writing for Hollywood, and the life-shattering events that finally convinced Brown he must "change or die."
You know, some light reading.

Hear me now: I read a lot. I'm not bragging, but I don't have much to do and so I spend a lot of time in bed, slowly dying, reading books to pass the time. I'm not saying I read smart books or that I am smart, I just don't really have a lot of friends and I don't like tv, unless it's "Cold Case Files" or "Friends".

And this book actually made me cry - twice. I'll be the first to admit that I'm a pussy, but it really got me. Sure, maybe my former therapist might point out that I see a little of myself in the main character, to which I would reply, "What? I'm sorry, but I wasn't listening", but I don't think that's the case. It's just very powerful stuff and definitely worth a look.

(I moved from this book to a book called Another Bullshit Night in Suck City, the story of a drug-addict who works in a homeless shelter and his difficult relationship with his alcoholic/failed writer father, who is homeless. Jesus Christ. I ask my friends to call me every once in a while to check up on me this weekend because the outlook isn't very rosy.)

2) The Evil BB Chow and Other Stories by Steve Almond

I actually haven't read this book yet - it will be arriving at my apartment at some point today, thanks for Barnes & Noble's same day delivery in Manhattan - but if it's anything like Almond's previous works (My Life in Heavy Metal and Candyfreak), than it should be most excellent. More details to follow after I've checked the book out myself, but go on and buy it.


From the "Everyone Says Their Family Is Weird, But Trust Me - Mine Is Really Weird" Department: my mom called me yesterday at work, ecstatic. See, my mom, like a lot of moms, is obsessed with bargains and saving money. For example, a few weeks ago when I told her that a bottle of shampoo in my local pharmacy costs $8, she nearly fainted. Since then she's been on a mission to buy me all sorts of toiletries and other products in Philly, where it's cheaper, so that I can then bring them up to NYC and not have to spend so much money on them.

And so she called the other day to tell me that she got twelve sticks of deodorant for me for the grand price of nothing. Actually, the store even gave her 24¢. WTF?

I have no idea how this* is possible and I'm sure the only way you can understand this is if you are a mom. I asked her how it came to be that she bought something and the store gave her money, and she tried explaining it but it got confusing quickly and I tuned out completely. At any rate, this purchase (or whatever) was definitely one of the high points of her week.

Oh, moms are so crazy.


I'm thinking about starting a weekly section of this post called "Email of the Week". This is because I get a lot of really good emails from you all, as well as a lot of good feedback when I write a post answering your emails. I like to hear what you think and there is no comments section on this blog (it's my site - if you want to write something on the web, get your own site) so email is the only way that you can get in touch with me and share your thoughts or what you look like without pants.

However, I am a very lazy man and it's hard to me to categorize and keep up with your emails. I feel like I'm going to try to do better at this, but I'm most likely talking out my ass. Odds are very good that this is both the first and last installment of "Email of the Week".

But, if you have a dilemma, a comment, an idea, or even a good story, send it along to me. I should warn you that I probably won't think your story is funny, so focus on the dilemmas, comments, and ideas instead.

Our first "Email of the Week" (I'm already sick of writing it) comes from Joe in Williamsburg, Brooklyn:

i have this idea that for five minutes i wasn't going to tell anyone about because they would steal it and become rich, etc. but fuck it, i thought maybe you could just expand on it a bit.

you know how in typical porn there's the action sequence and then at the end the dude jerks a load on the girl's face? yeah. i figured you were with me. well anyway, what if the guy was like, "i'm gonna bust this in your eye, so you better close them." and so she closes her eyes and the dude holds a fucking air horn up to her face and lets out a blast. i mean seriously. that would be porn i would buy and watch right in front of my roommate (a girl) because it would slip out of the pervey porn category and in to the comedy genre.

even better is that after you've done a few of those tricks, you could get the girl to hold a jar of marbles or an urn or something that she is sure to drop when the porn horn sounds. there could be other shit too, i guess, like a real slobbery St. Bernard starts licking her face or dump some ice water on her, all whilst expecting a gizload.

i don't know. what do you think?
Wow - now that's fucking funny. I don't really know how I can expand on it because it's really all there. I think it works because it's universal - every porn scene ends like this, and it's probably the dumbest moment of the whole porn clip. No girl wants some dude to blow it in her eyes, but at these moments the women say shit like "Give it to me baby!" and "I want it on my face!" The visual of a guy saying "You want it? Then close your eyes" and then taking giant bucket of ice water and throwing it on the chick has kept me laughing since I've read this email. Or the guy saying, "You want it? Well then hold this giant vase filled with marbles and I'll give it to you" - it's brilliant. Simply brilliant.

So thank you Joe from Williamsburg for our first "EOTW" (there - that's much shorter).


Six Songs:

"You're Always Going Too Soon" Matthew Jay
Dan in NYC recommended this one to me (well, this artist). Catchy little tune with some nice guitar work. Kinda sad too, so that's right up my alley. Because I need help getting myself depressed. I can't do that easily enough by stripping down and looking in the mirror at my bear-like body and wine cork-like penis. Seriously, naked I look like an acorn on a furry bean bag. Anyway...

God I love that "acorn on a bean bag" joke.

"Boy With A Problem" Elvis Costello
(Please note: if you're downloading this, be sure to download the version from the album "Trust", not "Imperial Bedroom". They are very different and the version from "Trust" is much, much better.)
This is the best song ever written about having a drinking problem. Very intense, very sad, very much worth checking out. Just a guy at his piano singing his heart out about how his boozing is ruining his marriage. Damn.

"Here" Pavement
I'm reluctant to recommend a Pavement song because way back when I recommend "Shady Lane" I got emails from hardcore Pavement fans for the next two weeks saying that "Shady Lane" was a terrible song of theirs and I'm an asshole. I admit, I don't know crap about Pavement, but I like this song. It is also very depressing and makes me want to take some quaaludes or valium or something that will allow me to lay around all day in bed feeling tired and wonderful. And that's really all I have to say about this.

"I Could Die For You" RHCP
Moving onto something a little more happy (or at least sweet). When "By The Way" came out, it really rocked my world. It's so melodic and, well, pretty. But at the same time it doesn't compromise the signature Chili Pepper's sound. Anyway, I dig this song...a nice little alterna-love song.

"You Know My Name (Look Up The Number)" The Beatles
Is anyone else pissed at The Beatles because they too think the first part of this song is pretty awesome, and then it goes and gets all weird? When I meet Paul McCartney, I'll make sure this is the first thing I talk to him about. And then I'll ask about his wife's wooden leg.

“It’s Oh So Quiet” Bjork
Seriously, what would it be like to fuck Bjork? I envision her bouncing around, screaming, yelping, biting, stopping to piss on the floor, starting again, punching, kicking, stopping again to start a fire in a wastepaper basket, starting again, pulling clumps of hair out (both your and hers), all the while yelling gibberish at the top of her lungs. And what kind of guy gets to say, "Yeah, Bjork's my girlfriend." I mean, how fucked up does that dude have to be?

Anyway, it ain't a bad song. Weird, but good weird.


Because of the Good Friday holiday tomorrow, I have off work and therefore will not be posting. Instead, I will be lying in bed, recover from a hangover and will probably make a large marijuana purchase. So thank you Jesus for dying for my sins and giving me this day off to buy a lot of pot. Seriously - I owe you one.

(Also, I think we have a record. In this post, I compared my penis to a pen cap, a wine cork, and an acorn. Wow - I don't often pat myself on the back, but I think I deserve it here. Have a good weekend.)

Wednesday, March 23, 2005
fantasy baseball 2005
I've hinted at it before, but more than I've ever let on (until now), fantasy baseball is a GIANT part of my life.

[Shhh - do you hear that clicking noise? That's the sound of thousands of international/women readers clicking off my site. It's both sad and beautiful at the same time. Sigh.]

For those of you who don't know, fantasy baseball is a way for sports aficionados (read: nerds) like myself to live vicariously through their favorite major leaguers. To play, you join a league with some friends that typically has ten to twelve teams. Each person manages a team. The league begins before the start of the baseball season with draft. The goal is to draft a group of players to fill out a team (i.e. each team, like each major league team, would have a first baseman, three outfielders, five starting pitchers, etc). Any stats that your players accumulate, your team accumulates. Points are awarded for these stats, and whichever team has the most points at the end of the season wins the league.

But it's more than just sports statistics - it's a way for guys to keep in touch and talk tremendous shit about each other and each other's failings, mothers, and girlfriends (or lack thereof - the girlfriends I mean, not the mothers, because that shit ain't funny). I have been in a league with roughly the same ten guys every year since 2001. Sure, it doesn't sound like a very long time, but if it wasn't for this league I wouldn't have kept in touch with these assholes after college, as we have very little else to talk about and one time I fingerblasted my buddy Jon's girlfriend when he was in the hospital. But because of the fantasy league, I talk to them nearly every day. Mostly about their inadequate testicles, but whatever.

I'm not going to bother explaining how the scoring system works, because it's very complicated and if you're still reading this you know how fantasy baseball works. What I will do instead is give my 2005 preview for fantasy baseball, giving my top players at each position, followed by some thoughts (please note: at any given time I may be lying, as I know others in my league are reading this and I don't want to tip my hand).

And I should warn you now, this is not going to be funny. If you want funny (or the closest I can get to funny), check out the "Choice Cuts" or the pictures and come back tomorrow. I still love you and I hope you still love me.

We'll start at catcher, which has always been the bane of the fantasy manager's existence.
1) Ivan Rodriguez
2) Javy Lopez
3) Victor Martinez
4) Jorge Posada
5) Jason Varitek
6) Joe Mauer

One look at this list and you'll notice something right away: Puerto Ricans or people from those Puerto Rico-type countries make good catchers. However, when we say "good catchers", it's relative because catchers are not known for their fantasy production. After an early love affair with Pudge Rodriguez, I've learned to stay away from catchers for the most part and take them late - very late, typically not until after Round 15. There's just too much talent out there otherwise for me to waste a high pick on someone who's going to give me 70-18-70-2-.270 (runs-home runs-rbis-stolen bases-average). Joe Mauer is an interesting study. He's a 22 year-old phenom with a ton of tools...and bad knees. I might take a flier on him, but very late. My advice: wait until late and go after someone serviceable like Estrada, Leiberthal, or Kendall.

1) Albert Pujols
2) David Ortiz
3) Todd Helton
4) Jim Thome
5) Carlos Delgado
6) Adam Dunn

This position is ridiculously deep, and so for this reason I'd tend to stay away from 1B early. Sure, these guys are mashers, but why draft Helton in the second round when in a ten team league you can get someone like Derrek Lee or Aubrey Huff in the fifth (or possibly later)? Of course, I'm partial to Jim Thome, as I love the Phils and fat guys, but there are so many very good 1B that I'd be happy with any of the above or the aforementioned Lee and Huff or guys like Teixiera, Konerko, Hafner, Morneau, Sexson, or Casey on my team as my starting 1B. Just so damn deep.

1) Alfonso Soriano
2) Jeff Kent
3) Marcus Giles
4) Mark Loretta
5) Jose Reyes
6) Bret Boone

From depth to dearth: there ain't much at 2B this year. Soriano's numbers took a major tumble when he got to Texas, Bret Boone got off the 'roids and became terrible, and Jeff Kent still has a porn star moustache. Not much to say here. Though analysts are predicting a bounce back year for Soriano, I can't see using a first or second round pick on him (especially since his hammy's bothering him and he may start the season on the DL), and I might consider taking Kent in the fifth. I'm interested in Reyes: though he walked only 5 times in 210 at-bats, he's got some wheels (provided he stays injury-free). Otherwise, 2B is a real shit show.

1) Miguel Tejada
2) Michael Young
3) Derek Jeter
4) Edgar Renteria
5) Jimmy Rollins
6) Nomar Garciaparra

There's a good amount of talent here, though not as much as at 1B. Notably absent from this list is Carlos Guillen, as c'mon, there's no way he repeats his 97-20-97-12-.318 year he had last year. He's fucking Carlos Guillen! I like Tejada, but he's not getting 150 rbis again. I also think Renteria and Nomar, former second or third round picks, could have big bounce back years. Also worth looking at are guys like Furcal, Cabrera, and Matsui. I'm kind of old-fashioned, so I like my middle-infielders to be speed guys, so I'm partial to someone like Rollins, who could steal 30 bases easily.

1) Alex Rodriguez
2) Scott Rolen
3) Adrian Beltre
4) Eric Chavez
5) Aramis Ramirez
6) Melvin Mora

Anytime the 6th ranked player put up numbers like 111-27-104-11-.340, you know the position is pretty deep. And I'm leaving out very legitimate guys like Aubrey Huff, Hank Blalock, and Chipper Jones. Then there's Mike Lowell, coming off a quiet year but with Delgado now in the lineup; youngsters David Wright, Casey Blake and Dallas McPherson looking to make an impact; and Troy Glaus and Aaron Boone returning from injury. This position is LOADED. I personally like Chavez. He was hurt last year and a lot of people will let him slip in their drafts. I also like Huff, who qualifies at 1B, 3B and OF. Not too shabby.

1) Vladimir Guerrero
2) Carlos Beltran
3) Manny Ramirez
4) Bobby Abreu
5) Jim Edmonds
6) Gary Sheffield
7) Carl Crawford
8) Ichiro Suzuki
9) Miguel Cabrera
10) Hideki Matsui

Barry Bonds, do you know why so many people hate you, aside from you cheating the game and all? It's because you're a whiney little (actually, very large) bitch. Do you know how many fantasy leagues Bonds has either ruined or sent into disarray by hinting at his retirement? Good LORD. Because my league counts OBP (instead of average) and total bases (instead of home runs), Bonds is a top three pick. Instead, no one knows what the hell to do. Thanks, thanks a lot Barry. As hinted first in Slack Lalane, maybe Bonds is going to quit because he finally can't play without steroids? What a fucking asshole.

Anyway, I lot of people think, "I don't want to take an OF with a high pick, because there are so many of them." Yes, asshole, but you have to start three, as opposed to starting one of the other position players. Vlad's still at the top, and while I don't think Beltran will put up the same numbers playing in Shea, you have to love any player with 30-30 potential. Carl Crawford is a surprise pick, even going in the first round in some drafts because of his gaudy number of stolen bases. While I see the logic, I don't think it's the best thing to do. Crawford's up there, but there's no way I'm going to take him over a guy like Sheffield, who gives you everything but SBs, while Crawford gives you almost nothing in the HR and RBI departments.

1) Randy Johnson
2) Johan Santana
3) Curt Schilling
4) Jason Schmidt
5) Pedro Martinez
6) Roger Clemens
7) Ben Sheets
8) Roy Oswalt
9) Mark Prior
10) Carlos Zambrano

To me, it's an easy choice: if you have the #1 overall pick in your draft, you have to take Randy Johnson. I know he's old, but he's been old for about seven years now. What I also know is that he had 16 wins last year for a team that went 51-111. And now he's pitching for a team that went 101-61 last year. Barring injury, Randy Johnson could easily win 25 games. I have no doubt about this. And his peripherals should increase, as even though he's switching to the AL (with the DH), these AL hitters haven't seen him since 1998. Randy is #1. I don't understand how this is even debatable.

Aside from Randy, the biggest question is Mark Prior's health. If he's healthy, I'd rank him at #2, just ahead of Santana, but there are too many question marks for me to feel comfortable about him. Pedro could have a very good year at Shea, but he's been on the decline for so long and is such a headcase that it's impossible to say for sure. I don't think Jason Schmidt is getting the respect he deserves; prior to his September melt-down, he was the best pitcher in baseball.

1) Eric Gagne
2) Mariano Rivera
3) Joe Nathan
4) Armando Benitez
5) Brad Lidge
6) Jason Isringhausen

With closers, it's Gagne, Rivera, and then everyone else. Maybe I have Lidge too low (he struck out an astonishing 157 in 94.2 innings last year), but closers are about getting saves, and Lidge had only 29 last year, while the other guys had 45, 53, 44, 47, and 47 respectively. Typically, my strategy is to focus on starting pitchers and grab four crappy closers late in the draft, but there's certainly a piece of mind element in getting a guy like Gagne or Rivera in the third and not having to worry about drafting another closer for a long, long time. Keep an eye on Keith Foulke and Billy Wagner, who could both have big years.


So that's my analysis. I have a draft this Thursday, as well as drafts next Wednesday and Thursday (and yes, I am single). I'm sorry to go off on such a tangent, but preparing for these drafts have totally taken over my life, so if I have to suffer then you have to suffer.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to examining Jason Schmidt's splits versus Curt Schilling's splits. Because, really, I'm not sure who I like better. I mean, Curt has the bloody sock, but Jason and I have the same name. God I'm so confused.

Tuesday, March 22, 2005
Boston vs. NYC
I love Boston. I should clear this up now, you know, before I go on and bash it here.

I lived in Boston (or more specifically, Chestnut Hill and Brighton) from the fall of ’97 until the spring of ’01 when I went to Boston College. And it really is a great city. There’s just something about it – it’s small, yet cosmopolitan; it’s a great sports town; there are a lot of beautiful women; it’s got a very comfortable feel to it that’s hard to describe.

But if there’s one thing that I learned this weekend it’s that I’m officially becoming a New Yorker. With all due respect to Boston and my hometown of Philadelphia, which will always be #1 in my book (in the same way that my first-born son, though retarded, will always be my #1), New York is the greatest city in the world. It’s really that simple.

And I learned this more than ever this weekend in Boston. Below are five quick reasons why NYC is better than Boston (and Bostonians, remember: I love Boston. Seriously. So don’t send me any mean emails. I just haven’t got time for the pain).

I have never been maced in New York City. On Friday night, I got into Boston at about 10:15, and shortly thereafter my friends and I went to party. The party was fine – standing around, drinking beer, talking to a drunk Russian guy who I’m pretty sure was hoping to kiss me, ogling women, thinking about talking to women, not talking to women, getting scared when having to talk to women in the bathroom line, etc. Standard, really.

The party was in Cambridge and my friends live in Dorchester, so we had to take a cab home (more on this later). We split into two cabs, so my buddy Joe and I shared one. Our cabbie was an Arab guy who was VERY angry. I’m not saying that all Arabs are angry – hey, I love the Arabs just as much as the next guy – but this particular Arab guy was very upset and while talking into his phone said “fuck” about 850 times.

Because he was wrapped up in his cursing, he missed our exit. I can’t remember the specifics because I was pretty messed up, but it took a LONG time for us to turn around. Anyway, because he missed the exit, he stopped the meter, and having to do this made him even more upset. This anger manifested itself in his driving, as he was doing 60mph through tiny (and not so tiny) winding Boston streets.

While speeding through the streets, our cabbie almost accidentally ran over a group of Asian kids. Actually, I'm not sure if the word "accidentally" applies here, because under oath I might have to admit that it looked pretty intentional. So as the cab speeds past these Asian kids who are diving out of the way, one of them karate kicks the cab (I swear to god I'm not making this up - I'm not this creative).

The cabbie, hearing the thump of the kick, drives the cab maybe twenty feet before stopping it and getting out, and starts to go after the Asian kids (there are maybe four or five of them, about 22 years-old). The Asian kids see the cabbie yelling and coming after them, so they run at him. He dives back in the cab and closes the door, calling over his radio for the cops to come as the Asian kids stand outside the cab karate-kicking its doors and trying to punch in the window.

Meanwhile, my buddy Joe and I are in the backseat, drunk out of our minds, in hysterics. We see these nerdy looking Asian kids doing ninja moves on the fucking cab, while this angry Arab driver screams in a thick accent, "You mother fuckers! You mother fuckers!" and is calling for police over his radio. Comedy gold.

After a few seconds the Asian kids back away, and it looks like it'll all be over in a few seconds. However, the cabbie gets out of the cab and screams after the kids (again, in a thick accent), "Hey faggots! Yes - you faggots!" The Asian kids then come running back and the cabbie runs to get back in the cab. Just as he's trying to close his door, one of the Asian kids pulls a can of mace out of his jacket pocket and maces the SHIT out of the cabbie. I mean, the mace looked like water pouring out of a fire hose, and it must have been going for a good four or five seconds, right in this guy's fucking face.

[And really, what 20-something guy carries mace? What a pussy.]

So now Joe and I are screaming, laughing, with tears running down our eyes (two things to remember: we're wasted and this is happening in the middle of a busy downtown Boston street). I don't think I need to explain why. As the Asians scamper away, the cabbie, hunched over and coughing, puts the cab in drive and starts driving after the Asians. At this point I think to myself, "This is never going to end - and I fucking love it."

Suddenly though, I feel a little tingle in my lungs. I start coughing a little, as does Joe. Then the tingle turns to a burn, then the burn turns to "HOLY FUCKING SHIT SOMEONE LIT A GARBAGE FIRE IN MY LUNGS!" Joe and I each push open our doors and stumble out of the slowly moving cab, falling to the ground and rolling away. Lying on the street, I can still see the cabbie hunched over at the wheel, driving crookedly after the Asian kids, who are now starting to disappear down side streets and alleys.

Though it burns like a mother fucker, Joe and I are still laughing. Tears are still pouring down our faces, though at this point it may be because of the mace. It takes us a good five-ten minutes to recover while walking away from the scene, and finally we get another cab and make it home.

Now I have been out and about in New York City, and in many cabs with angry, crazy-driving Arab cabbies, but never while in NYC have I been (partially) maced. NYC 1, Boston 0.

(I promise the next reasons will be much shorter. It’s not every day that you see a gang of Asian youths mace your middle-aged Arab cab driver and so I wanted to share, because I want to share everything with you – everything. Yes [pointing to my crotch], even this.)

Last call is at 1:30am. This is a big downer for me. Often in NYC, I don't even leave my apartment until after midnight, when I've had the proper amount of time to enjoy a bacon pizza and a liter of vodka and poop at least twice. Sure, maybe this is the reason why I don't do so well with women I meet in bars - because my eyes are at least partially closed when I talk to them and all I can think about is the delicious bacon pizza waiting for me at home and how bad I have to piss. But on this past Saturday night, my friends and I were drinking and at 9:30 I heard, "Alright, everyone should finish up because we really need to get to the bar."

Go out at 9:30? What the fuck? Entirely unacceptable. After 1:30, you can't get a drink in Boston. Bars in NYC close at 4am. NYC 2, Boston 0.

The public transportation system sucks. Just about every week I bitch about the NYC subway system. It's gotten to the point that I have a terrible commute so often that I've stopped writing about it, because I have something to complain about every 3 days (like this morning: one hour, five minutes to work).

However, say what you want about the NYC subway, but at least it's running 24 hours a day. The Boston's "T" stops running around 1am. And the bars closes at 2am. So have fun getting home, jerkoff.

However, since NYC's system sucks in itself, we can't award a full point here: NYC 2.5, Boston 0

Boston is so damn sprawling. NYC is a big city, but it's fairly manageable. It's made up of the five boroughs: Manhattan, Brooklyn, Queens, the Bronx, and Staten Island. And the streets in Manhattan are numbered (for the most part). Even if you've never been to the city before, if you're at 23rd & 2nd you can pretty easily figure out how to get to 66th & 5th. And I always like to say that if you're in Union Square or Times Square, you are a $10 cab ride from anything you could ever possibly want (baklava, cocaine, stuffed animals, hookers, a sporting goods store, etc), 24 hours a day.

Boston, on the other hand, does not work that way. First, Boston proper is very small, and none of my friends live there. Instead, they live north, south, and west of the city in places like Southie, Dorchester, Somerville, Brighton, and Cambridge.

This makes getting around a real pain in the ass, especially when the bars close. Like I mentioned, the T stops at 1am. And, unlike NYC, cabbies in Boston have the right to refuse passengers based on where they're going. For example, when you stumble out of a bar at 3:30 in the morning and you need to get to Brooklyn for a terrible BJ from the fat chick you're hooking up with at work on the sly, you're cabbie has to take you there. For them to refuse to because you live in Brooklyn is a violation (I know this for a fact - I threatened to report at least three cabbies a weekend my first year in NYC when I lived in Brooklyn).

Boston cabbies can refuse service based on location. The result is that you can flag down several cabs before one finally agrees to take you where you need to go. And by that point you're so drunk and grateful to the cabbie who does decide to take you back to Dorchester that when he asks if he can come up to your place to take a couple of pictures, you acquiesce because it's freezing out and you're so glad to be going home. And when he starts running his hand through your hair when you're sitting on the couch, you let that slide too; as he reminds you, he didn't have to bring you all the way back to Dorchester - he knew you were special. And, long story short, when you wake up the next day walking funny and feeling dirty, you have no one to blame but yourself and the fact that if the damn city wasn't so damn sprawling you wouldn't have this problem in the first place.

NYC 3.5, Boston 0.

Everything closes early. When my friends who don't live in NYC ask me if I like living here, I usually say, "I'll put it this way: the McDonald's delivers 24 hours a day. So yes. I like it very, very much."

And boy, does living in New York City spoil you in this respect. At any time of day, if I want onion rings, I can have them delivered to me. If it's 3:15am on a Sunday and I have a hankering for pierogies and a vanilla milkshake, 30 minutes later they will appear at my door. If it's 1:30 in the morning on a Tuesday and I decided to have a little Jason Party in my apartment and get shit-housed by myself and I run out of beer, I can make a quick run to any of the five bodegas in a two block radius and pick up a six pack of my choosing. And god damn do I love it.

Not so in Boston. Beer isn't sold in bodegas and only recently did the entire state of Massachusetts allow beer to be sold on Sundays (now package stores are open from about 12-5 on Sundays). If you plan on getting drunk and you want a pizza when you get home, you'd better be in by midnight, because that's when most places close. After that, you're rooting through the kitchen cabinets making sandwiches of hamburger buns and processed cheese slices (which were surprisingly delicious).

Final score: NYC 4.5, Boston 0.


But still, as I mentioned, I love Boston. It's just that now that I live in NYC, I love Boston a little differently. It's like when you're in high school and you're dating a girl and you think you two are going to be together forever. Then you go away to college and meet a new girl who totally blows your mind and you break up with your high school girlfriend (but still stay friends with her). Meanwhile, you're madly in love with the new girl, even if she is really high maintenance and makes you spend all sorts of money on her. And occasionally you'll go home and see the high school sweetheart and have fun and maybe even feel a little something for her, but you know that you made the right choice with the new girl. Because, even though she can be a total bitch sometimes, you know that deep down, if you asked her to fuck you in a cab, she would do it and wouldn't think twice about it.

God I fucking love analogies.

Friday, March 18, 2005
your emails, part two of two: sexy sexy sexy
I recently got an email from a guy named Tyler who lives in DC. Since I received this email, everything in my life is different. I don't eat the same way, I walk differently, and every girl I see I want to either sleep with right then and there or take to a convent. All because of this email.

However, as I present his email and the correspondence around it, I ask you to bear with me. It’s going to be hard to format this, because it’s a series of emails between Tyler and some ladies and Tyler and me, so it's kinda hard to lay out. But stick with it, and I think you'll enjoy it. I know I have, and Tyler is, for all intents and purposes, my new hero.

About a week ago, Ty sent me this email:

An idea for a future post might be something on bachelor parties...Jason's Guide to the perfect one...a follow-up to your best selling dieting guide, of course.

As now is the time that friends are getting plucked off one by one, I'm sure there are a lot of us out that could use some help.

My friends and I are throwing a surprise one this weekend, and kicking around the strippers vs. strip club idea. To put some feelers out, I decided to post a craigslist ad...and I was shocked at the response. Some of this stuff is great…(see transcript attached.) not as many pics as I would have liked, but what can you do. There is a full nude in there, granted she does look like an 18 year old runaway. But beggars can't be choosers....

Feel free to use any of it on your site...well, maybe don't publish the photos, until I can verify that these girls aren't computer literate and can track my ass down.

It's a hell of an idea. Bachelor parties are quickly becoming an important part of the post-collegiate guy's life. I'm going to be the best man at my buddy Steve's wedding in May of 2006, so I'll have to plan one myself within the next few months. I think I could have taken Ty's idea and really ran with it and produced a top notch post.

But then I saw that "transcript".


The transcript is a seven page word document that contains responses to Ty's ad and some pictures. I don’t think I need any jokes here, because everything pretty much speaks for itself (seriously). First, we'll start with Tyler’s craigslist ad [for those of you who don't know, craigslist is an on-line community, kinda like the classified section of your local paper, where you can find anything and everything]:

Looking for 1-2 fun girls to help entertain a small bachelor party of professional men (age 25-29.) This is kind of a last minute thing being thrown together for this coming Saturday night. Will probably involve a bar crawl, and some partying in a limo.

Please send description and photos if you are interested. Thanks!
Tyler was opting to go for the strippers idea as opposed to he and his buddies going to a strip club. This makes sense: while strip clubs are easier, safer, and guaranteed, a real fucking rock star party would never be held at a strip club - they'd get women to party in the limo with them. Kick ass.

The first series of correspondence is from a girl named Vicki. Her first email to Tyler went:


I dont know if youre looking only for a professional, but I would be interested in this. It might be a little kinky, but I like the idea of entertaining a group of guys.

I am 24 years old and 5'5' 103 lbs with blonde hair, and a 34a-22-34 figure. My photo is attached. I have a friend who might be able to come too, and we stripped and did a bi$exual show together for my ex-boyfriend.

I dont know what price to charge but from what I see here on CL I think $200 might be fair. The agenda is up to you...Im a great dancer, or willing to jump from a cake, or frosted and licked clean, or whatever. Im your s*xy slut for the night.

Silly Vicki messed up attaching her photo, so she quickly fired off another email:


Sorry, I think I might have messed up the attachment. Hopefully it works this time. I sent you two. Hope you like them!

I'm down with whatever you want to do. I've never done this before either, but I'm happy to go along with your plan. I can just get naked and chill out, or I've seen lap dances and I'd like to see how far I can turn on a group of guys. I also have no problem with any touching you want to do, if that's your preference. It's all a big turn-on for me to be a performer for you.

Do you mind if I ask to see a photo of you, or some of the guys who will be there. Since I'm not a pro, I'm kinda doing this for fun and I'd like to do it with guys I find hot. If you're not comfortable with that, there is also a turn-on in stripping for total strangers.

Oh Vicki - such an understanding young woman. Though she asks for some pictures, she is sensitive to the situation and admits that it'd also be a turn-on to strip for strangers. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, Exhibit A as to why I don't want to have any daughters. None. No thank you.

Tyler, gentleman that he is, wrote back:

Hey. Thanks for the pics, you are very attractive.

Understandable that you'd want to see pics of us. I'll send you a link to my Friendster profile. There is a pic under my profile of the 5 main guys who are throwing this thing, including the groom.

I should take this time to interject to say that Tyler was being, ahem, generous when he called Vicki attractive. Maybe it’s me, but I don’t really like that “I’m built like a 14 year-old boy and my mother drank heavily while I was in the womb” look.

At any rate, Vicki's reply:


I'm glad you think I'm attractive. Let me know if you're leaning toward using me, and when you're planning. Also tell me the ideas you have for using me.

If the price is a problem, I can be flexible. I'm sure there is alot of competition, and they probably have bigger boobs! :-) But remember, I'm willing to work it much harder! To tell you the truth, the whole idea of this is getting me pretty turned on, and if it's not going to work out with you guys, I think I'm going to try to find another party.



P.S.-- Which one is you, and which is the groom?
Now dearest Vicki is really going all out for the job, saying she's "pretty turned on" and "willing to work it much harder" (no word on what "it", that which she is willing to work, is, but I'm guessing it has something to do with her heiney). Tyler wrote back a short innocuous email, and Vicki replied:


Saturday night would be great for me. Did you want me to see if my friend could come too? We really did a great lesbian show last year for my ex-boyfriend, and I still have the double-headed dildo we used. She's kind of my opposite, with dark hair and large breasts. She's married now, so I don't think she'd be willing to fool around with you guys, but once she leaves I'm game.

Shoud we plan to meet this week? Thursday night would be best for me. We can meet for a drink downtown. Or maybe someplace more private, where I can give you a preview of the lap dances I'll do Saturday.

WHOA! Hello! Now we're getting somewhere! Vicki's offering to get her friend involved, and even though the friend is married, Vicki is not and she's looking to party! And she's giving out free samples! Holy shitballs!

Ladies and gentlemen, Contestant #1: Vicki.


Now we'll move on to Contestant #2: "L". L writes:

I am interested in your ad.

I'm a 24-year-old professional, and most people wouldn't believe I would answer an online ad. I just got out of a semi-abusive relationship in which my boyfriend continually accused me of being a cheating whore. I never cheated on him, but now that I'm free, I want to celebrate.

About me: I'm 24, 5'5", 120, mixed race, ht/wt prop, but not totally firm all over.

I'm interested in what you think the evening would entail.

Per your req, pic attached.

Ouch - save the intensely personal stuff about the abusive relationship for the therapist, not the guy who's looking to pay you to rub your naked body over him and six of his friends. Geez.

Again, Tyler, the Gentlemen, writes:

Hey, thanks for responding. Sorry to hear about your bad relationship. And thanks for the pic.
Smooth transition - "sucks about the abusive boyfriend, thank you for the picture of you which I will use to decide if you can rub your parts on my parts."

Right now, we're doing research on what's available, how much people charge, and we're trying to come up realistically with what we want to have happen.
I love the vagueness here: "what's available" and "what we want to have happen". Roughly translated, this means "We're trying to find the hottest girl that will have sex with us and/or let us stick things in her." But then Tyler gets more specific:

Basically, we'll probably start the night with a bar crawl in Adams Morgan. We're thinking of incorporating riding around in a limo. Basically we're just looking for fun flirty girl or girls to join the crew.

I'll let you know when I have more details.
Standard issue email really. What was not standard was L's reply:

Well, I will be blunt. I am not interested in just riding in a limo and flirting. I can flirt at any bar at anytime, and you guys can flirt with a million girls at any bar at anytime. I look at this as an opportunity to clear the ex out of my system, if that makes sense. So, if/when you decide how far you want this to go, just let me know, because I am game.

I'm not very good at reading women, but I think L may be hinting at something here, and if my intuition's right, it's love-making. With several guys. Possibly at once. Wow.

And if I ever get a girlfriend again, I'm never breaking up with her. Goodness gracious.

Contestant #2: Lauren.


Our last contestant, Sandra, first emailed Tyler with many questions:

how many men are there? when is the party? where is it located,what area and in a hotel or house? is it hands off for the husband or will he be f*cking me and what not? if so,will all men there want to f*ck? you didn't mention any of this in your ad,please answer.
You have to give Sandra points for being to the point and not mincing words. Also, I'm happy that she doesn't have a potty mouth, something you look for in a woman who's going to rub her cooch on you and your friends.

This was the last entry in the attachment Tyler sent me. I wrote him back a few days later to tell him that a) this is comedy gold and b) I was planning on writing about it in a post. I also inquired as to whether he heard anything more from the ladies that replied to his ad. He wrote:

I know it [is comedy gold].

But, just when you think your having a fun time, you go and get a response like this....

"im 20,not old enough to be in a bar,also i am pregnant,which is why i have no issue doing all the guys because i wouldnt possibly get pregnant if i already am. hope that isnt at all weird,i figured it would be a nice thing to experience for the guys there and for the groom. im 8 months so boucning around in a limo doesnt sound too good,but i would be willing to come to a home or hotel setting. no bars though. and you cant really have sex too well in a bouncing limo right? im 5'4",138 lbs,black/white biracial mix,and the pics will tell the rest. these pics i will send are about a week old,so thats how i look now. please get back to me with any more questions,and a price quote. i wll be back online in about 30 minutes. my name is Sandra."

And while I wouldn't put it past someone like you or me to respond with this ad just to f with someone, she included pics. A lot of them. Let's just say, of the 7 pics she sent, only one was a face shot, there wasn't a single piece of clothing, and she was most definitely 8 months pregnant.

I wrote her back saying something to the effect of "Sorry, we were really looking for a chick who could go to bars and booze with us." It was either that or "Sorry, your water breaking isn't my idea for a suitable lubricant."

And the saddest part, her email is something like Tim_and_Sandy@yahoo.com, so you know her man is all about it.

I need to go to church or something.
Tyler, I think we all need to go to church or something. I don't know if Sandra's email makes me want to laugh, cry, or both. All I know is that I've never thought about having sex with a pregnant woman before, and now I really, really want to try it.

Contestant #3: Sandra the Pregger.


And so it is with relative ease that I announce the winner: Contestant #3, Sandra the Pregger. No, I don't mean that Tyler and his friends hired her for the evening, but I mean that I would. Could you imagine the look on a your buddy's (the groom) face when you get a girl who's 8 months pregnant to show up at his bachelor party and fuck everyone? Could there be any better practical joke? Would that immediately go over as the worst bachelor party of all time?

My only hope is that Sandra is stays pregnant or gets pregnant again sometime later this year so that I can hire her to come to the bachelor party I'm planning.

Me: "Steve, I know you love Kristie to death, but tonight we're gonna have fun. And so I present to you - Sandra!"
[Super pregnant lady walks out]
Me: "Hot, right?"
Steve: [shocked, depanned] "Get the fuck out of my life."
Me: [shrugging] "More mama love for me, asshole!"


Before we wrap up, I should point out that bachelor parties are NOT about banging skanky girls. Sure, my bachelor will be all about this times three, but for the most part, bachelor parties are just about guys getting drunk and going to a strip club. Tyler and his buddies wound up not hiring any of the girls and doing just that. So there.

Now that that's out of the way, what have we learned here?

1) Craigslist is the greatest invention ever, and I promise to spend much more time on there.
2) All of your emails should be a lot more like Tyler's.
3) Pregnant women need love too.
4) I don't want to have any daughters.
5) You should never break up with your girlfriend, lest she answer an online ad and try to fuck seven guys at once.
6) I have pooped at work four times today.

That is all.

Have a good weekend. I will be in Boston and am taking off Monday, so there will not be a post until Tuesday. Until then, Godspeed.

Thursday, March 17, 2005
sick - AGAIN
Happy Fucking St. Patrick's Day - I'm sick, for the second time in two weeks. Sweet.

In a way, it's a good day to be sick, what with basketball and steriods on CSPAN and St. Patty's Day.

But in another way, it's bad to be sick, because I am dying. Seriously. I've spent the morning laying on my bathroom floor, half over the toilet, half in the shower, convulsing. And I'm supposed to go to Boston this weekend (leaving tomorrow) but the only way I can see myself getting on a bus for four hours is if I have a large bucket and a lot (repeat: a LOT) of diapers.

AND it's St. Patty's Day and I don't think I can keep a beer down, since I'm having trouble keeping air down. Damn it all to hell.

So thank you Lord - You are going to pay for this. Big time.

Send some good health and wishes my way, because I've been looking forward to this Boston trip for a long time and would really like to make it.

Now if you'll excuse me, I've been upright for over two minutes now and I'm starting to get whoozy. Be sure to have a pint of Guinness for me because I can't.


Wednesday, March 16, 2005
your emails, part one of possibly one, maybe more
It's everyone's favorite time: email time. Well, I don't know whether or not it's everyone's favorite time, but at least by answering your emails I don't have to think of something to write about. So I like it.

Anyway, enough with the small talk. We have a lot of ground to cover, so let's get right to it.


We'll start with Joy who is "still stuck in fucking Orlando".

I just have one question: if you could bend over far enough to get your bird in your mouth would you still blog?

Also, for some reason I have this picture of you in my head that would resemble closely a large hairy ape/gorilla/baboon double fisting 8 ounce beers and grunting what sounds like sexual innuendos at any female ape/gorilla/baboons that are unlucky enough to wander by.

Also, do you know anyone great with photoshop who could make me a picture that looks similar to this? My desktop is getting boring.


P.S. Your dad sounds hot. I’m thinking about getting a tattoo on the other side of my skull that says “Jason Mulgrew’s dad is hot”. But my head is kind of small, so it would help if I knew his first name, social security number, or any credit card numbers he might use.
First, to answer your question Joy, if I were able to bend over far enough to get my bird in my mouth not only would I not blog, I wouldn't work. I wouldn't bathe. I wouldn't leave my apartment. My life would be split into two parts: when I am blowing myself and when I am not blowing myself. Day and night would cease to matter as time would lose all meaning. Human contact would become entirely unnecessary, as the only point of 94% of my contact with other people is aimed toward catching a beejer (the other 6% is accidental contact or when I'm ordering food).

So I guess what I'm trying to say is no, if I could get my bird into my mouth I wouldn't blog. C'mon. That was a dumb question.

As for the ape comparison, yeah, that's about right. If the ape was wearing a really ugly shirt with beer stains on it, it'd be even better. Also if one time the ape had a little too much to drink and came home and kissed his roommate Ben while he slept, it would be perfect.

And I'll be sure to tell my dad that you think he's hot and I'll give him your email address. He doesn't really know how to use a computer - one time I saw him trying to light his cigarette by rubbing it his computer's monitor - but you never know. As for credit card numbers, etc, my dad doesn't use any of those things, as he has been on the run from the law for as long as I can remember, and he's not about to jeopardize his freedom by using a credit card. I mean, duh.


Nate from Seattle chimes in with a food-related email:

I was watching Conan O'Brien tonight, and he had some chef on his show. Anyway, Conan was fucking around with some of the ingredients and created, what I think, may be one of the greatest sounding dishes of all time - he took a piece of sausage that the chef had prepared, wrapped it in bacon, then deep fried it (but not before adding just a dash of Guinness).

Let me reiterate - sausage, wrapped in bacon, deep fried with Guinness. How fucking awesome is that? I had a hunch that your affinity for sausages might spark some interest in this wonderful creation.

Anyway, I was thinking that this might inspire you to come up with some of your own equally delicious recipe ideas one day if you have nothing to write about. I think the general idea should be to create dishes that will cause heart failure within approximately 3-5 servings.

Just an idea.
Excellent email Nate. Thought provoking and self-destructive at the same time.

Conan's dish sounds great, but it's missing one important ingredient: cheese. Cheese is fascinating to me, because it's sole purpose is too add taste. Meaning it has no nutritional value - sure, it's got some calcium, but otherwise it's all calories and unsaturated fat. Take Conan's sausages (another good band name: Conan's Sausages), put them on a baking pan sprinkled with cheese and bake them lightly so the cheese melts, and NOW we're talking.

I have a dish that I think might fit Nate's criteria. I make it occasionally when I'm feeling depressed (ok, so that's like eight times a week). The dish: Bacon Chicken Parmigiana. And yes, it's as good as it sounds.

It's really simple to make: you have your breaded chicken breast, which I won't get into how to make because it's boring (chicken, eggs, bread crumbs, baking, etc). Now that you have the cooked, breaded chicken breast, you need to add a small layer of spaghetti sauce. Once the sauce is smoothed on the breast (ha!), you can add the bacon. This is where it gets tricky.

Usually, this is how I do it. Ultimately, you're going for layers here, and it's going to be sauce, bacon, cheese, bacon, and more cheese. So for that first layer of bacon, I'll take some medium-crispy strips and lay them across the chicken. Then, add a generous helping of shredded mozzarella cheese to cover the bacon. Bake that for a little bit so the cheese melts over the bacon, letting some additional strips of bacon fry for the little longer for extra crispiness.

Once the cheese has melted, remove the chicken from the oven and crumple up the crispier bacon over top of it, kinda like real bacon bits. And please, don't be shy. Really get into it with these bacon bits, because, after all, it's good for you. Once you're done with this part, add a little more shredded cheese, but don't cover the chicken entirely - you want it to look nice, so that the top layer is bacon bits interspersed with cheese. Throw a little more sauce on for good measure. Put it back in the oven to melt some more. Once it melts and looks all pretty, viola - Bacon Chicken Parm.

[God, I'm fucking STARVING right now.]


Finally, we have Jake from Minneapolis, who poses a great question.

A co-worker and I were talking about a comedian yesterday, Nick Swardson, and one of his bits. Nick said that before he dies, he thinks it would be funny to send a random-ass celebrity a chunk of money and ask them to just make an appearance at his funeral...just to mess with people so they would say stuff like, "Is that John Stamos?! Nick knew John Stamos? How the hell did he know John Stamos?!"

So it invoked the question, if you could send $5000 to any celebrity and have them make a tearful appearance at your funeral, who would it be?

Initially I thought it would be cool to have a supermodel at mine, but I ultimately decided that I wanted Manute Bol to stop by and pay his respects. I'm just curious as to who you might pop in to your funeral.
First, Nick Swardson is an excellent, excellent comedian. I can't watch stand-up because I'm jealous and I think I'm better than everyone else, but there are two comedians who I think are totally fucking awesome: Nick Swardson and Dave Attell. See these comedians, buy their stuff, whatever. They are hilarious.

Second, great question. And while Stamos and Manute Bol are great answers, I think I'd have to take this in a different direction. Instead of getting someone as "big" as Stamos, who would probably cost a good deal of money, I'd rather go after a C-list celebrity, or if possibly, two D-list celebrities.

With this line of thinking, I thought about this long and hard on the subway this morning, and fortunately I had a pen and a piece of paper in my pocket so I was able to write down some ideas (as opposed to my normal routine: thinking up a great idea somewhere during the 50-minute commute, obsessing over it, and then completely forgetting it when I get into work and try to write it down).

So my celebrity would be Thomas Dolby, the guy who sang "She Blinded Me With Science." Something about that song is so hypnotizing, and Dolby is so, so erotically-charged that I'd have to have him at my funeral. I can see it now:

My roommate Ben: "Who the hell is that guy?"
My friend Jeremy: "I think that's Thomas Dolby."
Ben: "Who?"
Jeremy: "You know, the guy who sang that song 'She Blinded Me With Science.'"
Ben: "Really? That's him? What the hell is he doing here?"
Jeremy: "I don't know - maybe him and Mulgrew went to college together or something."
Ben: "I don't think that's possible."
Jeremy: "Do you know if there's an open bar after this?"
Ben: "God I hope so."
Jeremy: "Jesus, I can't believe he's finally dead. I can't say I didn't see this coming, but what was he doing sticking his dick in an electrical outlet anyway?"
Ben: "Dude, don't knock it 'til you've tried it, because it feels pretty fucking good."

I think Dolby would come pretty cheap, so with the leftover money, I'd love to get any one of the following to make an appearance:

- the one-armed drummer from Def Leppard
- Buddy from "Charles In Charge"
- R2D2
- Andrew Ridgely (the other guy from Wham!)
- one of the crappy Baldwins (preferably Daniel)
- Vicki, the robot from "Small Wonder"
- DJ Jazzy Jeff
- 1988 Nobel Prize Winner Maurice Allais (Economics)
- the lead singer of the Fine Young Cannibals
- crappy quarterback Vinny Testaverde
- any major star's brother ("Is that Eric Clapton's brother?")
- Chris de Burgh, the guy who sang "Lady In Red"
- all three members of Bell Biv Devoe
- one of the Jackson 5 (Steve?)
- one of the New Kids on the Block (Danny?)
- one of the Pointer Sisters (the green one?)
- Cousin Larry Appleton

I should stop here, because otherwise I could keep on going forever. Man, I love stealing other people's ideas.

Hopefully I'll be able to get to some more later on, but I can't say for sure. I'm not really good with that whole "making promises and keeping them" thing. It's just how I was raised.

Tuesday, March 15, 2005
got nothing for you today
too busy. get back at you tomorrow.


Monday, March 14, 2005
love, fate, and sanity: a novella
It was the fall of 1999 - most likely October or November, but I can't say for sure. I was a 20 year-old junior at Boston College. I had just come out of a relationship, so I had assumed my alter-ego of Jason Mulgrew: God of Beer and Fuck. Ok, so maybe that's an exaggeration, but I have a history of becoming an absolute masher (masher: one who gets women) immediately after I get out of a relationship. It's strange really, and I don't know how to explain it, and as quickly as it starts, it stops. But for some reason, for about four to six weeks after I get dumped or dump someone, I am on fire.

On this particular night, a weekend night, I attend a party on Comm Ave at the apartment of my high school buddy Matt, who also goes to BC. My friends and I were told to enter the party from the back entrance, but we noticed a line there. Standing in line in front of us are a bunch of BU kids, freshmen, among them a few cute girls. I have my eye on one in particular. She's medium height and thin, with dark hair and blue eyes (I've always been a sucker for dark hair and light eyes). She's got kind of a hipster look to her, something that stands out at a BC party. But her hipster look isn't extreme to the point of being annoying or forced and seems to come naturally to her. She is something. I think to myself, "Oh yes, she will be mine." And then I think to myself, "I don't think I remembered to put on deodorant. Fuck."

My friends and I stand in line for a bit, making chit-chat with the BU kids in front of us, before I realize the ridiculousness of the situation - I don't have to stand in line, because not only am I cool and in a band, but I also know the guys having the party. And so I take my friends and the BU kids (including the girl I think is cute) with me to the front of the line, pull rank, and get in the party no problem.

Now normally, had I not been in my JM:GOBAF alter-ego, I would have followed the cute girl around the party, harassing her with dumb jokes and reminding her that I got her in the party and so she should let me rub her all over, until the climax comes at the end of the night when I get thrown out of the party for crying and masturbating in front of her. But on this night I am JM:GOBAF, so I sit back, plan, and wait. Because I'm in the alter-ego and on a tear, I know I can get this girl. A freshman, from BU, at a BC party? C'mon - it's almost too easy. Even though she was way too cute for me, I was brimming with confidence. When I'm in the zone, it's kinda like what Michael Jordan used to say when he was in the zone: the basket looks as wide as the ocean, and all he has to do is throw the ball up and it will go in. That's kinda like how I feel, except I stink at basketball. And too bad this "zone" only happens to me after a tremendous heartbreak and I'm only able to get to this place because of booze-fueled vengeance, but really, that's not important.

My friends and I take our typical party positions: standing around the keg, making fun of other people and each other, saying "That's gay, dude" and "Shut up jerkoff" a lot. The party is going well. There are a lot of people I know there and the beer is free-flowing. Also, my friends and I had our usual pre-party drinks, so we're all feeling pretty good. Some time passes, and my BU girl comes over to the keg, where I'm standing, all by herself.

This, believe it or not, is a sign, and a good sign. Rarely do people, especially freshmen girls, go up to kegs alone (trust me - anyone who's been at his/her share of keg parties can back me up on this). When I see her approaching, I make sure to shift in my circle of friends so that I'm closest to the keg. She reaches the keg, and there I am. I don't remember what I said to break the ice, but we start talking. Initial contact has been made, and it is good.

So we continue talking. Again, if I were not on fire, I would have spent the time talking with her about how I'm in a band and I'm a pretty awesome bass player. In addition to being gifted musically, I might also mention that I got a scholarship to BC (full tuition) and that I'm going to London in a few months to study abroad. Depending on how drunk I got, I might also say that though my penis is small, it is just and true. And after all, it's not the size that matters, it's whether or not you'll stop when she says "no".

But I'm in the zone, and so I actually listen to her when she talks. Her name is Whitney. She is from Eugene, Oregon and her parents are hippies. She loves BU and Boston and is studying art. She's not sure what she wants to do with her life, but she likes where she's at and is taking it one day at a time.

I am very impressed with her poise and wisdom and the more we talk, the more I become completely enthralled. The topic turns to music, and I ask her who her favorite artists are. She says, "You know who I'm a big fan of but a lot of people don't appreciate how good he is? Elvis Costello."


Well, well, well.

Elvis Costello was and is my favorite artist ever. Hands down. I think he's a genius. I think he's not nearly as appreciated as he should be. And I think I love Whitney.

At this point, I'm floored. I look back at her with a startled expression, and say, "Seriously, which one of my friends told you to say that?" And I mean this. I know Elvis Costello isn't some random underground musician, but there was a certain degree of randomness here, enough to question whether this whole thing was a joke. She giggles and says, "Um, no one told me to say that" and in turn I explain my love of Elvis Costello. In doing so, I'm calculating how much I need to borrow from my family to buy her a ring within the next five business days.

We go further and I ask, "So what's your favorite song of his?" Her answer: "I would have to say 'I Want You'. Something about it is so intense, haunting...so vitriolic."

Good. Lord.

Just when I think it can't get any better, she goes and NAILS it. Just nails it. Let's check The Guide To Jason Mulgrew handbook, page 92, Section 3: "How To Impress The Fat Bastard":

*Properly use the word "vitriolic". Bonus points if you do so in relation to music, specifically his favorite song.

If I was startled before, now I'm speechless. Literally speechless. I remember looking back at her and not saying anything for a full four seconds. Four seconds doesn't seem like a lot of time, but at a party during a semi-drunk conversation, it's an eternity. I took so long to respond because I didn't know what else to say besides, "I want you to come live with me and I promise everything will be ok for the rest of your life. We don't even have to have sex - ever. I just want to follow you around and stare at you." What I finally came up with was something like, "Wow." "Wow" was the best I could do. Smooth dude. What happened to Jason Mulgrew: God of Beer and Fuck? Asshole.

After another two or three seconds of stunned silence, I talk about how I too love that song and then, fearing that if things got any better I would explode, right there, all over the crowded apartment and the cheap furniture, I blurt out, "Listen Whitney, I've never done this before so I don't know if this is how you're supposed to do it, but would you like to go out with me sometime for a drink or food or something or whatever?"

I felt great, as if I had gotten a burden off my shoulders, but her expression betrayed her and she didn't even need to answer because I could see that she was going to say no. Still, she spoke and said, "Well, I would love to, but I can't - I have a boyfriend at home." Damn. Damn, damn, damn.

Here's where things get fuzzy, because I essentially started snorting beer in an effort to get drunk quicker. I remember being magnanimous in my defeat, saying that stuff like "That's cool" and "No big deal". Shortly after this one of her girlfriends came up and said that they (her crew) were leaving. Whitney went and had a little conference with the girl, and then came back and said that she could only stay for a few more minutes because her friends were going back to BU. I don't remember what we talked about, but I remember a semi-awkward hug goodbye. Nor do I remember how the night ended (see: snorting beer remark), but I assume it ended like many of those nights did: with me getting extremely hot pizza, biting it and burning my mouth, dropping the pizza on the ground, and then crying and starting a fight with a tree.

I never heard from nor saw Whitney again, but I never forgot her. Though I will at any time make out with anything or anyone, I rarely actually like women (wow - just when I thought I couldn't make myself more undatable...). Most times, I'll hook up with a girl for a while and then think, "Eh" and just sort of slowly end things. And I rarely get crushes. The genesis of the majority of my relationships has always been "I'm drunk, you're drunk - let's make out" and that sort of ennui always manages to carry over to the relationship and ultimately results in its demise. But with Whitney, for the first time, there was a spark - a glimmer of something beyond the ordinary college-age sexual or "romantic" interaction. But the lesson, as always, is that I lose. Every time.

Fast forward to the present day...

A few weeks ago, my roommate Ben and my friend Jeremy went to Boston for the weekend. I forget why, and I don't really care. They probably told me, but I was most likely thinking about ketchup.

The point is on the bus from Boston to NYC, they meet a girl. They struck up a conversation with her, and she lives in NYC, where she works at an art gallery or something. Jeremy got her number and they planned on hanging out. However, it wasn't a romantic deal, because she had a boyfriend, who was the purpose of her visit to Boston (meaning he lives there).

I paid no attention to this at all. After all, why should I? I heard that the girl lived in Williamsburg and that she and Jeremy (who works in the music industry) talked about music, which meant one thing: she was a hipster. And I don't do well with hipster girls. They are way too intimidating for my tastes. I don't even know how to approach them: "So you're hot, your hair is a weird color, and you like all these bands I've never heard of. I like fantasy sports and drinking Bud drafts in pubs. So do you want me to wear a condom or not?"

And so I carried on, doing whatever the hell it is I do on a day-to-day basis. A few days later, Ben and I were having lunch with a bunch of our co-workers (Ben and I work together, though in different departments). When asked about his weekend, Ben told the story about meeting the girl on the bus back from Boston. He mentioned a tid-bit at lunch that he didn't mention to me before: the girl's name was Whitney.

Immediately, I thought about my Whitney, who also happened to be a cute, hipster girl. And Whitney isn't exactly a common name; maybe it was the same girl? And so the conversation went:

Me: "Wait - her name was Whitney?"
Ben: "Yeah."
Me: "What did she look like?"
Ben: "I don't know - cute. Small. Not too small."
Me: [growing excited] "Did she have dark hair and blue eyes?"
Ben: "She had dark hair, but I don't know if her eyes were blue. They weren't brown though. Blue or green or something. Why?"
Me: [growing even more excited] "Do you know where she went to school? Did she go to BU?"
Ben: "Yeah - how did you know that?"
Me: [sitting on the edge of my seat shaking, other people getting concerned] "Do you know where she's from?"
Ben: "Yeah, she's from - "
Me: [interrupting] "Don't say it! At the count of three, I want you to say it. I think I know this girl, and I know where she's from. To prove this, I am going to count to three, and at three, you and I will both say where she's from at the same time. Ok?"
Ben: [completely freaked out] "Um, ok."
Me: [sweating, vibrating] "Ok. One-two-three -"
Ben: [simultaneously] "Oregon."
Me: [simultaneously] "Eugene, Oregon."
Ben: "What the fuck is going on?"

Whitney. My Whitney (well, someone else's Whitney, but you get it).

I then told everyone at the table the story about Whitney and I and they were amazed. Not amazed in the "Wow - that's crazy!" way, but in the "Wow - you're crazy! You should probably talk to someone!" way.

Meanwhile, my head was spinning. By a strange twist of fate, Whitney, the only girl I had ever felt that spark for, that spark that you hear about in the movies, was back in my life. It was fate. And you don't fuck with fate.

As soon as I composed myself, I ran back to my office to call Jeremy. I relayed the story to him, and he was amazed in the same way my co-workers and Ben were (saying something like, "Dude, that and you are fucked up"). He promised that he would call her about hanging out the weekend and that we'd all hang out. I would be able to see if it was fate that had interceded on my behalf or just the craziest coincidence of my life.


That was about four weeks ago and we have yet to hang out with Whitney. There was a series of voicemails between Jeremy and Whitney but nothing came of them. My hopes were tempered, but they still remained. That is, until this weekend, when through a series of strange events that are too boring to describe Jeremy lost his phone and, more importantly to me, Whitney's number. Gone. Fuck.

So now the current situation stands that unless Whitney calls Jeremy, I will not get a chance to embarrass myself in front of her by having too much to drink, pretending to act cool, and then blurting out, "Um, yeah, I met you at a party almost six years ago and have thought about you since. Will you marry me? If it helps, I am famous on the internet."

So I will wait, most likely in vain, to see if fate brings her back into my life. Sure, I know the odds are against me, but the truth is that I have very little else going on, so I don't have a problem investing a lot of thought and emotion in something like this.

And yes, I know I'm completely insane. At the very least, I have a great band name: Someone Else's Whitney. So all is not completely lost. Most is lost (sanity, pride, my sense of reality), but not all.

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