Everything is wrong with me
Friday, April 29, 2005
tv, crime and punishment, email rules, no music, announcement
Two television shows I've seen recently, with analysis that is both humorous and insightful (hopefully, but probably not):
1) "The Deadliest Catch" on the Discovery Channel. This show is about crab fisherman in Alaska, the ballsiest men on earth. Basically, for about four days a year these guys head out on a crabbing boat deep into the waters surrounding Alaska to fish for king crabs. They can make $50,000 in those four days. Wow.
Of course, there's a catch. In this case, this is the most dangerous job in the world, with the highest occupational mortality rate of any job. And people routinely lose fingers, hands, limbs or otherwise seriously fuck themselves up. The guys lament about the dangers of the job on the show, about how they're trying to provide for their families, and how every time they leave them they're scared because it could be the last time they ever see them.
Here's an idea: why don't you get a normal fucking job? Sure, you won't make $50G's in four days, but you'll make a nice living and won't have to worry about dying in the icy cold ocean, as you swim in vain after your detached arm floating away from you. I don't know - I haven't seen enough of the show - but it seems kinda wrong to me. These guys risk their lives and the welfare of their families to get rich quick? How about not being equal parts lazy and crazy and getting a normal job? I mean, WTF?
At any rate, it's an entertaining show.
2) "Intervention" on A&E. This show follows around addicts of various kinds and tells their stories. The addicts believe that they're taking part in a documentary about addiction and are unaware that they are about to be surprised with an intervention. The show could be subtitled "Intervention: What Will Surely Become Of Jason Mulgrew If He Ever Gets Any Real Cash."
In the episode I saw, two stories were told. One girl, Alyson, was a former White House intern and Ivy Leaguer who met up with a bad guy and became addicted to crack and meth. Oops. And then there's Tommy, a former stock broker and executive VP who spent $200,000 in two years on cocaine was living on the street. Oops again.
And it's some pretty intense stuff. Alyson is so addicted to morphine that she steals her dying father's prescriptions. Yikes. Of course, we know how this ends: the camera follows them and shows how pathetic they are, there's a touching intervention, then they show how the one-time addicts are in recovery and have been sober for 200+ days.
I have two problems with this show:
- It pisses me off that the addicts have families that are well-off enough to send their loved ones to very expensive, fancy-pants treatment centers in South California and New Mexico. Perhaps it's me, but I don't have much sympathy for a rich girl who goes away to college and becomes bad. 200 days at a $15,000 a month treatment facility is not an option for the kid in the Midwest addicted to crank or the crackhead begging for change on the 4 train. For some reason, this really bothers me.
- I thought that seeing a show like this would scare me away from vices and evil (not that I have a problem; as I've mentioned before, I've retired from most drugs). But, like my hospital visit I talked about last Friday, it had the opposite effect: I walked away from this show feeling pretty good about the control of my vices. Since I'm an asshole, my attitude was, "Look at these weaklings - what a bunch of losers! Why can't they be more like me! I have total control over all of my addictions and I'm awesome! Also, I have this awesome fucking blog! I want some drugs because I can handle it! GIVE ME SOME DRUGS!" I don't know, maybe it's just me.
And the next episode features a bulimic and (are you ready for this?) a video-game addict. Hmmm...good luck drawing empathy from viewers for a video game addict, A&E. After hearing this, my roommate Ben and I were talking about contacting A&E. Ben would call all upset, saying, "I don't know...he's been my roommate for two years, but about a year ago he started masturbating and he hasn't stopped since. All day long he sits in the living room and masturbates! [tears flowing] I don't even know who he is anymore!"
So if anyone knows anyone at A&E, put in a good word for me. I promise I can pull it off (pun intended).
Joe from Philly sent this to me. I mean, wow.
I want to go on record and say right here, right now, that if I ever pass out on a couch, you ladies can perform all the oral sex on me that you want and I will NOT press charges. I do so solemnly swear. Seriously.
Joe put it best: "I don't care what SHE looks like, as long as it is a SHE and not a he, I am thinking this man is crazy!" True, my friend, very true.
(And if you can find a picture of this woman, please send it to me - I'd pay to see what she looks like. I mean, I won't pay you if you show me the picture, but you get the point.)
On that note, I love getting emails from you all. I've said this before and I mean it. Many of them are very good, thought-provoking, and intelligent. On the other hand, many of them are not so good.
And so I'm instituting some email rules. I do this because my inbox is getting a little out of control. I'm currently way behind on emails, and every time I check there are more added, so it makes me scared and sad that I can't respond to the good ones. If I were to properly respond to every email I get, it would take me over two hours a night. I can't do that. I have a lot of other things to do (that involve television and nudity).
So in the future, please follow these guidelines before emailing me. Thank you.
(Now here goes me trying to sound like a dick)
- Do not send me one line emails. I don't respond to these anyway, but they also crowd up my inbox. Examples are, "Dude, you rock." Yes, I know I rock. You think I just woke up one day and was magically an Internet Quasi-Celebrity? No, I worked hard at it for at least three weeks there when I really cared about posting. The same applies for "Dude, you suck" or "Dude, you're not funny at all". I'm not saying you can't express these sentiments, don't do so in one line. If you have nothing substantive to say, please don't email me (we can still be friends though).
- Conversely, do not send me long emails. I have a very short attention span and that, coupled with my extreme self-interest, means that I can't read much of anything that a) I didn't write; b) isn't about me; or c) doesn't have boobies or at least a booby playing a major role in it.
- Do not include me on any forwards or group emails. I can't express this enough. When I see "FW:" in a subject line, I delete it without even reading it. The same applies to group emails. Every time I get one of these I want to punch you in the face. I know you mean well, but I am a bitter, bitter man.
- For the ladies and homosexual men: you are not in love with me. You are just at a weird place in your life which you will come out of eventually. But I assure you you are not in love with me. If you really think you are, may God have mercy on your soul.
- And you do not want to marry me. I promise. If you think you want to marry me based on what you've read here, then odds are I will not want to marry you. To paraphrase Woody Allen who paraphrased someone else, I don't want to be in any club that will have me as a member. So since it's just not going to work between us, save me the painful email.
[You know, because I get a lot of those two types of emails.]
- I will not read anything that you send me to read (i.e. an article, essay, or piece that you wrote). I am not a writer. I have an internet diary filled with curse words. I don't know anything about writing or any of that crap, so please don't send me stuff to read. Or, if you do send me stuff to read, be sure to include a donation of at least $20 and I'll pretend like I know what I'm talking about.
- I will go to nothing that you email me about, unless I know you personally. Though I have tons of free time and don't get out much, I like sitting quietly in my room, looking at candles and drinking beer.
[Good lord - it is astonishing how true that last sentence is. So, so sad.]
- To my friends who know my actual email address, please do not email me at firstname.lastname@example.org and then get mad at me when I don't respond to your email in a timely fashion. If you know my real address, use it. God I hate you.
- I can't be pen pal or your email friend. To be honest, I hate emailing. It's too artificial for my taste (I hate talking on the phone too). Aside from that, I've never had a pen pal in my life, so I have no idea what to write about. Also, I'm immediately going into it with a handicap, as you can find out pretty much everything there is to know about me, whereas I don't know anything about you. Since it works, let's keep it this way.
- Help me by emailing me with appropriately titled subjects. For example, if you have music suggestions, write "music suggestions" in the subject line. If you have a question or need advice, tell me so in the subject line. I realize that the contact page does not allow for a subject line, so when possible please email me directly at email@example.com.
[Also, in case y'all forgot, Site Guy Brendan has an email address: firstname.lastname@example.org. You should email him to thank him for ensuring these posts get up everyday and dealing with me on a daily basis, which can be a tremendous stress on anyone.]
And that's it. I'm really digging this "Email of the Week" thing, partially because it gives me a topic to write about, and partially because I feel empowered that people would ask me for advice. So keep those type of emails coming. And, as always, I'm looking for music suggestions.
I don't have Six Songs to recommend, sadly because I haven't been rocking out much over the past week. Spending all of my time wandering around the city looking at apartments has left me little time for downloading new music.
I do however have a correction. Last week I recommended the song, "Madame George" by Van Morrison, but I should have been more precise. The version I recommended is from the album "T.B. Sheets". There is also a version from "Astral Weeks", but that one isn't nearly as good (it's much slower). So there. My apologies for the confusion.
If you have not already seen this, please read it now. Thank you. And I'm sorry.
Thursday, April 28, 2005
ah, the joy of the hunt
As I wrote before, apartment hunting in NYC is a terrible, terrible, most terrible experience. I learned that again first hand this week.
I'm not sure what renting is like in the rest of the world, but things move quickly in the NYC apartment game (I feel like a total tool for writing something as lame as "the NYC apartment game", but fuck it - I'm really tired). For example, on Tuesday morning, you see an ad for an apartment. You see the apartment after work that day and like it. The next day, you and your roommate see it. Thursday, you get together the paper work and money. Friday you sign the lease. Over and done in four days, tops.
And so it (almost) was this week. It all started with an ad in craigslist for a two bedroom apartment in an East Village elevator building with no broker fee (jackpot). Big rooms, amenities, nice pictures, the whole nine yards - all for $2200. My roommate Brian and I were hoping to cap our rent at $2000, as he works in the rewarding-but-not-financially-so television industry and my spending so exceeds my income that I will be forced to declare bankruptcy this summer, possibly sooner. But this apartment looked great and all utilities were included, so we figured we could spend the $2200.
And so I called the broker, Mike. A word about brokers: most brokers are complete scumbags. I'm not saying all of them are, but they are usually not the best people to deal with. They are salesman after all, and only make money when you lease a place. Usually, a broker will get the equivalent of one month's rent when you sign on with one of their apartments (some charge as high as 15% of the yearly rent). So they are looking to get you signed quickly, so that they can move on.
It's hard for me to deal with brokers (and salespeople in general) because their profession is based on deception, manipulation, and self-interest. I'm not saying there's anything wrong with these three things - christ, I could make business cards that say "Jason Mulgrew: Deception, Manipulation, Self-Interest" - but I'm saying that there is a lot wrong with these things when they're being used against me.
And so now about to embark on my fifth year and fourth apartment in New York City, I'm wary of the whole renting process and brokers. I've found that the best way to deal with them (brokers) is to let them think that they've got you hooked. Play dumb. Smile. Always act interested. Whenever I work with a broker I try to be so impressionable and easy going so that when they go home to their spouses, girlfriends, or friends at night, they say, "I met with this fat guy with this bad beard today, and I totally got him. He'll sign anything I put in front of him. And he has this weird old man/poo smell to him. It's gross." The more they think they have you in the palm of their hand, the less they'll be prepared when you turn the tables on them and become aggressive to get yourself a better deal.
I spoke to Mike and asked my two most important questions: 1) Is the apartment available June 1; and 2) does the apartment have a decent-sized living room. He gave an emphatic yes to both questions, and so on Tuesday I went over lunch to meet with Mike to see the apartment. As I suspected, it's in Stuyvesant Town, a collection of 100+ buildings with something like 11,000 apartments on the east side of Manhattan. I had mixed feelings about Sty Town; it looks kinda like a glorified housing project, but it has class (it was built by the government after World War II to house returning soldiers). And there are a lot of old people and families in Sty Town, people who generally wouldn't like fuck ups like myself and Brian. However, for the money it's hard to find nicer apartments, and after seeing the model apartment, I was interested.
For some reason, when you rent at Sty Town they take you first to see a fake apartment - one that's unoccupied but set up with furniture and stuff so that you get an idea of what your place will look like. If you dig that, you come back the next day to see the actual apartments that you would possibly rent, and you must do so with your roommate(s). Just more time-consuming crap to deal with.
And so Brian and I went back yesterday to the Sty Town leasing office to meet with our broker and an leasing office agent to see what apartments we might rent. We arrived at 5:10 for a 5:15 appointment. The office was a mad-house, filled with angry people who had been waiting for some time, and the receptionist was being extremely bitchy to everyone. At 5:45, we were informed that the wait would be "about another hour" but that the office was closing at 6pm. Using my insanely awesome powers of ratiocination, I deduced that they wait (60 minutes) was longer than their remaining hours of operation (15 minutes). When both Mike and I confronted the receptionist about this, he said that it's up to the leasing agents if they'd like to stay overtime and he could only tell them that we'd been waiting.
Eventually, after 6, Brian, Mike and I were seated with a leasing agent. After spending 2.5 hours yesterday afternoon seeing the model and filling out forms and waiting for almost an hour today, we were finally going to see some apartments that might become ours. And so it went:
Agent: "Ok, so you're interested in May 15 move-in?"
Me: "No, June 1."
Agent: "I have nothing for June 1."
This was not good. Apparently, Mike "thought" they had apartments available for June 1, when they only had apartments for May 15 or June 15 move-ins. This meant that we'd have two options: 1) not get an apartment; or 2) get an apartment starting May 15, eating two week's worth of rent to secure our place.
Mike flipped out on the agent, saying that he'd been here every day and so-and-so told him that apartments were available on June 1, etc, etc, etc. I sat in my chair building myself into a sweaty rage and Brian stooped in his chair; I don't think he knew where he was. After ten minutes of wrangling and learning that they only had May 15 and June 15, Mike turned to us in desperation.
This is what Mike said: "Guys, I would strongly suggest you sign right now for the May 15 lease. I'm sure you can swing something with your current landlord where they'll let you not pay your full month's rent for May, as you'll be spending half your time here and half your time at your old place. Also, if you move in on May 15, you can take your time and move in over two weeks and that'll be much easier. Guys, this is honestly the hottest property in Manhattan and if you don't sign tonight it will be gone tomorrow, and you'll regret it for the rest of your life, because you can't get these kinds of amenities in this location for this price anywhere else. Let's go see the place and then come back and sign."
This is what Mike meant: "Look, I didn't do very well in school. After graduating, I stumbled from job to job trying to find my way, while maintaining my two passions: riding my bike and DJ'ing. I started doing this only three months ago and haven't done so well. I live in a very small place in Brooklyn and I really, really need the commission on this rental. I've spent a good amount of time with you, chatting you up and becoming your friends, in order to make sure that you sign and I get paid. Now I need you to sign, and I know you're going to do it, because you're not that bright and I can sell anything to anyone. We'll go see the place, and on the walk there I'll talk your ear off, and eventually you'll get so sick of hearing me that you'll sign only to shut me up."
Brian and I looked at each other and said that since we were here, we'd look at the apartment, even though both of us knew there was no way we were going to pay an extra two weeks worth of rent. Mike almost started crying with happiness, because even though he had either lied or completely misinformed us about the availability of the apartment and had wasted a considerable amount of mine and Brian's time, we were still going to let him hang on.
And so one of the agents walked Mike, Brian and I to the apartment. The agent was a really cool guy named Todd, who, when informed that he'd be showing Mike and his clients an apartment, said, "Oh no - not him." While walking to the apartment, Mike whipped out his cell phone and trailed behind, trying to swing some deals. At that point Todd said, "I didn't mean anything against you guys when I said, 'Oh no' back in the office. It's just that every time this guy comes here, he's always trying to dump his clients on us or weasel his way into something. So no offense to you guys." Sweet - it had been confirmed by a third party: our broker was a scumbag.
At that point, almost on queue, things got quiet and we could hear Mike on his cell phone. I swear on my internet quasi-celebritiness that Brian and I heard:
Mike: [hyper, sleazily talking into cell phone] "Listen, I know your grandfather was important to you, but you've seen how amazing the apartment is. And so I ask you, is it that important? [a beat] I'm sorry to hear that [hangs up cell phone]."
From what I gathered, Mike had been trying to convince a client that his/her apartment signing was more important than his/her grandfather's funeral. I mean, wow.
After that is was pretty much all over. We saw the place, and when Mike jumped down our throats about heading back to the leasing office and signing, I told him that there was no way we were going to do that, especially since he had wasted so much of our time by leading us to believe that there was something available for June 1. He protested, but I said, "This is non-negotiable. Not only are we not going to pay an extra two week's rent, but you also wasted a lot of my time this week by telling me something was available when it wasn't. So no way." Like a child, Mike then turned around and stormed off in the rain, leaving Brian and I there. We laughed. Then Brian had a cigarette. And then I said something like, "My feet hurt." I don't recall exactly.
And so I got fucked and I'm back to the drawing board. I can't wait to pour over craigslist some more, making tons of phone calls to brokers, and leaving for large chunks of the work day, because that's all AWESOME. It's going to be a long month, and I don't know if I'm up for it. Are you sure you guys got nothing for me? I mean, help me out here - I'm dying. Please help. I mean, day after day of fat jokes and not one of you knows someone leaving their sweet East Village two bedroom at the end of May? If you help, I promise I'll be your best friend or never talk to you again, whichever you prefer (presumably the latter). For my wishlist, click here.
God I hate moving.
Duff San Marino
Be like Mike (Vick) and get your own fake name so that you don't leave a paper trail after infecting a groupie with your sexually transmitted disease!
If you have no idea what the hell I'm talking about, read up.
And from now on, please refer to me only as "Duff San Marino". As we speak, Site Guy Brendan is feverishly working on building www.duffsanmarino.com. Thank you for your cooperation.
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
eotw: putting out
This "Email of the Week" comes from Sarah in DC:
Jason,Ah, what a loaded and difficult question: when should you ladies put us for us guys? I'd like to go on record to say that I am in no way qualified to answer this question as I exude the same sexuality as a pile of used syringes and have the same sexual prowess as Benedict XVI, yet that won't stop me from putting in my 2,000 words on the topic.
I've only recently begun reading your blog at the prompting of my friend, Tyler (of Washington, DC "pregnant strippers at the bachelor party" fame). I know that you’re done discussing sexual topics (for at least three days), but I wanted to ask your opinion on an age old question (and hope that I don’t regret asking in the first place).
I’m a 23 year old single woman in DC, as are most of my friends. While I’m perfectly happy hooking up casually at the moment, a lot of my friends are looking for relationships, but to no avail. We often go round and round about the ideal scenario for meeting and dating guys in DC, and there’s always lots of hemming and hawing about how “it’s so hard to meet nice guys, guys are only interested in sex” etc. It seems to me, when my friends do meet guys out, through mutual friends, etc. and actually get the call and go out on a date, it never works out. Oftentimes I’ll blame this on my friends choosing to have sex with the guy too soon, which leads to my question. When is the right time to have sex with a guy that you’re dating?
I’ve had discussions with my male friends about this and it seems that there’s no right answer. I mean, I personally show no restraint, but that’s because I generally never want to see the guy again. However, if you’re looking for things to progress with the dude you’re dating, how long do you hold out? I realize that guys do not want to date girls that they meet at a bar and fuck later that night. That’s not exactly the makings of great romance. On the other hand, I’ve had male friends tell me that they will go out on two of three real dates with a girl, sleep with her, and never call her again. So is there any way to tell if a dude is into you or just looking to get laid? I realize that all dudes are just looking to get laid, and I can respect that. But, you know, people fall in love and get married and shit, and that has to start from something.
I’m interested to hear your thoughts on this.
P.S.- Tostitos are really fucking up there in my book as well. And the queso dip is even more awesome when you mix some salsa in with it.
[And by the way, the first person to send me $100 gets Sarah "I personally show no restraint" from DC's email address.]
Short answer: there is no correct answer. I know this may sound like I'm skirting the issue, but I'm really not. I'm simply saying that each circumstance is different. People do meet in a bar, go home and fuck, and get married and live happily ever after. Some people also meet at church, go out to movies, and never fuck until they get married and live happily ever after. And some people have a normal sex life, especially considering their weight problem, and then inexplicably stop having sex altogether and in a moment of weakness and insecurity start a blog about it that becomes an international phenomenon (at least that's what that person tells himself when he's drunk and it's 4 in the morning and he's waiting for his leftover Chinese food to finish heating in the microwave as he wipes the tears from his eyes). The point is that though you say your female friends go out on dates and “it never works out” or that your guy friends will date a girl, fuck her, and stop calling her, people do get together and fall in love. I promise.
Now that the sappiness is out of the way, I see three questions in your email:
1) When is the right time to have sex with a guy that you’re dating?
2) If you’re looking for things to progress with the dude you’re dating, how long do you hold out?
3) Is there any way to tell if a dude is into you or just looking to get laid?
Let's start with #3, since #1 and #2 are related. You are correct when you say all dudes are looking to get laid. The trick is to differentiate guys who are looking to get laid and those who are just looking to get laid. There is a big difference.
Every guy, when he first meets a girl, is just looking to have sex with her. Any guy who tells you differently is just trying to play the sensitive card, when deep down he’d stick a candle in your ass if you passed out on his couch. No guy ever meets a woman and says, “I would like her to be my girlfriend” in a way that a woman can size up a man's husband potential in three to five minutes. While a woman who meets a guy for this first time thinks, "I wonder if he has any history of disease or retardation in his family, because he could be the one!", a guy thinks, “I wonder how good she is at giving blowjobs?” or "I bet her bush is very well-trimmed".
But the good news is that obviously men are capable of developing feelings for women. And this gets to the crux of the issue: when do genuine feelings wrest the controls away from lust? Hmmm...
Men are not very emotionally intelligent. We know this, and, to be honest, we’re kind of proud of it. We know that we like to have an attractive girl to have sex with, but we also know that we like a cool girl to enjoy the company of. Everything else we’re either not sure of or don’t care to find out about.
And so it follows that when we do come to the conclusion that we have feelings for a girl, we can have a very difficult time expressing these feelings. I needn't get into the culture of manliness and about how feelings are for "pussies", but the result is that men are often not up front with their feelings.
For example, most of my guy friends, if they like a girl, will try to "play it cool". They could be giddy with joy that such a lovely lady is interested in them, but having been scarred by the movie "Swingers", they will still act as though it doesn't really matter and wait prescribed amounts of time before returning calls, initiating dates, etc. After all, one of the best relationship rules taken from a movie that I would rather not name says "We pursue that which retreats from us." Play hard to get, act cool, and the chick will totally dig you more (I'm not saying just guys act this way; women are just as guilty).
[I, on the other hand, can't contain my excitement when a woman seems interested in me. Since it's such a rare occurrence, it's like Christmas, St. Patrick's Day, my birthday, rolled into one, celebrated on a Caribbean island with lots of pina coladas and busty women of ill-repute everywhere. I remember once I went out with a girl to grab some drinks, had a great time and ended the night with a small smooch. That night, I made her a mix CD which I gave her the next day. I was 24 at the time. Needless to say, it didn't work out. God I am so pathetic.]
So here's a novel idea: if you want to find out how a guy feels about you, why don't you ask? Now I'm not saying you should ask a la "Blind Date" during the first date, nor am I saying that you should come out and inquire, "So, um, do you like me?", but there is a time and place for this type of discussion. You have to remember two things about guys: 1) we're clueless; 2) we're impressionable. Take initiative and we will follow where you lead. It's ok to talk about the status of a relationship even if it's in its incipient stages, as long as you do so without sounding crazy (i.e. "I love you" or "Do you think we could get married?" or "Our kids would have beautiful eyes", etc).
But that doesn't answer the question of figuring out if a guy likes you or if he likes having sex with you. For that, I've got nothing. No idea. If I had the answer, I'd be a millionaire. Instead, I have a blog. So let's move onto the sex...
No matter what a guy will say to you, sex changes everything. Everything is immediately different in a relationship (or in an evening) once you have sex with a guy. "Different" doesn't mean bad, though it could be. And "different" does have to be drastic, though it could be. "Different" just means not the same as it was before.
And I'm not going to diss one night stands here. One night stands can be a magical thing really; two people, in a moment, filled with cheap booze, going for it all. There is something sexually empowering about the one night stand in the "we both know this isn't going to go anywhere, but I'm attracted to you, you're attracted to me, so let's just fucking rock out." It happens, it's fun, whatever. I'm not gonna say that it makes guys cooler or women sluttier if they have a bunch of one-night stands, but I will say that my wife will not have had many one-night stands. If I have to hire a private investigator to find this out, I will do so. And I imagine this will cost me a fortune, as the PI will have to fly to Uzbekistan to trace my wife's first 19 years on earth, but I'm really getting off track here...
The bottom line: if a guy likes you, he'll wait. And here's another crazy idea: instead of me saying, "Well you should wait six weeks or six dates before sleeping with him, whichever comes first", I think that if you actually like the guy you should wait until you feel comfortable before you sleep with him. Why rush? If he's a good guy, he'll be willing to wait a little bit.
[Please note: this does not apply to me. I can't wait, frankly because I'm not in very good health. So if you and I start dating, it's very important that you put out as soon as possible, because that might be the last time you see me alive. Last night while watching TV my roommate Brian noticed that I was turning blue and, long story short, turns out I was dead for 28 minutes. Had it not been for my incredible will to get up and get some more jello out of the fridge, I might still be dead now.]
I know that guys are probably pissed at me for saying that a girl should wait and I know that I'm a little conservative, but hey, it's my fucking blog. And so a short story: once upon a time, long, long, ago, I really liked this girl. We had an long courtship, and finally we went out to dinner. We had a great date. We then got some drinks. The girl didn't go to BC (where I was at school) and so lived reasonably far away, so toward the end of the night I put on my best "I really, really would love to sleep with you but I'm gonna pretend like I don't want to" voice and said, "It's late - instead of traveling all the way home by yourself, why don't you just crash at my place?" Sure, it took some convincing (and a fifth of gin), but she agreed. We got back to my place and started smooching, and she said almost immediately, "All right, I'll stay, but no serious making out."
It was a strange thing to say, but good LORD it made my crush on her 10,000 times worse. That one sentence (followed by her actions following through with her statement and not allowing any "serious" making out) made me completely hooked on her, because she wasn't like the other skanks that my roommates and I would bring home, have our way with, and then completely disregard. It was refreshing, not because she, unlike the previous girls I had been with, had morals and self-esteem, but because she was honest and straight-forward. We both knew what was going on but neither of us had the balls to verbalize it until she spoke up. I was very, very impressed. And so I followed her around like an overweight puppy dog for the next month until she realized that I suck and cut things off with me. Also I had a long-distance girlfriend at the time, but that's neither here nor there.
And so that's all I can say: if a guy likes you, he'll wait until you're ready to make the dance of love. Is it unreasonable to make him wait six months before sleeping with him? Oh good lord yes. Hell, after six weeks I'd be asking you questions like, "Seriously, are you gay?" or "I know that you're not attracted to me, but can we please just have sex anyway? I'll buy you stuff!" But F him and only F him when you're ready.
And you're welcome for a very long-winded and mostly unhelpful response.
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
worst employee ever
Me: "Hi, do you mind if instead of having lunch I go check out an apartment? It shouldn't take more than 45 minutes, as it's nearby."
Boss: "Sure, but don't dilly-dally. You know we've got a lot going on."
Me: "Oh no worries - I'll be back in less than 45 minutes probably. You know how it is - meet the guy, see the apartment, leave."
Boss: [to Co-Worker 1] "Have you seen Jason around?"
Co-worker 1: "Nope."
Boss: [to Co-Worker 2] "Have you seen Jason around?"
Co-worker 2: "Haven't seen him."
Me: [rushing into boss's office, exasperated] "Geez, I'm sorry but they had all this paperwork and stuff and I was sitting and waiting and then they said -
Boss: [dead-pan] "Just do [confidential business information] - now."
[If you live in, have lived in, or know anyone who lives in Sty Town, please email me immediately with the subject "Sty Town" sharing your or your friends experiences. Thank you.]
Monday, April 25, 2005
the wedding guest
This weekend I did something interesting. I went to a wedding.
Now normally, I would have told you about this in advance. I would have written at length about going to this wedding, bragged about how many cranberry-vodka’s I’d drink, how there most likely would be some gratuitous nudity on my part, and how I’d generally be an embarrassment to my friends, family, and myself. But this wedding had a twist: I went as someone’s date. Therefore I couldn’t talk about the wedding until it was safely over in case my date and I were no longer speaking after it (something I knew was a 50-50 possibility).
The bride was a relation of my friend Abby. A few weeks ago, Abby and some friends and I were out and I was going on and on about a) how much I love weddings; and b) how great a date I am to bring to weddings (I dance, I’m good with strangers and old people, I get loaded, etc). Unbeknownst to me, Abby had a wedding to go to in a few weeks and after I ended by booze-fueled diatribe, she asked me to go to this wedding with her. Having a completely empty social calendar and always looking to abuse an open bar, I agreed. Also, she's a girl with both her eyes and full use of her limbs who voluntarily requested to spend time with me. Score!
But I have to clear something up. Despite my protestations and better efforts, Abby and I were going to this wedding strictly as friends. When Abby asked me to go, I immediately thought, “This girl wants me to go to a five hour open bar with her and then we’re staying in a hotel room. We are going to have a baby.” But sadly Abby and I are just friends. Several times I thought of either calling the hotel in advance or surreptitiously bribing the concierge to “mistakenly” put us in a room with one king bed as opposed to our reserved room with two double beds, but I couldn’t bring myself to pull the trigger. Crap. I am such a fucking gentleman.
I’m also a veteran of weddings and I understood Abby’s position. While I may not be to ideal guy to bring to a family-type wedding, what with being slovenly and unhandsome and all, I think that if you can ever bring a date to a wedding, you absolutely should. Of course, there are exceptions – the first wedding I went to post-college was that of my old roommate Victor’s, where about twelve guys all went solo and we had a blast (read: I was thrown out of the hotel) – but for the most part it’s nice to have someone to talk to and get drunk with and even slow dance with, so that you can at least come close to convincing yourself that yes, you still do have a penis, and yes, one day you’ll be able to use it again and yes, my god her hair smells like flowers.
And it was a good time. This was the first wedding I went to where I had met neither the bride nor the groom in advance, but it really didn’t matter. It was a small wedding with an intimate feel, and though I was admittedly uncomfortable at first, this was nothing that a few extra Anchor Steams and vodka-crans couldn’t take care of. And the entrée was spectacular...filet mignon AND shrimp stuffed with crab meat. Heaven!
And I believed that I lived up to my billing as “greatest wedding date ever” and am pretty sure that if Abby’s not already in love with me, she will be in a matter of days, if not minutes. I made pleasant conversation with strangers and other wedding guests, not once letting out that my hobbies include masturbating in unlocked cars and school gymnasiums, throwing punches in the air, and hatred. Believe it or not, I have a pretty good line. I have a fancy job title and a nice suit with an expensive tie and I can really look presentable when I need to be. This incredible talent for deception is probably the thing I love most about myself, aside from my powers of manipulation of course.
However, I’d be naïve to think that the night would go off without a hitch, and there was a minor bump in the road when Abby learned that I had smoked pot with the wedding photographer, but this was not a big deal. Let me explain. The wedding was held at this nice lil' church, and within walking distance through some lovely fields was the reception hall. Immediately in front of the entrance to the reception hall, there was a giant tent set up where guests had cocktails and appetizers before being seated. There was a bar in this tent, and this would be the only bar at the event, so that each time you wanted a drink you had to step outside the hall into the tent (this sounds like a pain but it really wasn't).
Because the bar was out there and because it was partially outside and thus cooler, fringe groups, looking to escape the madness of the reception, started developing in this tent area. Also present in this area were the heavy drinkers (I'm looking in my direction when I write that). Since I was both a fringe guest and a heavy drinker, this was a natural place for me to hang out.
Among the regulars in the tent were the photographer and his crew. His crew consisted of two unfriendly people my age, but the photographer himself, who had the longest rat tail I've ever seen, was a decent guy. While I was drinking a beer just outside the tent and he was secretly sipping a vodka tonic, he said, "I know something that'll liven the party" and lo and behold, he pulled out a joint. Como se dice "jackpot"? We took a short walk into the nearby woods (I'll thank you in advance for not pointing out the homoerotic overtones here, as I walked half-drunk in the darkness with a middle-aged man with a rat tail to get high), but it only took a minute and it wasn't especially potent. After a few tokes and a few semi-awkward minutes, we rejoined the wedding party.
[I re-read the last few lines of that paragraph and it definitely sounds like we were involved in some sort of bizarre sex act. That was not the case, I assure you. Not because I wasn't up for it, but because he's married. So there.]
Apparently, when I found Abby I still smelled a little like marijuana, so as soon as I confessed to Abby that I did smoke a little ("What are you, the wedding party's narc?"), she rushed me outside to "air out". I was exiled outside for quite some time, as Abby left to rejoin the party and left me to get the pot smell off myself. I stood outside for a few minutes, got the scent off me as well as I could, and went back in. No harm, no foul.
The rest of the night was fun but uneventful. After the ceremony, we went back to the hotel bar for some drinks, and then retired for the evening. And I was on by best behavior back in the room. Actually, I'm not sure if you can say I was "well-behaved" or just "really drunk and super tired". Probably the latter.
And that's that. It's funny because years from now, when the couple is looking at their wedding pictures, they'll see me and say, "Who's this guy? He looks high." And the response will be one of two things: "Oh, he's that famous guy" or "Oh, I think he's dead now." Well, it could also be both, but probably option #2.
So what have we learned?
- bring a date to a wedding if you can, except if your date is me
- open bars are great (duh)
- "surf and turf" may be the three most beautiful words in the English language
- if given the opportunity, smoke pot with the wedding photographer and then write about it in homoerotically-charged terms
- I really want to get married
Friday, April 22, 2005
no EOTW, crazy monkeys, bad crap, hospital bills, music
This week, I got a wonderfully thought-provoking email from Sarah in DC and I knew immediately it would be the perfect "Email of the Week."
However, because the question is both extremely broad and extremely important, I am not able to give a satisfactory response at this time. I'm up to about 1500 words and there's no end in sight. And I'm not slacking either; realizing how important it was, I actually (gasp!) wrote some last night. But still I couldn't finish it. Fuck.
So therefore, I'll be posting it next week. I'm sorry, but I'll make it worth your while, if you catch my drift (wink wink).
This is so awesome I don't even know what to say.
All I ask is that before I die, something like this happens in New York City. This way I'd have something cool to tell my mom when she calls to see how my day is going: "Well, I got off the subway, and it was crazy - apparently, a bunch of monkeys, like hundreds of them, drank this alcohol made from pot and were fucking wasted and running all around Wall Street. A couple attacked me and one tried to suffocate me with a trash bag, but the good news is that since they were so fucked up, they fought real sloppy and I killed like fifty of those bastards with the shiv I bring to work every day. Also, one lady got her shirt ripped off by the monkeys and I saw her boob. So it was actually pretty cool in the end. How are things with you?"
And another chimp article.
My question: I understand the zoo visitors are throwing the chimp cigarettes, but how the fuck is the chimp lighting the cigarettes? Do the visitors throw him a lighter or does he have a zippo of his own? Or does he pick up matches on his occasional visits to the convenience store? I just want to go on record and say that I don't think we should be giving chimps any sort of flammable device. Could you imagine if the monkeys in the above article had the power of fire at their disposal? Half of India would be burned and we'd have to send in troops. So please, keeps all matches and lighters away from monkeys. Thank you.
(And thanks to my buddy John for both links. I don't know if he has a monkey fetish or what, but I'm definitely creeped out.)
Speaking of emails, my buddy Dave emailed me today (the subject of the email was “THE TRUTH”):
Correct me if I am wrong - but you are the WORST prognosticator EVER. Looking over your blog you state that the entire league should call it quits for the '04 MLB season because the Yanks got A-Rod. Boston went on to win the series that year. You also pointed out that Curtis Martin was old and washed up - what did he do? He won the NFL rushing title that year. You lobbied for John Kerry and the Philadelphia Eagles - result - 2 losses. You raved that Randy Johnson will be great with the Yanks and even picked him as the number 1 overall fantasy pick - HE STINKS THIS YEAR!I called Dave after receiving this email, and he pointed out some additional things: my birthday party was a disaster, having been held in the middle of July at a bar with a broken air conditioning system; I made a terrible decision by moving from the Lower East Side to the Upper East Side which I’ve complaining about weekly since last June; and I got maced by some Asian kids last time I was in Boston last month. This is all true. Sad and true.
Please no matter what you do - never write anything about me or my family on the blog. Please refrain of thinking of me or my family. You are a jinx and I hope that you do not ruin anyone else's career who you constantly plug on your blog.
So maybe you guys asking for links should reconsider. OR maybe Dave should just shut the fuck up, because I’d like to point out that I’m currently in four fantasy baseball leagues and I’m in first place in all of them (yes ladies, all this can be yours). Additionally, I participated in three NCAA tournament brackets this past March, and won one (no prize money), came in second in another (won $12), and didn’t place in the third (entry fee: $50).
So suck it. My luck is fine.
For the most part (I mean, there is a reason why this site is called "Everything is wrong with me" - assholes).
I received a wonderful piece of (regular) mail this week: a $427 bill from St. Vincent’s Hospital in Chelsea for emergency room services rendered.
Without going into too much detail because my parents are probably reading this (Mom, at least you know by now that I’m not gay), a slight narcotics-induced incident brought me to the emergency room last February, a week or two before I started this blog.
[Actually, this incident caused me to start this here blog. Because I thought I was dying, I said, “Damn, I’d better do something meaningful. Hey, how ‘bout an internet diary? That sounds cool and totally original.” And here we are.]
[Actually, I just made that up - that’s a total lie. My hospital visit didn’t inspire to start this blog. The visit to the hospital had a reverse effect: I had done a lot of bad things to my body, specifically my liver, heart, and nervous system, and I thought the doctors would say, “Damn, you gotta stop with that shit because you’re in bad shape.” Instead, they said, “Damn, you’re really fucking healthy, and there’s absolutely no way that should be possible.” Jason Mulgrew: Indestructible.]
Anyway, so I just got this bill for $427. I know that my insurance would cover this, as I accidentally picked the most expensive insurance last year to the tune of $3000 out of my checks, so I’m sure there’s some insurance mix-up. But now an epic battle is being waged in my head, and no, I’m not talking about the “C’mon, let’s just give one handjob to see how we like it” one. It’s laziness vs. cheapness.
Like I said, I’m sure my insurance would cover this bill. However, I can’t express how daunting calling an insurance company is (though I have absolutely no evidence to back this up). Instead of trying to get through all the red tape, speaking to ten different insurance reps over two weeks, and being on hold for a combined fifty-odd hours, I could easily write the check to the hospital and forget the whole thing.
However, I am broke. Not broke like those people who talk about how broke they are but then eat out every night and buy all sorts of goodies, but broke like I went to the dry cleaner yesterday and my debit card was declined so I had to take my clothes back to my apartment and get them cleaned the next day after I borrowed some cash from my roommates. And I don't get paid for seven days. That's broke.
So we're at a crossroads. On the one hand, there is unconscionable laziness. On the other, there's destitution. More to come as this drama unfolds...
The moral: stay away from drugs. Or do all the drugs you want, but don't go to the hospital, because it's as expensive as a mother fucker.
Yeah, I like that second one better.
“Saint Dominic’s Preview” Van Morrison
Van Morrison is so much better than you realize. His greatest hits, which are often poppy and/or saccharine, do not best represent his music. If you want to listen to the real Van Morrison, buy three albums: 1) “The Story of Them Featuring Van Morrison”; 2) “Moondance”; and 3) “Saint Dominic’s Preview”. Now here’s the tricky part – skip the songs you’ve already heard. Van fucking rocks, especially on this smooth and funky number, which will have you pounding your fist in the air, singing along. I am very serious about this. Just trust me.
And while we're at it...
"Madame George" Van Morrison
Simply put: the best song about a drug-dispensing transvestite brothel owner ever (in English - there are some beautiful Russian ballads on this subject). I love this song because it sounds like it was recorded in the same brothel that it talks about: lots of background noises, Van starts the song by yelling at someone, people yell throughout the song, etc. Fucking cool.
"Question" Moody Blues
My roommate Brian and I have a term for music like this: Asshole Rock. You know what I'm talking about: poetic lyrics that are terrible and awkward, big sweeping string accompaniments, some asshole with a thick British accent crooning, etc. The Moody Blues are the quintessential Asshole Rock band (another that comes immediately to mind is Procul Harem). I actually hate this song, but I think it's so ridiculous I figured I'd mention it.
"Why Can't This Be Love" Van Halen
I realized something recently that I never thought possible: I am a Sammy Hagar guy. For years, I thought I preferred David Lee Roth, but maybe because I'm getting older, I'm leaning more toward the Sammy songs. Also, the longer I go without sex or even heavy petting, the more sentimental I get. Songs like "Why Can't This Be Love", "When It's Love", "Don't Tell Me What Love Can Do", and "I Can't Stop Loving You" appeal to me more than "Hot For Teacher", "Panama", "You Really Got Me" and "Jump". But since I can't do anything about it, I have but one choice: revel in it. So bring on the Hagar tunes.
Possibly the worst song ever written. As a matter of fact, I don't think it's even close - this is the worst song ever written. And yet when I was ten it was the greatest thing to have happened to me up to that point in my life. And I still kinda like it, especially when Prince moans, "Oh yeah, oh yeah/I wanna bust that body" over the Vicky Vale part. God he is a sexy bitch.
"You're Only King Once" Beulah
This songs makes me want to walk around in a leather jacket on a gray day, thinking about my black girlfriend, who just broke up with me because I spent all the money I earned on my last acting job, a commercial for Dove, on expensive vodka, fine linens, and this fucking leather jacket. We'd only been dating for six weeks, but it was intense, passionate. We didn't care what people thought about our relationship - her, a Nubian princess who sang jazz and cooked Creole food, and me, a fat Irish Catholic who took bit parts in commercials because he needed fame to make up for his tiny, baby-sized bird - because when we made love the universe shook. And now she's gone, all because my concupiscence for the flesh and fine clothing knows no satiety. Sad. Sad indeed.
That's not at all what the song is about, but that's how I interpret it. That's the beauty of music.
[Have a good weekend.]
"hungover posts about women's body parts"? (scroll down...keep going...keep going...there you go)
After 700 pages, 300,000 words, and a greatest hits that has earned me such acclaim as:
- "This generation's Aldous Huxley." - Jason Mulgrew, January 12, 2005, to bar patrons at Iggy's Keltic Lounge
- "Like Charles Bukowski, but with bigger words and much smaller talent." - Jason Mulgrew, August 2, 2004, looking into mirror while on drugs
- "The greatest living American warrior-poet with full use of his legs." - Jason Mulgrew, now, specifically for this post
my entire work is encapsulate with "hungover posts about women's body parts"? I mean, wtf?
Thus begins my long and contentious relationship with the press. And least now I can adjust my bio to:
Jason Mulgrew, founder of everythingiswrongwithme.blogspot.com and www.jasonmulgrew.com, grew up in South Philadelphia. After earning his degree in history and drinking a shit-load of chocolate milk at Boston College, he moved to New York City to pursue this life-long dream: playing Raoul in the Broadway production of 'The Phantom of the Opera.' When that failed, he started writing on the web and is now a certified 'Internet Quasi-Celebrity.' His award-winning website has been featured in the NY Daily News and other famous newspapers and magazines and stuff.So I guess not all is lost.
Jason enjoys painting and stabbing people when they sleep and one day hopes to open a ranch to breed racist dogs. He has two children, Justice, 9, and Cody, 7. They don't care very much for their father, nor does he care for them.
(Thanks to Autumn - in Canada, of all places - for facilitating this. Apparently, the NY Daily News is huge in Canada. Go figure.)
Thursday, April 21, 2005
idiocy at its finest
I don't like anyone else's blogs (mostly). I don't read them because I don't care what's happening with you. I'm sorry, but it's true. Sure, I'll peruse, and I'll think either, "Why does the writer of this blog think people care about his recent trip to the grocery store or about how her niece is eight months old today?" But then I realize that not everyone is whoring themselves out for attention in an effort to rebuild their shattered self-esteem, and I calm down. Live and let live.
Then I'll read some of the "popular" blogs (i.e. blogs that get more or comparable hits to mine) and I'll think, "Good LORD - I'm so much better than these people (mostly), I want to explode. I don't give a shit about you and your hipster friends or your baby who looks like a monkey. Why do people read this crap? I mean, really? 20,000 hits a day? Am I missing something?" But then I realize that at this point fame is only months away for me (and if not fame, death), so I calm down. And I take some prescription pain killers. And I zone out. It's great.
But there are some blogs I enjoy. If there's one thing I've learned from building this soon-to-be-released links page, it's that there is some really funny shit out there. Not a lot, but a lot more than I thought.
I discovered one blog recently that has blown me away. It's titled "I Gargoyled". The description on the site says it all:
What is a Gargoyle? The Gargoyle is the exquisite art of shitting and throwing up-at the same time! Why did we choose to name this coordinated act the Gargoyle? Just ask any Ivy Leaguer or a Medieval cathedral frequenter-the pained facial expression and otherwordly squat posture found on stone Gargoyles exactly matches the facial expression and doubled over bodyature of an individual in the throws of crapping and barfing simultaneously. There are many varieties of Gargoyles!The blog then goes on to list all types of Gargoyles, complete with pictures, rankings and analysis, and some of the dumbest comments I've ever read in my life. I hate to say "genius", because I reserve that word for myself, the guy who created those awesome "Can you hear me now?" commercials, and any woman that I talk to at a bar for more than six minutes -
Drunk girl: "So yeah, I don't know...I'm just trying to figure out what I want to do with my life. Oh! I really like that show 'Meet the Barkers' - have you seen it? It's totally cool and so, so funny. The baby was a mohawk like his dad, the guy from like Bon Jovi or something! He is sooo cute!"
Me: [drunk, not listening, eyes half-closed but staring at her boobies] "I think you're a genius."
- but it's pretty fucking good. My favorite is the "Show Stopper" of 4/14. Be warned, it's possibly the dumbest shit I've ever read (and I've read some pretty dumb shit), but it's kept me entertained all morning/afternoon and is the reason why you all are not getting a proper post today. Check it out at http://igargoyled.blogspot.com/
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
now THAT is fucking journalism
Following up on my previous post, the following lead comes from an article on philly.com. Though the headline of the article is a lame "Goode kin held in attack" (referring to former Philly mayor Wilson Goode), check out the opening:
Riding a high from heroin, Xanax and crack cocaine, James Goode, nephew of former Mayor Wilson Goode, allegedly smacked around a naked woman strapped to a chair and hit her in the head with a hammer.Now that's how you grab your readers. Heroin, Xanax, crack cocaine, smacked, naked woman, strapped, hit, and hammer are all awesomely descriptive words. I mean, how can you not keep reading? Please read the article. It's at once hilarious and terribly sad. But more hilarious. And thank you philly.com for coming through for me.
Man, I should be a writing teacher or something. Or maybe I should stop reading articles on the internet and actually do some work that pertains to my real job. Whatever.
This article's headline is WAY better than the article itself. When I saw "Elephants rampage through Seoul", I expected truckloads of Koreans trampled to death, cars being flipped by insane, angry elephants who may or may not be breathing fire, buildings burning, and chaos everywhere. Instead I get:
Television footage showed the elephant at one time standing in the small garden of a houseand one woman who got hit with an elephant trunk. WTF? Really elephants? This is the best you could do?
Also, kudos to the landlord of the woman who got hit for his intense recounting of the incident:
"She fell, and I ran away because I was scared," said Roh's landlord, Lee Hye-ja.I don't know if this guy's a full-time landlord, but I'm guessing The New York Times and National Geographic will be beating down his door shortly to hire him asap. He just witnessed an elephant charge and all he's got is, "She fell, and I ran away because I was scared?" Nothing about the anger in the elephant's eyes as he lumbered toward the small, terrified woman? Nothing about how time stood still as one ton of mass charged recklessly at the unsuspecting woman screaming bloody murder? Nothing about how the entire scene unfolded in less than three seconds but it felt like an eternity and he was sexually aroused by the whole thing? Jeers to you, Lee Hye-ja. Jeers to you.
One minor injury and an elephant in a garden does not a rampage make, CNN. Assholes. Way to get me all excited just to let me down. Might I suggest the headline, "Elephants get loose in Seoul, disappoint fans of rampages" or "Elephants escape, meander in Seoul" or "Elephants escape from zoo, just sort of hang out." Any one of these are better than your headline. Thank you, and you're welcome.
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
six things you need to know
1) I am hungover. Big time. I'm actually pretty sure I'm dying. If I were a doctor (which I'm not, even though I occasionally tell women I meet at bars I am), I would guess that I'm already about 70% dead. Every time the phone rings it's like I'm being stabbed. Every time I breathe my chest hurts. When I stand, I need to sit down immediately. When I sit down, I need to lay down immediately. When I woke up and peed this morning, I peed Guinness. I am in bad, bad shape.
An example: in the morning, I take either the 4 or the 5 train to work. They are almost the same train, running along the same tracks with the same stops, the difference being that while the 4 train goes deep into Brooklyn, the 5 train terminates at my work stop (sometimes - I needn't bore you with the details). The first train that came this morning was a 4 train (the one that goes into Brooklyn), but even though there was room on it I didn't get on, because I realized that there was a 50-50 chance that I'd fall asleep on the train, miss my stop, and end up somewhere in Brooklyn. Instead, I waited for the 5 (the one that terminates at my work stop) and took that to work because if I fell asleep (or more appropriately, "passed out"), at least I would be awoken by the conductor at my stop. That's a pretty good sign that you are having a rough morning.
[Fortunately, I didn't fall asleep on the subway: I was too busy riding a rollercoaster of emotions while listening to my iPod. I nearly cried when listening to "We Are The Champions". When Rod Stewart's gorgeous version of "The First Cut Is The Deepest" came on, I started shaking with sadness. I was saved by Sheena Easton's "My Baby Takes The Morning Train", which had me chuckling to myself as people stared at me in wonderment. I don't really know if "wonderment" is a word. Maybe it's just "wonder". I don't know.]
The point is that I drank enough this weekend to kill a small-ish adult or a full-sized Amish person. And it was pretty fucking awesome.
2) On Sunday night and last night, I've had four girls staying at my apartment, friends from Philly in town for a hairstylists' convention (they are all hairstylists). I gave them my room and bathroom and I've been sleeping on the couch and defiling my roommates' bathroom. As a thank you, they took me to Pastis last night for dinner. Being hungover from Sunday, I wanted to do dinner 6:30 or so so that I could sleep well and be rested for work today. Reservations were made for 9:30. After dinner at 11, we went to have "one" drink. At 11:30, we decided to get one last one before calling it a night. After about eight "last" drinks, we got home around 3:30 in the morning, and only left the bar because the bartender shut off the lights in our section. Hence #1.
3) I'm developing a dangerous taste for dessert drinks. I'm not talking about port or dessert wine, I'm talking about alcohol that tastes like dessert. I've been drinking a lot of Sam Adams Cherry Wheat, a delicious beer that satisfies my post-meal sweet tooth and my desire for alcohol, and last night I had a shot called "Chocolate Cake" for the first time, and I kid you not when I say it tasted exactly like chocolate cake.
I can not understate the potential destructiveness of this development. My two main vices are sweets and booze. To combine them would be dangerous, if not fatal. I barely lived through it when I started adding crumbled up Double Stuff Oreos to my Cookies 'n' Cream ice cream, nearly sending myself into Oreo overdose. But booze and sweets...I don't even want to think about this anymore. Let's move on.
4) I was supposed to meet my friend Heather for drinks tonight. However, due to my condition, I will not be able to do so. Rather than be honest with her, I emailed her and told her I couldn't meet because "work is crazy". Heather will most likely read this. I am sorry Heather. I am truly undeserving of your friendship, and I am a coward. Please forgive me. I am weak.
5) Three of the biggest scumbags I know are in medical school (of course, I use "scumbag" lovingly - I am a scumbag too and I'm pretty awesome). One example: my buddy Cuse from college (so nicknamed because he was from Syracuse). He regularly referred to himself as "The Kid" and would talk ad nauseum about this mental, athletic, musical, and romantic capabilities. For example, he was a member of our college softball team, Iron Sheik. Cuse played shortstop and I played third. When a routine grounder would be hit to me at third, Cuse would dart over from the SS position, call me off, and make the play (and admittedly, would do so well). Then, after making the play, he'd say something like, "You know baby you can go relax if you want - The Kid will cover this whole side of the infield" as I shook my head in confusion. Yet he was one of my closest friends in college, and once you got to know him he was a great guy. But still a scumbag. And now he's studying to become a doctor. God help his poor patients.
I met another scumbag who's studying to become a doctor, my buddy Jeremy's friend Chris. A bunch of us went out on Saturday night and got shit-canned, and I watched Chris drink a bottle of Bud in about three seconds and then have about ninety more. I think he suddenly disappeared at the end of the night, but I really can't verify that. Congrats on med school Chris, you magnificent son of a bitch.
6) I would love to write more, as I have more to say, but I simply can't. Go read about the new pope instead. And pray for me.
Friday, April 15, 2005
Fridays are always my busiest day, and this Friday is no exception. The result: no long post.
And not only that, I'll be out of the office on Monday, so there will be no post Monday either. I know, I know, I'm slacking, but there's that whole "apathy" thing that I've got going on, so I won't lose any sleep tonight. And if you feel the need to be so entertained, drop me an email and for the modest sum of $240 I will come to your home and have awkward conversations with you for a few hours. When you go to the restroom I'll rub my scrotum on household objects. Then when you return, I'll try to kiss you. It will be even more awkward.
In the meantime, have a good weekend, and those in Boston, be sure to enjoy the marathon on Monday. I loved the Marathon when I lived in Boston: a bunch of drunks screaming at people in great shape. What a weird scene.
And wish me luck as I start my apartment hunting this weekend, which entails me walking around desirable neighborhoods with a notebook and cameraphone, taking pictures and notes about apartments I can't afford. Also, there's a good deal of sweating and cursing involved, but I don't need to get too into detail here.
See you Tuesday.
Thursday, April 14, 2005
no mo' formula, taxes, EOTW, books and jealousy, music, strings, link
I'm going to have to put an end to all emailing about the astonishing scientific discovery now simply known as "the formula". The emails I got/get regarding this were/are overwhelming, especially for someone who's already pretty terrible at answering/organizing emails (lot of slashes in that sentence). I'll summarize what you all had to say about it in two points:
1) It's static: it doesn't take into account age, and only works for a women in their mid-20's. Yes, I know. Admittedly, I didn't think about this before posting it, because I know that me and my friends are in our mid-twenties and that's really I care about (well me, not my friends so much - unless they owe me money).
I don't know how to adjust this, and I don't care to. What is know is that when I put a lot of girls who I knew into it, it came back with highly accurate results. For every person who wrote in making an amendment to the formula, three people wrote in saying how amazed they were by it, including a number of female readers who said, "I put myself in the formula and it worked. Damn." So step off.
2) It's limited in scope: it's has a small sample of test cases or subjects (mid-twenties, college-educated, middle class, etc). Well, duh. I'm sure the numbers would be skewed if we took into account those living in the scary neighborhoods of the Bronx or the trailer parks of the South, because as we all know, poor people have lots of sex (I know - I was once poor) . One person emailed saying there should be a geography element, i.e. NYC/LA (and other big cities) vs. Midwest vs. Bible belt compounded with class status poor vs. middle income vs. rich.
I mean, seriously, come on. Upon reading all of these emails, one of my favorite movie quotes of all-time came to mind: "best leave it unsolved" (courtesy of Nigel Tufnel). While the formula isn't perfect, I think we can all agree that it's pretty fucking good. So please, no more of your additions, subtractions, evaluations, or simplifications on the formula. I can no longer read them without having a mini-seizure.
[The one good thing about the formula was that it deflected some criticism from me and the post I wrote the day before, in which I basically said that any woman who's slept with more than zero men is an unconscionable whore. Kat from Boulder called me out on part of that post, writing, "i'm just thinking, wouldn't it be kind of unwise to further limit the pool of girls you would sleep with? i mean, if adriana lima blew your ten best friends, your brother and your dad right in front of you, would you really turn her down?" You totally got me, Kat. Damn.]
It's my favorite time of year: tax season. While many of my friends are frantically rushing to get their taxes done and getting all kinds of stressed out, yours truly managed to get all his tax crap taken care of weeks ago.
I don't know shit about taxes and I can pretty safely say that I will never do my own taxes. It's just not gonna happen. In this spirit, I've been going to a lovely little Nigerian man named Ezekiel at my local H&R Block. And let me tell you something, this man is my hero. Sure, I have to pay him $290 to do my taxes, but he gets me back a good amount of money, which will ostensibly go straight up my nose.
The funny thing is that when you take your taxes to H&R Block, you sit there in total silence with the accountant as he types away and goes through your forms. Occasionally, he'll ask a question, and I'm always not sure how to answer. For example:
Ezekiel: "Did you donate any money this past year?"
Me: [knowing I've donated nothing] "Um, some I think."
Ezekiel: "How much?"
Me: [trying to gauge Ezekiel's reaction to a potential lie] "I don't know...maybe like $150?"
Ezekiel: [typing away, accepting it as truth] "Ok."
Another question is "Did you donate any clothes to the homeless?" I want to grab lil' Ezekiel and say, "Dude, look. I want to get back as much money as possible, ok? So just tell me how much I should tell you I've donated and that's what I'll say. I don't donate shit because I don't have shit. But if saying that I have will help me get more shit, then I'm down. So I guess the answer is 'yes - a lot.'"
Now I just have to carefully manage my bank account until that refund check comes, and then when it does, immediately spend it on something I can't afford. Nice.
A short, non-controversial "Email of the Week" from Meg in Arizona:
You know when you wake up and then go back to sleep and have one of those freaky, weird ass early morning dreams? Anywho, this morning I had a total freak show dream with you in it.Ok, I'll take this. While I don't particularly like Drew Barrymore (can you stop talking out the side of your mouth already?), any action I get, whether it be in real life or in the dreams of someone I've never met, is welcome.
In it, I had this enormous house and it was the morning after an colossal drunken party (is there any other kind?). I am walking down my driveway when I see this huge, red furry pile. It is a Mastodon-sized red Snuffleupagus outfit. Curled up asleep (and very naked) in the trunk portion is Drew Barrymore. I wake her up and all she can remember is that she got wasted and then totally ground out by the guy in the Snuffleupagus outfit. I look over and there you are (my subconscious idea of you), looking like a gargantuan Cupid sans the bow and other weaponry.
I thought you would appreciate that you nailed Drew Barrymore although I wonder why your day job was with Sesame Street…
My only problem with this is - why don't I have dreams like this? I only have nightmares about Bell, Biv, Devoe fighting a monster in my bathroom while my sister sings the blues and yet people I don't know are having sex dreams about me and celebrities. I mean, damn.
[Editor's Note: "ground out", a term I was previously unfamiliar with, means, in Meg's words, "railed the shit out of".]
1) I have a terrible crush on a girl right now - one of those "I don't know what to say around her and I'm sweating and I feel like I'm gonna throw up when she's around and what the hell is this are we in junior high I think I'm just gonna do sit in the corner of the bar and drink by myself because I have no self-esteem and man I'm hungry" crushes. Totally incapacitating. We'll call her Lisa. Of course, this is not her real name, because I'm trying to maintain some dignity here. Not much, but some.
2) I'm reading a book right now that has a secondary character named Lisa (the character's real name isn't Lisa, but it matches the name of my crush). Of course, I think of my Lisa whenever this character is talked about, especially since they have some similar physical attributes.
3) Last night while reading in bed I got to a part in the book where the main character catches Lisa making out at a party with some guy. Upon reading this, I nearly swallowed my tongue and fell out of bed. When I got up, I started punching the book and then took a 45 minute shower, during which I convulsed with illimitable rage/jealousy.
4) This morning on the subway, I picked up reading the book and got to a part wherein Lisa and her man are being all smoochy, touchy-feely, and happy. Had it not been for the Puerto Rican sitting across from me with INCREDIBLE cleavage, I would have had the conductor stop the train, so that I could go to the nearest gun shop to purchase a firearm and shoot myself in the stomach over and over again.
5) I have to stop reading. That, or start seeing a therapist again.
"I Just Don't Think I'll Ever Get Over You" Colin Hay
From the "Garden State" Soundtrack, a profoundly sad song (I have no idea why I like such sad music...maybe because I'm extremely depressed, but I'm not a psychologist). Crazy-Eye Colin saying, "Look, I'm not in love with you anymore or anything, but I'm not ever going to get over you. Oh well." Poor, poor bastard. I just wanna hug him. And maybe a little more.
"Extraordinary Machine" Fiona Apple
I have no idea what's going on with Fiona Apple's "new" album. I know that it's recorded, but it's not being released or something. I know that I love her 'cause she's crazy and I know I really dig this song. Everything else, I'm unsure of.
"Can't You Hear Me Knockin'" Rolling Stones
They just don't make songs like this anymore. It makes me want to dance and fight. Well, I wouldn't actually want to do either of these things, as they require a lot of energy, but you get what I mean.
"Kate" Ben Folds Five
Because of this song, I'm going to name my daughter Cait. Not "Kate", because about twenty people a week come to this site searching for "Kate Mulgrew naked" (you have to be a SUPER nerd to want to see a middle-aged woman who plays a Star Trek character naked). Fun, frolicky, yay!
"Mexican Cousin" Phish
When you start your song, "Oh tequila, I turn to you like a long-lost friend/I want to kiss my Mexican cousin once again", I'm all yours. Totally.
"Thunder Road" Bruce Springsteen
I had a crush on a girl my freshman year of college; we'll call her Sally. Sally was very sweet, but not very pretty, especially not in the conventional sense. But I thought she was cute, and I was desperate, so whatever. My buddy Conor (a huge Boss fan) and I were listening to this song one day when the line "You ain't a beauty but eh you're alright" came on, and he said, "Jay, it's like Sally!" I didn't think anything of it until one time Conor and Sally and I were standing around drunk at a party and "Thunder Road" started playing out of the stereo. When the line "You ain't a beauty but eh you're alright" came on, Conor, singing, pointed to Sally, who, not surprisingly, took a LOT of offense to this. Smooth Con. Smooth.
I spent the next few days doing damage control, at first trying to express to Sally that it was a sweet thing to say, that she was pretty but a different kind of pretty. As you might imagine, this failed miserably. I abandoned this approach and then told her that Conor was just wasted. This seemed to work better, but by then the damage was done. We remained friends but our relationship was strained. Then I found out one of my buddies was secretly hooking up with her, something she didn't want to tell me because she thought I had a crush on her. I then went into the basement laundry room, locked the door, and nearly beat my penis to death. For about two hours, I thought it was going to fall off. Not good.
Fortunately, it all ended well. Shortly thereafter, I started drinking more and hence started getting laid. Meanwhile, Sally gained a couple of pounds, moving from "I'm a little chubby but I can pull it off" to "I just ate a car and two babies for brunch."
And no, I'm not bitter. But thanks for asking.
Oh, and it's a good song.
I'm officially a celebrity spokesman. Well, not really, but Bart at USA Music sent me a bunch of Vinci Strings, which are excellent. While they don't make me a better guitar player (as it has been proven that 73% of all chimpanzees can play guitar better than I can), they sure sound nice. So thank you Bart, and please buy some.
Again, I'm developing a links section. So if you want your blog linked on here, please send me an email at email@example.com with "Link" in the subject line. Thank you.
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
As I alluded to yesterday, I will be moving out of my current apartment at the end of May. With my roommate Ben going back to Seattle and my roommate Brian and I hating our current location in the Upper East Side, it's time for me and Brian to get our shit together and start looking for a new home. And it fucking sucks.
In the understatement of the year, I'll only say that apartment hunting in New York City is a terrible experience. Everywhere you turn, you're faced with high rents, shitty buildings, sketchy neighborhoods, and shady brokers who are trying to take your money as quickly as possible. And when you're hunting for an apartment, you can take comfort in the fact that as you're out there, hitting the pavement, going through the classifieds, and talking to friends about possible vacancies in their buildings, thousands and thousands of other people are also doing this, probably much better than you are. God I love New York.
First and most obviously, rents in New York City are high. Really high. But you should expect that from a city where a pack of smokes costs $8, a Bud Light $6, and a so-so handjob at a moderately-clean Asian massage parlor a whopping $185.
[The $185 for a handjob led to this exchange between a "masseuse" and someone who will remain nameless because by now most of his family reads this site:
Masseuse: [in thick Asian accent] "It $185."
Person: "What? $185 for what?"
Masseuse: "$185. $185 for whole half hour."
Person: "Well, I don't need a whole half hour. Can I give you $50 for ten minutes?"
Masseuse: "$185. $185 or you go."
And by that time the person was already there and it was pretty cold out, so whatever. Damn the Asians - so good at debating!]
On average, a person living in Manhattan can expect to pay around $1000 a month. Sure, there are cheaper places, but $1000 is average, if not on the low side. I've managed to circumvent high rents fairly well during my tenure in NYC. My first year out of college (from July 2001 to June 2002), I lived in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn and paid only $650 per month. I lived in a giant place with two living rooms, but Bay Ridge is a residential area deep in Brooklyn, very far away from Manhattan, where most of my friends lived and all of my friends went out. So while I saved on rent, I spent on cabs, drifting from one crappy bar to another, trying (mostly unsuccessfully) to cheat on my then long-distance girlfriend, and spending all of my new found money on important things like vodka tonics, shiny guitar equipment that I'd use once and then break or lose, and bad investments (and by "bad investments" I mean "tremendous gambling losses").
From July of 2002 until June of 2004, I lived in the uber-hip Lower East Side. Because I spent my first year in Brooklyn, I didn't know too much about Manhattan. Sure, I went out in the city quite often, but I didn't know any streets that weren't numbered. I was looking for a two bedroom place to share with my future roommate Brian (I swear we're not gay) and found an ad for a three bedroom place for only $1950. I knew it was in the Lower East Side (heretofore, LES), but I didn't know anything about the neighborhood. It was only after I had moved in that I would learn that it was full of total hipster douchebags (though it was very centrally located!).
Brian and I jumped on the apartment and put an ad in Craigslist's looking for a third roommate. We found one in Clare, a lovely English lass a few years older than us. Poor Clare had no idea what she was getting into, and though she stayed the length of the lease, she was gone after a year. I don't blame her: sharing a 350 square foot apartment (and a small bathroom) with Brian and I would drive anyone away. Also, one time she and I got in a pretty crazy fist fight. She lost. Big time.
Entree Ben. Ben and I met at the law firm where I work, and because we are both fat and like beers and nachos, quickly became friends. At the time, Ben was living with a random Asian attorney who worked at our firm and wore more product in his hair than the EPA should allow. Seriously, I don't know how people smoked within 100 yards of this guy, because the shit was caked on. But when Ben heard that Clare was moving out and we needed a third roommate, he moved in.
Thus began a tremendous year. Brian, Ben and I living in the LES, getting drunk, over-eating, and being ignored by the opposite sex.
I just read that last part over, and it doesn't sound very "tremendous". Possibly "sad", but definitely not "tremendous". I guess it's one of those things that you had to be there to appreciate. So stop your judging, asshole.
After a year in the LES, Ben, Brian and I got tired of our tiny, 5th floor walk-up, and moved on up to the (Upper) East Side to a fancy doorman building with an elevator, a gym, a pool, and a sundeck, where we've been living since June of last year. And I need not get into how well that has worked out (think of whatever the opposite of "really great and convenient and centrally located" is).
And now here we are: the cycle begins all over again, as Ben departs and Brian and I start looking for a new home. There is but one problem: both Brian and I are extremely lazy. I honestly don't see how this is going to work out for us, because I can't see Brian or I making any sort of serious effort. Unless we can turn apartment hunting into some sort of drinking game/drinking competition, we will most likely be homeless come June 1.
So that's where you come in. I know what you're thinking, "Jason, why are you so provincial? Your site is read in over 40 countries and on all seven continents [thanks for the Antarctica t-shirts Sherri and Co.], so why are you talking about New York all the time? Also, you still can't turn this into a pity fuck? Your site crashed last week because you had too many visitors and not a single woman will let your squirm your slimy, baby pinkie-sized penis into her love envelope? You must really be worse than you write."
I'll completely ignore that question and instead issue a plea for help. If you or anyone you know is living in but leaving or knows of a two bedroom apartment available starting June 1 that is a) no more than $2000 a month (possibly could go a little higher) and is b) somewhere downtown-ish (nothing above Times Square, preferably 14th Street or below, Manhattan only), please PLEASE email me. Or if you live in an apartment that fits this description, please ask your super/landlord if any apartments in your building will be available on June 1. Please. Pretty please. Please. Seriously, just fucking do it.
I assure you that Brian and I would make great tenants and neighbors. You wouldn't have to worry about people coming in and out of our place at all hours, since we have no friends and would only leave the apartment to get beer or attend various court proceedings that have been filed against us, either jointly or separately. We are quiet, since as we've been living together for so long there's nothing left to say, and we both have decent incomes, Brian's recently supplemented by his latest hobby: card-sharking. Deep down, we are really nice people (as long as you don't get to know us).
So drop me a line if you have any leads. That email address again is firstname.lastname@example.org. Thank you for your help and support and God bless.
Otherwise, expect to see me passed out in your hallway around June 4. See you then!
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
meeting - oh no
I have just learned that I will shortly be sent to midtown for a meeting that I learned about no more than ten minutes ago and for which I am ill-prepared (and by "ill-prepared" I mean I could probably talk more about Einstein's General Theory of Relativity than I could about the subject of this meeting). It came up like:
Manager: "Hey, I was supposed to go to this meeting in midtown for [confidential business information] but [other confidential business information] came up. Can you go in my place?"
Me: [startled] "Um, what?"
Manager: "I have a meeting that I can't go to. Can you go for me?"
Me: [desperately thinking of stuff I have to do, but manager just caught me looking at fantasy sports and on the phone talking about Chinese food with my buddy Jeremy] "Well, I have to go, right?"
Manager: "Pretty much."
Me: "Well then for you, I'll do it."
My only hope is that I don't embarrass myself, my employer or my family too much, but that doesn't look very promising. I usually don't know what I'm doing at work, but I manage to cover this up by hiding in my office and always looking angry. If people do manage to ask me something or catch me in my office, I'll rub my forehead in an exasperated manner and say, "Please leave it on my desk - I'll look at it if I get a chance later tonight." Believe it or not, this has worked for a long time. But when put in a meeting situation when serious questions are asked - questions I probably won't have the answers to, unless the questions are, "Should I now trade Pat Burrell for a top-flight starter?" (of course) or "Who has the best bacon, egg, and cheese bagel in the Upper East Side?" (Bagel Express) - I'm in trouble.
To add insult to injury, I'm wearing possibly the tightest pants in the world. Good LORD. You see, last week I cleaned out my closet and moved my spring/summer clothes back into the rotation (of course, today it's about 48 degrees out, but whatever). In doing so, I went through some old clothes and separated those that I might wear again from those I should give away. I'm giving these clothes away not out of the goodness of my heart, but because I'm moving soon and I don't want to lug around three pairs of jeans and a half-dozen shirts I haven't worn since freshman year of college. In this process, I found a pair of gray dress pants among these old clothes, and they looked good: no stains, no burn marks, not a single half-eaten hot dog in its pockets. So I put them in the dry cleaners, happy that I found a new pair of pants for my work rotation.
This morning, in my typical morning haze, I got dressed and put them on without thinking much about them. It was only when I got to work that I realized that it looks like someone has covered my legs and buttocks in gray paint, leaving NOTHING to the imagination (the genital region I don't have to worry about, since I'm hung like a Ken doll anyway).
And what do I do when faced with the prospect of this scary meeting? Do I cram, in order to save face? Do I get some caffeine, in order to ensure that I'm at least awake? Do I run to the bathroom, to make sure there won't be any gastrointestinal distress? No, none of this things. I write to you all, because I'm so in love with you that I can't even express it. Not only that, but without our daily communication I would surely explode.
So wish me luck. And if anyone is around the Wall Street area and can offer me some looser pants in the next, oh, ten minutes, I'm waiting.
Monday, April 11, 2005
and re: technical difficulties
After much researching on the part of Site Guy Brendan, it appears that the site went down for parts of last Thursday and Friday because too many of you a-holes were on it. We weren't sure if this was the reason because, after all, how many people can possibly be interested in the same tasteless humor, regurgitated every day over and over again by a fat manic depressive? Sadly, apparently, a lot.
The problem has been resolved temporarily, but it will not be fixed entirely until I shell out some more money for bandwidth or some shit (I have no idea if it's called "bandwidth" or not, but you get it). I'm not going to do this, as I can't afford it, so if it crashes again, you're just going to have to deal with it until I get that bonus check in December or my case against the Anheuser-Busch Corporation settles (they made me fat and impotent, the assholes).
But my goodness...I may have to drop the "quasi-" from my title soon, or perhaps take on something like, "Jason Mulgrew, E-List Celebrity/Sex Symbol." I mean, what the fuck is wrong with you people? Don't you have anything better to do?
[But seriously, we here at www.jasonmulgrew.com appreciate your support and encourage you to pass on the site to anyone who you think might enjoy it. Even if you don't think they'll like it, pass it on anyway. I really don't care. If I don't get famous I'm afraid of what I'll do to myself and others. And that is an empty threat, because I'm a total coward. Thank you.]
weekend: beers and costumes
My roommate Ben will shortly be leaving New York City and returning to his hometown of Seattle. I've lived with Ben for the last two years (and with my roommate Brian for the last three); last year in the Lower East Side and this year in the Upper East Side. But soon, starting June 1, it will be just Brian and I left in NYC, two losers trying to make it in the Big City, one uncomfortably in love with the other, and one clinging on to the last vestiges of his heterosexuality for dear life.
Though Ben is leaving NYC in a few weeks, he's viewing his last days here more like an inmate waiting to be released than a college senior coming up on graduation. We've asked Ben numerous times if he wants a party or anything, and he always says that he doesn't want to do anything special, which is good, because Brian and I are just too lazy to plan anything like a party. I mean, c'mon. I barely have the strength to wipe my heinie after pooing and Brian spends four/five days a week in a robe and slippers smoking Marlboro Lights and complaining about the extended daylight hours.
While at work on Friday (Ben and I work at the same firm, though in different capacities) I was on the phone with Ben, discussing our plans for the evening, when he said, "I think I'm gonna stay in tonight to save some cash, but I want to have at least twenty beers." I laughed and thought it was a good plan - Brian, Ben, and I are all very broke right now - but assumed that he was being facetious when he said he'd drink at least twenty beers. Though it'd be a big night, drinking twenty beers between pre-gaming and going out isn't that big of a deal, but to sit an apartment on a Friday night and put away twenty beers in one sitting is another thing entirely. I thought Ben was exaggerating.
By the end of the night, it was actually 23 beers and a glass of wine. Brian and I were astounded, not only because the dude had 24 drinks, but also because at the end of the night he looked like he could drive a car or go to work for eight hours. You'd never guess that Ben had just drank (almost) a case of beer in about six hours. It was spectacular.
[Though amazing, this still isn't the best drinking performance I've ever seen. That honor goes to my buddy Steve, who at the ripe old age of 17 once drank 28 cans of Schmidt's and a bottle of NyQuil. Though while Ben could have gone to work after his performance, Steve went down to the bay at 4am, passed out, and nearly drowned when the tide came up and over him, but hey - he was only 17 at the time.]
Ben can flat-out drink, and for this (and possibly only this) he will be missed. I introduced Brian to Ben, and one night they hung out when I was out of town. They had plans to go out, but instead got wasted in my old apartment (when Brian and I lived with a third person, a girl). Brian was so impressed with Ben's drinking ability that when Ben would get up to use the bathroom, Brian would actually write down how many beers Ben was drinking. That, my friends, is respect.
On this Friday, by the end of the night, Ben had had his 23 beers, and all told there were 54 beers drank and a bottle of white wine between Ben, Brian, and I. And yes, we are all single. As I reflect on this, I wonder what my parents, relatives and friends at home would think about this. Many of them see my living in NYC and think it exotic and exciting. And yet last Friday night I sat in a 10x12 living room and got shit-housed with two other dudes. Then I ate two orders of onion rings, passed out for a few hours, and woke up at 6:30 in the morning with such tremendous heartburn that I contemplated going to the emergency room, before drinking a half a bottle of Pepto Bismol and taking some Xanax and falling back asleep. Jason Mulgrew in NYC: so exotic, so exciting.
And that was Friday.
On Saturday, I went a friend's birthday party in NJ. Normally, I don't like house parties, as I spend most of the time standing around, feeling awkward, thinking of things I can steal from the host's bathroom (nail files, clippers, etc), and trying with all my might not to have a sudden urge to poop. However, the hosts of the party put an interesting spin on this one: show up dressed like your favorite rock star. As my first wife, a lovely little Mexican broad who I'm pretty sure is now deceased, would say, "Muy interesante."
Though I love Halloween, at first I dreaded the rock star party. I realized quickly that something like this would require work, something, like making friends with black people, I'm really not interested in. Another problem: I have a beard. This limits my rock star-likeness, forcing me to choose between a handful of musicians, namely George Michael (though I'd relish the opportunity to be flamboyantly gay for an evening, I'm way too fat and not good-looking enough to pull him off - no pun intended), Kenny Rogers (too much whiteness with the hair), Jerry Garcia (warmer, as I'm pretty sure I could pull off a fat drug addict, but I just wouldn't feel right), etc. And so I was stuck.
[I then tossed around the idea of going to the party as the Pope. Sure, he's not a rock star, but how great would that have been? Amidst a sea of Axl Roses, John Lennons, and Peter Ceteras, in comes the Pope. But alas - that would have required the most work of all, so that idea was scrapped. I think I need an assistant or some shit to help me out on stuff like this.]
However, divine intervention came, as it usually does, in the form of a leisure suit. Way back in high school in 1996, my buddy Madden went to a garage sale where for about $2 he picked up a bunch of stylish '70's clothes, among them a very large leisure suit. I was just as portly then as I am now, so Madden gave me the leisure suit because "[you're] the fattest guy [I] know." A bona fide leisure suit, all mine, just because I'm chunky. God I love being fat.
For years, this leisure suit has come in handy in a pinch. I've worn it to countless dance or '70's parties, as well as on one Halloween, when I shaved my beard (save the moustache) and went out as my dad in 1977.
And it did not disappoint this weekend, as I wore the leisure suit, bought some cheesy sunglasses, rings, and necklaces, wore my shirt open for everyone to see my chest hair, and went to the party as a sleazy record producer from 1978. It was a big hit. Sure, I basically ripped off an former Halloween costume, but no one at the party knew that. And if you tell them, I'll fucking kill you.
And the upshot of wearing the rings and necklaces was that it led to some attention from the ladies. Not because I looked good, but because said ladies wanted the jewelry. If I were smoother, I could have parlayed their interest in my jewels (ha!) into at least a decent conversation, but no, something like that is way beyond my ability:
Girl: "Hey, can I have one of your rings?"
Me: [overly excited] "Would you like to go out on a date???"
Girl: [standing in silence, looking confused/disgusted with her friend by her side] "..."
Me: [still overly excited] "You know, maybe coffee or something? Really I'll do anything. I just would love to talk to you."
[Girl and friend walk away]
Girl: "Can I wear one of your necklaces?"
Me: [rigid, robot-like, like Brick in "Anchorman"] "I work in New York City and make a good living."
Girl: "Um, ok."
Me: "I'm going to get promoted in September. I don't have any sexually transmitted diseases."
Girl: "I have to go to the bathroom."
And that was Saturday.
And now all I have to do is make it through another week. To be honest, it doesn't look good. So, crap.