Everything is wrong with me
Thursday, September 29, 2005
shame, search terms, links, complaints, music, nfl picks
Yesterday after work, I went to my local Duane Reade pharmacy to pick up a prescription (bless you Nexium for healing my embattled stomach and scarred esophageal lining!). The pharmacy is always in the back, away from the other cash registers. Often times when there's a line at the cash registers at the front of the store, shoppers can head back to the cash register at the pharmacy to get rung up, because there's never a line there. But you can also go there if you're buying something secret.

Like condoms for example. When I started buying condoms, I would always go to the pharmacy register, because there was rarely ever anyone there and the whole process of buying condoms MORTIFIED me. I didn't start having sex until college, probably because I went to an all guy's high school where I was the fattest I've ever been in my life, wore circle John Lennon-type glasses, had braces for six years, had long hair that went down to my chin and did a little flip at the tips, and wore a fur cape to most social functions (god I wish I was kidding). Oh, and I didn't drink. But then I got a haircut, got the braces off, lost some weight, etc and went to college and things started improving, due in no small part because I started drinking - a lot. So the moral: if you're not getting laid, drink more. And ditch the fur cape.

But buying condoms always bothered me. If possible, I'd have a roommate or friend do it, just because I felt so awkward. When I had to buy them, I'd always go to the farthest pharmacy from where I lived, for fear that otherwise I'd run into someone I knew as I bought a bar of Irish Spring and a Econo-pack of Trojans.

[I eventually got over this fear. Years later, I was with a girl I was pseudo-dating at the time and we went to buy condoms and food for her cat. The two of us were in line getting checked out by an 80-something year-old woman. As she rang up the condoms, then the cat food, she casually remarked, "Kitty's getting fed tonight, eh?" I gave an awkward smile before running outside and throwing up everywhere. Incredibly uncomfortable. Since then, I've been ordering condoms by mail. You know, just in case.]

So there I was at the back register, not buying anything secret, but getting my prescription. I didn't notice someone was behind me until the Indian guy at the register looked behind me and said, "Last name?" (as in, what is your last name so I can get you your prescription).

I turned around and there was a girl my age, a cute, petite brunette. I was checking her out, giving her the once over and sending out "the vibe", when I saw what she was buying. It was a pregnancy test.

My eyes must have bulged when I saw the pregnancy test that was clutched to her chest, because when our eyes met she gave me a terrified look, as if to say "You have no idea how much I wish you didn't see this". I looked back at her and gave her an awkward smile, hoping to cover up my shock. I stepped out of the way and she moved past me to pay. I then walked down one of the aisles so I wouldn't have to see her again (for her sake, not mine).

I got my prescription and left, but I couldn't help feeling bad for the girl. She's gotta be dealing with some pretty heavy shit, and then here I am: some fat dude at the pharmacy, looking at her like a crazy person because she's buying a pregnancy test. Kick her while she's down, while don't I.

The moral of the story is that when you're in your local Duane Reade, CVS, Rite-Aid or whatever and you're paying in the back by the pharmacist, realize that this is a high vulnerability area and please, proceed with caution. And most importantly, don't judge. As a friend once said, "When you're judging, you're not loving." So don't do it.

Now let's move on before I get too sad about that girl.


End of the month: search terms time. For those just joining us, below are search terms entered into Yahoo, Google, etc that brought people to this site.

First, since I have a big ego, some about me:

- jason mulgrew killed a hooker once
- homosexual urinal penis jason beer Mulgrew
- jason mulgrew loser and wizard of nothing but cheese
- jason mulgrew is single for a reason
- jason mulgrew likes pakistani people
- jason mulgrew loves hooker sweat
- jason mulgrew is so hot... just kidding
- jason mulgrew's fantasy football team is awful
- jason mulgrew hairy penis monster
- why won't jason mulgrew suck my dick anymore
- jason mulgrew eats dead babies after he runs out of pizza and hotdogs
- jason mulgrew ate a school bus full of children
- jason mulgrew retarded mustard [Editor's Note: ???]

If it was pretty obvious before that some of you were entering these terms yourself in order to get them listed on here, it's very, very obvious now. Although those last four really took it to the next level ("Why won't Jason Mulgrew suck my dick anymore?" - that's pretty good).

- old man uncle rubbing the breasts of underage girls
- i got hpv from a handjob
- lindsay lohan falconry
- pressure point thigh sex
- written tips for women how to suck men balls
- wife no longer desirable
- drunk karate
- derrida and deconstructionalism
- little mermaid pastor gets aroused
- butt deodorant
- fat chick choking on a chicken wing
- my teeth smell like vomit
- met this hot southern mom at the shopping mall. i could tell she wasn't from around here. just hearing her southern accent made my cock hard. i invited her back to my place for a good ol southern dinner. watch what i give her for dessert [Editor's Note: !!!]
- ever had blood in your panties after sex
- making fire dick sex tip

The only thing that strikes me about the list above is: how disappointed must the person who googled "Derrida and Deconstructionalism" have been to find this website? Further, when the hell did I ever write about Derrida and Deconstructionalism?

The answer: when talking about my 25th birthday party. I actually had an open invite, listing the time and location of the party on the site. I figured that some readers of this site might come, so I wrote:

[NB: Please be advised that by midnight, I should be completely out of commission and unable to speak, recognize basic shapes and colors, or go to the bathroom without assistance. I can not stress this enough. I will be severely incapacitated, so if you come expecting to have conversations with me about Jacques Derrida's linguistic deconstructionalism, the similarities between the Popish Plot in seventeenth century England and McCarthyism in 1950's America, or even about whether or not I'm having a good time or if I like sandwiches, you will be severely disappointed.]
So there's your Derrida and Deconstructionalism.

And though I didn't write about this, I was feeling pretty confident that at least some people who I didn't know but read the site would show up at this party, going so far as to bet my roommate Ben $50 that a reader I didn't know would come. And I lost. No one random came to my b-day party. :(

But it's ok. This was way back in July of 2004, when about 50 people read the site (and I knew 45 of them) and I was still making stupid comments on high traffic blogs, making myself sound like a douche. Ah, the good old days.


Anyway - what were we talking about again?


Some links:

- Mark from Michigan sends us "Troy's Mixtape of Love". Funny, but something like SIXTEEN MINUTES long. What a sorry SOB.
- Anna from Indiana gives us something much more useable: a sex dictionary. Look it up - it's all there.
- Finally, I stumbled upon this one myself: baseball de-motivational posters. Very funny stuff.


About my post about "Grizzly Maze" and Timothy Treadwell: I'm amazed - nay, shocked - at how much "hate" mail came in about that post.

I don't mean hate mail as in, "You fat Irish Catholic son of a bitch. Why don't you have a drink and then go to mass, you prick! Better yet, why don't you take your tiny penis and stick it in a ham!" A number of emails came in that went something like:


Ok, I get it. You read a book and liked it. Congratulations. Where's the funny? Get back to what works: fat jokes and racism. God you suck anymore.
So we're going to institute a rule: you can't complain unless you've donated. Remember, this shit is free. And remember, I've done almost 800 pages of it, almost every day, for the past nineteen months. So I think I'm allowed every once in a while to write about something that interests me (aside from shit, porn, booze, and food, of course).

If you have a problem, come back tomorrow. Or come back in a few weeks (I take time off from some of my favorite blogs because they get old to me, though admittedly they are nowhere near as awesome as this one). But if you're going to voice your opinion, going out of your way write an email to tell me that I or post or the site sucks, you have to donate first. To complain about something free that I work (mildly) hard on and so dutifully give you several times a week, risking life, limb, and employment, while you have never given me a handjob, beejer, or any semi-sexual homo/heterosexual act, takes a LOT of balls. So a) give, b) shut up, or c) come back tomorrow or later. Thank you.

[N.B.: If you've sent me pictures of your boobies, you can complain. But only if the boobies were nice. If they were all sloppy and shit, looking like two plastic bags filled with ground beef, then you can't complain. Maybe take a picture of your friend's nice boobies and then we'll negotiate.]

[N.B. again: And I know you give me intangible things, like reading the site, passing it on, spreading the word, etc. But I come from a broken home, so I measure everything in terms of tangible things. So unless you've given me the physical act of love or cash to buy said physical act of love, well, forget it.]


Six Songs

"Nothing Matters When We're Dancing" The Magnetic Fields
This song makes me sad. And makes me think of ballroom dancing in a field in the snow. I don't know where I'm going with this, but it's a pretty song.

"Kick Drum" G Love & Special Sauce
I woke up to this song every morning for two years. A terrific choice. I also tormented my friend Nicole for about three years with the line "Talkin' 'bout a girl named Nicky Nick suckin' on my..."

"I Broke Up" Xiu Xiu
This is terrible, terrible music. I downloaded a bunch of this guy's stuff, and I seriously can't understand how anyone could possibly like this. I think I'm pretty cool about letting people do their own thing and not judging them, but if you like this music, you and I can NOT be friends. I am sure you're devastated by this loss.

The only reason I have it included on here is because at about :28 into the song, he screams out "Don't fuck with me! Don't fuck with me!" like a goddamn crazy person. Then, at about 1:16, he starts screaming, "This is the worst vacation ever!" It's not good, and it's not exactly funny and not exactly scary, but it's definitely worth a listen. I really don't know what else to say about it.

"853-5937" Squeeze
Probably the finest singular example of mid-80's Brit pop-rock (and I'm not at all an authority on the subject). If you like harmonies, tasteful synth/organ/piano, and songs about cheating girlfriends written around an answering machine message, then this is the song for you. I have no idea why more people aren't into this band (one of my top ten favorites, or as Squeeze would spell it, favourites).

"I Just Can't Get Enough" Depeche Mode
If there were a list of "Most Homosexual Songs of the '80's", this song would rank about #31. So that says something about how many gay-inspired songs there were in the '80's.

"That's How Strong My Love Is" Otis Redding
I know I've pimped this before, but you have to listen to it because a) it's the most beautiful love song ever; and b) it's going to be my wedding song.


Well, it's official: my mom is kicking my ass in our weekly NFL picks competition. In week two, she edged me out by one game, going 7-8-1 to my 6-9-1. But last week she opened up a can of whoop ass and went an astounding 9-4-1, while her know-it-all son picked an embarrassing 3-10-1. Ouch.

So for the season, my mom, who knows nothing about football aside from colors and team names, is leading me 16-12-2 (57%) to 9-19-2 (32%). This is going exactly how I'd hoped it would go; I'm proving that gambling is entirely random and based solely on luck. Or I'm proving that I suck at gambling. I guess I'm doing both. Onto this week...

My picks:

PATRIOTS -5.5 over Chargers
JAGUARS -4 over Broncos
Texans +9.5 over BENGALS
TITANS +7 over Colts
CHIEFS -2 over Eagles
Lions +6.5 over BUCS
Rams +3 over GIANTS
SAINTS over pk Bills
Seahawks +2 over REDSKINS
Jets +7.5 over RAVENS (How can the spread be this high? The game might end 0-0)
Vikings +6 over FALCONS
RAIDERS -3.5 over Cowboys
49ers +2.5 over CARDINALS

My mom's picks:

PATRIOTS -5.5 over Chargers
Broncos +4 over JAGUARS
BENGALS -9.5 over Texans
TITANS +7 over Colts
Eagles +2 over CHIEFS
Lions +6.5 over BUCS
GIANTS -3 over Rams
Bills pk over SAINTS
Seahawks +2 over REDSKINS
RAVENS -7.5 over Jets
Vikings +6 over FALCONS
Cowboys +3.5 over RAIDERS
49ers +2.5 over CARDINALS

Me Last Week: 3-10-1
Me Season: 9-19-2 (32%)

Mom Last Week: 9-4-1
Mom Season: 16-12-2 (57%)

Wednesday, September 28, 2005
caught in the act
Those of you who know me, or at least those of you who know what I look like, are going to get a pretty big kick out of this.

I look exactly like the guy in the Red Sox jersey.

I'm serious; it's uncanny. The beard, the build, the posture, the paleness, the kissing another man - it's unbelievable almost. I'm actually going to send this to my mom with an email saying, "Well, you knew this was coming, I guess" to see if she believes it.

(My friend Brendan found this on Gawker and immediately sent it around to all my friends, who are roaring in approval over email, writing things like "Good for you, Jay!" and "It's about time!" and "You're reallly going at it, huh?")

For those of you who don't know me or know what I look like, well, that's what I look like. Enjoy.

Tuesday, September 27, 2005
sleep, the neighborhood, and fuck
I think I have a pretty high tolerance for such things, but enough is enough.

At 4:30 this morning I was jolted out of bed by a banshee-like shriek. The noise appeared to be coming from my air conditioner, and it sounded like the goddamn thing was letting out one last wail before it exploded right in the fucking window. Groggy but surprisingly spry, I darted out of bed over to the AC to shut it off, hoping to prevent a major catastrophe. I turned it off, but was not able to relax. The noise remained.

A look out the window proved that the unconscionably loud noise was not coming from my air conditioner, but rather from a hose, coming from truck, snaking into the basement of the Italian restaurant I live next door to. Apparently, the restaurant needed some work done, so they called in Jenny Exhaust System Services to do the job. At 4:30 in the morning. On a Tuesday.

Over the next hour, I am surprised that a homicide did not occur. First, I should try to further describe to you the nature of the noise. I've already used the words shrieking and wailing. I would also add to that list shrill, screeching, piercing, and and it doesn't stop soon I'm going to start ripping my fingernails out. If the drills that put together the carny stands for the San Gennaro Festival sounded like dentist drills, the exhaust hose outside the restaurant sounded like a saliva sucker times roughly 15,000.

What was worse was its intermittence. Instead of a steady, loud, lasting commotion, the hose would suck for thirty seconds, then break for forty. Then it would suck for ten, break for ten. Not only that, there would sometimes be long stretches of silence, long enough that I'd start thinking, "OH YES! The good Lord has come to the rescue and the noise has stopped! It's still only 4:57 - I can still get a solid three hours of sleep!" But after four minutes of gorgeous comforting silence, that fucking hose would start up and shriek again. It was heartbreaking.

When I first looked at the window just after 4:30, all was dark. The buildings around me were unlit, and the only people on the streets were the ancient Chinese ladies carrying bags of who-knows-what from whatever store is open in Chinatown before 5am (it's kinda eerie and dreamlike almost; these old women, waddling around in the pre-dawn hours carrying heavy looking neon orange and bright pink bags, coming from wherever, going to wherever. If I were high, it might freak me out more than a little bit).

When I checked out of the window again, this time at almost 5am, EVERY single apartment in my neighboring buildings had at least one light on. These assholes had woken the entire neighborhood. This gave me only a small amount of succor, knowing that I was not alone in my suffering. But more importantly, I thought, "You know, if I went down there and murdered these guys right now, the only witnesses would be the people they're keeping up with their racket. I could probably get away with it. I haven't murdered someone in like three years, but it's like riding a bicycle: once you go black, you never go back." Ultimately I decided against killing them, because that would require me putting on pants and actually walking outside (it was chilly out this morning).

The noise stopped just after 5:30, but by that point the damage was done. Despite trying, I was filled with a boiling rage and so could not fall back asleep. I started my day. At 5:30am. Sweet.

But I'll tell you what: I am done. D-O-N-E. Little Italy/Chinatown STINKS. I spent a good part of the morning looking at apartments on craigslist, because I can't do this anymore (of course, I'm not going to move, but looking made me happy). The three reasons ChiLita is terrible:

1) The sounds. Every two weeks some lame-ass motorcycle gang (guys, motorcycles gangs were cool in the '60's - let it go) will descend upon Little Italy to a) eat and b) rev their engines for four solid hours. We get it - you guys are awesome. Sweet bikes that you ride. I stopped riding my bike when I was 14 and actually accepted the fact that I have a tiny penis. But if you guys wanna hang out with a bunch of hairy guys and overweight chicks and rev your engines to prove you are alpha males, that's cool. But I just want to tell you that everyone knows you're insecure about your sexuality and have a tiny penis. Just letting you know.

(And please don't kick my ass)

The motorcycle madness meshes well with the general commotion of yelling waiters, gawking tourists, and very angry Chinese people yapping at each other. I imagine these Chinese people are saying to each other:

Chinese Woman: "Where is that fish head I bought this morning? Did you eat it?"
Chinese Man: "I don't know what you are talking about. I've been outside loitering and smoking thin cigarettes all day."
Chinese Woman: "I know that you ate it! I was up at 3:30 this morning to buy the best fish head and you ate it! I wanted to prepare a special meal tonight so that I could stink up everything in a 100 foot radius for a week! You are so insensitive!"
Chinese Man: [smokes thin cigarette, loiters]

Did I also mention that I live above a restaurant in which someone bozo plays music? Yeah, he does the same five songs, every hour, on the hour, about four to six times a night. EVERY DAY. Now whenever I hear "New York, New York", "Sweet Caroline", or "I Can't Help (Falling In Love With You)", I have an involuntary spasm that causes me to reach for the nearest sharp object and drive it into something fleshy (my right thigh looks like a cheese grater).

2) The smells. Living in Little Italy, you'd think I'd be treated to some delightful smells: chicken parm baking in the oven, homemade sauce simmering on a stove, and cheese, cheese, and more cheese melting on just about everything.

You know what smell I have instead? Grease. Anyone who ever worked in a bar or restaurant can identify that "I've been standing over a fryer cooking buffalo wings for the past six hours" scent, which blankets a six block radius of my neighborhood 24-7. Nothing like going to work at 9am, walking past one of your twenty-eight local Chinese restaurants, and retching because that rank smell of fried oil is too much to handle at such an early hour, even for a fat fuck like me.

And let's not forget the fish...Oh the fish. But let's lump that under...

3) The sights. If you walk down Mott Street, just around the corner from my apartment, you can buy any type of fish you want. Also - and I don't know if you're interested in this, but I'll throw it out there anyway - you can buy any sort of inside out fish or fish head you want, too (I hear that fish guts go perfectly with vegetables that I've never seen before I moved to Chinatown/Little Italy).

And what happens when the markets close in Chinatown? The trash comes out. I'm not bothered by trash. But what I am bothered by are crates of stale produce left on the streets to rot before disappearing a few days later, but not before turning every color of the rainbow and leaking fluorescent liquid onto the sidewalks and into the streets. NYC's Chinatown: Come for the fish guts, stay for the rotten produce.

If you like the show "Growing Up Gotti", you're in luck. On the Little Italy side of ChiLita, you can see the full range of "Italian Douche", from children who look ready to punch you in the balls to old men who will fondle your girlfriend when you're not looking. Such are the attractions of Little Italy.

So I'm done. This lease can't end soon enough. I can't wait to pay $2400 a month for a tiny apartment on some tree-lined block in the West Village. I'm sure I'll love living there, until the good people at Chase Bank show up at my apartment with pipes and chains to "collect".


My day, in case you can't tell, is ruined. Not only did I wake up early, but I didn't fall asleep until almost 2am last night because I've been stressed out, seeing as I'm kinda unemployed starting Monday (more on this later). All day long I've been sitting in my office, growling. And I will continue to do that until 5:30pm, when I will hop a cab home, drink some bourbon and milk, take a few Xanax, and sleep for 17 straight hours.

Until then, have a good day. Now back to growling.

Monday, September 26, 2005
weekend: yankees, money, beer, poo
On Friday, me, Ace from Slack, and my buddy Dave went to the Yankee game.

As soon as I got to the Bronx, I immediately questioned why I don't go to Yankee games more often. I've been living in NYC since July of 2001. Since then, I've been to four Yankee games, zero Met games, and zero Knicks/Rangers/Giants/Jets games. What makes this especially strange is that I'm a sports fan, too. I enjoy seeing men play each other, being competitive, sweating, straining their ginormous muscles, etc.

But I think my lack of seeing sports events is part of my general apathy. I'm a creature of habit when it comes to extracurriculars. I like drinking beer in my apartment, going to my local bar, sitting with a few friends and not talking to anyone else, leaving the bar at closing to eat, then coming home and passing out. What a glamorous life I live here in NYC.

What I realized with the Yankee game is that I don't take advantage of NYC enough. In addition to not attending many sporting events, I've only been to three Broadway shows in over four years. Of course, Broadway shows are for homosexuals, women, and tourists, but I think that if I did see more shows a) I could use it to impress women (i.e. "I'm secure enough in my masculinity to see a show and it's not a big deal that I have frequent gay cyber sex") and b) I would have something to tell my mom when she asks, "What did you do this weekend?" aside from "Well, Brian and I got in a fistfight with this street person and his dog. We lost. Bad. Brian now only has six fingers."

But around halfway through the game I realized why I don't do more New Yorkey type things: cost.

Let's break down my expenses on Friday night, shall we?

• Five beers at bar before game: $35 ($6 per beer, plus tip)
• Two hot dogs at game: $9.50
• One foot long hot dog at game: $7
• Eight beers at game: $64 (I believe beers were $7 a piece, plus tip)
• Money given to guy at urinal next to me to show me his penis: $6.23

So that's over $120 at the Yankee game. The tickets were $50 face, but we got them for free. So if I paid for the tickets, we're looking at a cost of $170 for less than five hours. Ouch.

The $120 above does NOT include the money I spent at the bars afterward either. We were back downtown and boozing at 11:30 or so. Remember, bars in NYC are open until 4am. By 11:30pm, I was feeling pretty good so I'm not sure what I spent for the rest of the night, but I can say with a good amount of certainty that I topped $200 total for the evening. Easy.

So THAT'S why I don't do New York type things. Fuck sporting events, shows, nice dinners, whatever. I need to save my money for late night pizza and 30 packs of Budweiser. Again, my glamorous NYC life.

Two good things did come out of the weekend though:

1) I found a new bar. Not just any new bar, but a special new bar. I don't often feel this way, but I'll tell you, this could be the one. It's close by, very unpretentious, cheap, has an excellent jukebox, and, though small, is never crowded. The bathroom could use a little work (a single unisex toilet with a door that doesn't close all the way, let alone lock), but it's so close to my apartment that should any bowel-related emergency arise I could just run home.

As summer comes to a close, I can think of no better way than ushering in fall than spending a lot of time at this bar, drinking and being merry. I had been hard-up for a cool bar in my new neighborhood, but I've found it. Let the drinking too much begin. Hallelujah.

[And no, I'm not going to tell you what it is. Maybe it's my ego talking, but I don't want y'all showing up at my cool but small bar making it crowded and too cool for lame assholes like me. So beat it.]

2) I ate something weird by accident.

You should know that:

a) I had a bunch of friends staying at my apartment this weekend, and so minutes after their arrival, my living room was destroyed.

b) I love Entenmann's Devil's Food Crumb Donuts. Most addictive thing I've ever put in my body (seriously). If you haven't had them, don't. Trust me.

c) I have headphones like these. Notice the little nubby things that go into your ear. They are removable and fall off a lot.

On Saturday night, we got home after a long day and night of boozing. Though I had brought home some pizza to eat, I went about my usual process of putting everything in my line of vision into my mouth. These included the Entenmann's donuts that were on top of my fridge.

One of my favorite things about these donuts is that they have little crumbs on top of them (if you look closely at the picture, you can see them). They're mini extensions of the donut, sprinkled on top, covered in glaze and powdered sugar. Delightful. They also fall off a lot, so invariably when they are no donuts left in the box, I wind up picking the crumbs from the bottom of box and eating them up. Again, delightful.

Also, when you eat the donuts, these crumbs fall off onto one's shirt and the floor. On this particular night, I was having a lil' fun with this. You know, "Hey, look at me - I'm fat! I'm eating these donuts and the crumbs are falling all over my shirt and onto the floor! Look how fat I am! Don't I make you feel better about yourself by illustrating how bad I am, you fucking selfish shallow pig?"

I ate four of these donuts (half the box), and threw in the towel. But I did so not before I picked up the little crumbs off my shirt and the floor, popped them in my mouth, and swallowed them down like aspirin.

Just one problem: I'm pretty sure that one of the "crumbs" was actually one of the little nubby things from my earphones.

Like I said, the earplug portions of my headphones, the little rubby/plastic piece that goes in the ear, are for some reason removable. They came with several nubby things, to replace any lost ones. Earlier in the week, I lost one and replaced it. I had no idea where the missing one was, and forgot about it.

When I popped the donut crumbs into my mouth, I did kind of a double take. Like I said, I threw them into my mouth and swallowed them down like pills, as so my friends could laugh at what a gluttonous slob I was. But among the sugar and chocolate, I tasted that familiar nasty earwaxy taste (because I eat earwax a lot).

I think – and again, I'm not positive about this – that I ate my little earplug thing among these donut crumbs. If you've ever stuck your finger in your ear and then bit a fingernail, you know that earwax has a very unique and potent taste. Also, the floor from which I was picking put the crumbs was dirty as hell, covered with crap (pieces of a fleece blanket that I've had for years and is slowly deteriorating before my eyes, crumbs of all kinds, etc). Also, I was very drunk. It's not inconceivable that I would have just picked up the missing ear plug and threw it down the hatch without thinking.

I guess we may never know for sure, but you can rest assured that I am monitoring all excrement extremely closely. I promise you that if that earplug comes out in my poo, you will be the first to know about it. That is dedication to journalism, my friends.

So check back early and often for any updates. I'm feeling a lil' loose in the bowel area, so it could be any moment now.

(And yes, writing about shitting out an earplug that I ate while drunk thinking it was a donut crumb is definitely the highlight of my writing/blogging career, if not my entire life. God, my family must be so proud.)

Friday, September 23, 2005
Sizemore’s reality, interracial, BBQ, BB&B, music, NFL picks
I would be remiss if I didn’t start this post off with the some very important news: Tom Sizemore is currently shopping a reality show about his life.

Mother fucker stole my idea.

I wrote about this a month ago, even going so far as to sketch out the first mini-season. So you don’t have to read the whole post, I’ll just excerpt the reality show idea part:

Lastly, for all the reality shows going on, WHY isn’t there one about the life of Tom Sizemore? Who’s dropping the ball on this one? What would you rather see: Tommy Lee going back to college or Tom Sizemore fighting some girl on crutches over a Marlboro Red? Hell, I’ll storyboard the first four episodes right now:

EPISODE 1 ("Pilot"): Tom is released on parole on the condition he stays clean. Show follows Tom on his first day of freedom. Tom talks about his sobriety and his confidence in it and goes shopping for some new clothes. Tom goes to use the bathroom but doesn’t return. By the end of the show, two cameramen and the boom mic guy are dead and Tom goes missing for eight weeks.

EPISODE 2 ("Redemption"): Tom is tracked down to a church in Mexico. Too much LSD has caused him to have a mental breakdown of sorts, so he’s been spending time volunteering in church in an effort to become a Eucharistic minister. During a service, Tom drinks too much wine and starts screaming "Blood of Christ! Blood of Christ!" and yells the n-word and other racial epithets for seven hours before having a mild heart attack. Another cameraman is mysteriously killed.

EPISODE 3 ("Return"): Tom returns to LA because his agent has gotten him an audition for a Dentyne commercial. Tom bombs the audition and sexually assaults both the female reader and a nearby fern plant. For the remaining twenty-two minutes, we follow Tom around as he breaks into cars to poop and/or pee in them. Twenty four hours later, Cadbury Adams USA LLC, the company that makes Dentyne, files for bankruptcy.

EPISODE 4 ("Revenge"): The show opens with Tom in Vegas, getting thrown out of Caesar’s Palace. In the next scene, Tom is participating in an exorcism with special celebrity guest/drunk fuck-up, Ryan Adams. The two then spend the rest of the show doing cocaine at a rest stop, until Ryan dies. Tom uses the restroom, then steals a Snickers bar. End of Season One.

I mean, is this not pretty clear that this is my fucking idea, almost a month before Sizemore thought of it? What the fuck is going on here? If there are any lawyers reading this, please get in touch with me ASAP. I have a feeling we have a strong case on our hands. Son of a bitch.


Many websites are firewalled by my work. For example, I can’t check any type of email from my office computer (aol, hotmail, gmail, lycos, msn, etc – all blocked).

However, in our library there are two public computers that have no firewalls. So naturally, people are up there all day long going in and out, checking email, Friendster/MySpace, whatever.

I always like to view the internet history of these public computers, by clicking on the url drop-down menu.

Among gmail.com, yahoo.com, and hotmail.com, one site always sticks out on the library’s public computers: www.blackmenwhitewomen.com (NOT SAFE FOR WORK).

I thought the site was an interracial dating site, so I clicked on it (as I’m all about interracial dating). And I suppose some could say that it is an interracial dating site, if your idea of dating is using your "14 inch black pipe to tear [a] white girl in half."

From what I can tell, the basic premise of this porn site is white women secretly love black men, particularly their frighteningly large genitals. And so it has lots of clips and movies in which black dudes nail white chicks. As an added twist, the white chick’s husband/boyfriend/significant other is also in the video, forced to watch the black dude rail his girlfriend. Take THAT Oppressor!

Obviously it’s a wonderful site, but I question why, exactly, it needs to be visited in the middle of the day on a Tuesday at work? Not only that, the computers in the library are in an open area and shared. Many people sit and wait to use the computers while others are on them. Is this guy just SO into black guys doing white girls that he has to check out this site at work, in the library, in the presence of others?

Or did someone put the site in as a joke? Is it possible that one guy went to it on a lark and the reason it stays so high in the history is because jerkoffs like me view the url drop-down and say, "Blackmenwhitewomen.com? What the fuck?" and click on it?

I guess we’ll never know for sure, but if there’s one thing we do know, is that black men doing white chicks while their non-black boyfriends watch is the new sexual fetish. So get on board now before the train gets too crowded and if possible, be sure to check the site out at a public computer, preferably in your workplace. Trust me, you won’t regret it.


Earlier this week, I was making a chicken wrap. At the grocery store, I bought all the necessary ingredients: chicken, cheese, tortillas. I contemplated buying BBQ sauce, but then I recalled that we had not one but TWO bottle of BBQ in our fridge.

So when I got home I started making the wrap. In a matter of minutes, the chicken was nicely laid out on the warm tortilla, covered in cheese. All I needed was some BBQ sauce to drizzle on it before sticking the whole thing in the toaster to get all melty and yummy.

I grabbed the first bottle of BBQ sauce and saw that it expired in early August. Crap. BBQ sauce lasts for a year, so I got a kick out of the fact that I had sauce for over a year, even moving it when I moved into my new apartment in late May. My gastrointestinal problems have been well documented on here, so y’all know I don’t like to tempt fate by putting rancid food stuff into my already volatile stomach. So I chucked it, because we had another bottle.

Some background first before I continue:

• I moved to my current place in Little Italy in late May 2005
• I moved to my previous place in the Upper East Side in June 2004
• Prior to that, I lived in the Lower East Side from June 2002 to June 2004

The second bottle of BBQ sauce expired in April 2004. That means I bought it in the spring of 2003. That means it was in my fridge for two years and it survived TWO moves: from the LES to the Upper East Side and from the Upper East Side to Little Italy.

I don’t know what I should me more amazed/scared about: that I felt so close to this BBQ sauce and it was so important to me that I moved it TWICE instead of throwing it out and buying a new one or in two years my roommates and I never ate this BBQ sauce. I mean, there have been times when we’d come home drunk and strip that fridge bare, eating everything that didn’t move by itself or talk to us. And somehow we missed BBQ sauce, something that constitutes a solid 6% of my body fluid? Am I slipping?

But alas, it was not to be for my chicken wrap. I threw out the old sauce, used ketchup, and felt sorry for myself. Typical Wednesday really.


I have friends visiting this weekend, staying at my place. I decided to go back to Bed Bath and Beyond after work last night to buy a new shower curtain liner. This was not for any aesthetic reason, but it was a health and hygiene-based decision. Due to my frequent masturbating in the shower (there’s nothing like roughing up the suspect in a stream of lukewarm water, is there?) and whatever the hell my roommate Brian does in the shower, our shower curtain liner is a covered at the bottom with a pinkish orangey mildew. I’m convinced that something is incubating down there, a love child between me and bottle of Pantene.

So off I went to Bed Bath and Beyond. I have a major inferiority complex when dealing with these types of stores, mostly because they’re filled with nice home stuffs and my apartment is filled with stuff we’ve a) had for years; b) got for free; or c) stole.

And so I get confused and disoriented in stores like BB&B. I feel the need to overcompensate and buy everything. Taking a cue from "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy", I become determined to make my shithole of an apartment a stylish twentysomething New York bachelor pad.

But I have no taste. So I buy a lot of crap. A lot of crap.

Last night was no different. Before I knew it I was at the register swiping my credit card for a $210 purchase. What did I get? $50 worth of candles, some really expensive knives, an ugly picture, a fleece blanket, and a ton of other knick-knack crap.

You know what I didn’t get? A fucking shower curtain liner. Sweet. I was so flustered by the enormity of the place that I forgot the one thing I traveled all the way to Chelsea to get.

So it looks like my friends will have to shower among my shampoo children. Oh well. At least I tried.


Six Songs

"All Roads Lead To You" Sunshone Still
A friend passed this onto me and it's some great stuff. The whole album is delicious, the kind you can put on and listen to all the way through. It's kinda like moody country or something, rather indescribable – ambient, mellow, thoughtful. This particular song sounds like a mix of Chris Whitley and Nick Drake, but you can sample a few songs off the album here ("Damn You, California" will give you a good idea of the sound). Highly recommended.

"All You Got" Tegan and Sara
God I want to do these girls. Or at least whichever one is singing this song. That "Ooh, Yeah" before the "All you [verb] is me" refrain is too, too much. Damn I am weak.

"Star Struck One" Smoking Popes
One of the top five most beautiful songs ever. And certainly the most beautiful song of all time that has the word "pussy" in it.

"Can You Stand The Rain" New Edition
If the question that you ask me is, "What was your favorite song from 1988 to 1995?", the answer is this song. If the next question that you ask me is, "Have you ever shit in an empty can of chili just to see what it looks like?", my answer is 100% yes.

"Chloe Dancer (Crown of Thorns)" Mother Love Bone
Gorgeous piano intro, which, along with "Imagine" and "Louie Louie", constitutes my piano playing repertoire. But sadly the rest of the song sucks. The lead singer od’ed though, so that makes it cooler.

"Sultans of Swing" Dire Straits/Trey Anastasio Band
In June 2002, my buddies Bill and Joe and I went up to Burlington, VT to see the Trey Anastasio Band. I liked (and still like) Phish, but I never really got into their concert scene. When I do drugs, I like to do them alone, in a dark room with a couple of candles and a weird Sigur Ros song playing – not in a stadium with college kids and hardcore wookies who haven’t bathed since Columbus.

But at the Trey show, I got over that pretty quickly. I was already feeling pretty good going into the show when halfway through the first set the wook next to me offered me a joint of what I presumed was pot. Well, let me tell you something: I am no drug expert, but that shit was most definitely NOT pot. And if it was, it was some mutant shit, because it kicked my ass big time. After partaking, I spent the next hour or so convincing myself that Trey was going to play at my funeral (and do it for free). And I would die in a stampede. Not sure what kind of stampede – human, bull, elephant, drug-induced imaginary, etc – but that was definitely how I was going to die.

Eventually, in the middle of the second set, I started to calm down and groove to the music. In what seemed like moments, I was on another plane, doing the whole Phish/wookie dancing thing, which consists of looking like your having a seizure in a vat of chocolate pudding.

For the encore, Trey and his band (which was made up of your typical rock instruments and a horn section) did this song. The twist, which I believed Trey announced prior to starting the song, was that the three or four piece horn section would be doing the lead guitar parts, including the solo. And it was fucking awesome.

I was completely entranced at that horn section ripped through the guitar solo, and I was not alone: the crowd, already in a frenzy, swelled in appreciation. I was pretty high but I’m sure I had multiple orgasms. It was the closest I’ve come to a near death experience in my life (and I’ve had two heart attacks). The rapture was so just…damn.

I haven’t listened to the TAB version of this song since, because I feel like I will only be let down. How could it be the same for me now, riding the subway to work (mostly) sober, listening to my iPod? It just can’t.

But I recommend you check it out. Just the fact that those horns could do the solo is enough of a reason.

And if you really want to kick it in high gear, smoke some weird shit prior to listening. If no weird shit is available, mist a vodka tonic with some Fantastik (http://www.homegrocer.com/images/products/Fantastik-00286-S.gif). That should set you up.

[Please note: do NOT put Fantastik in your vodka tonic. It will kill you. Thank you.


Last week, my mom beat me in our NFL Contest, going 7-8-1 with her picks to my 6-9-1. Before everyone gets all up in my face, it’s only been one week (for those of you just tuning in, we skipped week one). However, that didn’t stop my mom from gloating all this week. When I informed her that she won, but did so just barely, she shot back an email saying, "But I still WON." Thanks Mom. Thanks a lot.

So here are my picks for this week, followed by hers. I feel like I have a good week in me, feeling pretty good about my Jags, Saints, and Pats upsets.

Jaguars +2.5 over JETS
RAMS -6.5 over Titans
EAGLES -8 over Oakland
Bengals -3 over BEARS
Saints +4 over VIKINGS
Panthers -3 over DOLPHINS
COLTS -13.5 over Browns
BILLS -3 over Falcons
PACKERS +3.5 over BUCS
SEAHAWKS -6 over Cardinals
Patriots +3 over STEELERS
Cowboys -6.5 over 49ERS
Giants +6 over CHARGERS
Chiefs +3 over BRONCOS

My mom’s picks:

Jaguars +2.5 over JETS
Titans +6.5 over RAMS
EAGLES -8 over Oakland
Bengals -3 over BEARS
VIKINGS -4 over Falcons
DOLPHINS +3 over Panthers
Browns +13.5 over COLTS
Falcons +3 over BILLS
PACKERS +3.5 over BUCS
Cardinals +6 over SEAHAWKS
Patriots +3 over STEELERS
Cowboys -6.5 over 49ERS
CHARGERS -6 over Giants
BRONCOS -3 over Chiefs

Me Last Week: 6-9-1
Me Season: 6-9-1

Mom Last Week: 7-8-1
Mom Season: 7-8-1

[Have a good weekend]

Wednesday, September 21, 2005
If you can, pick up today's issue of "Variety". Check out page 18 (well, the article starts on the front cover, but the good part is on page 18). Nice, right?

Treadwell, a life reviewed
So you're from Long Island, right? And you live this perfect childhood, developing into an athletic and good-looking teen. You go to college on a diving scholarship, but then a problem arises: you discover that you really, really dig booze. All the time, in any way. And in large quantities.

You hurt your back, meaning you can't dive, meaning you lose your scholarship, meaning you go from college parties filled with chicks wanting to bang you right back to living with your parents. And you ain't happy.

After a few months with the 'rents on LI, you say "fuck it" and move out to LA. You figure you have the look to become an actor and so head west to live the dream.

You take a series of odd jobs that a) pay you enough to keep boozin' and parting and b) allow you enough time to audition. You get a couple of bit parts here and there, but after one audition you learn you're a finalist for a new pilot. You just know the show is going to be HUGE and is your ticket to fame and stardom. You party with reckless abandon, because you know you have it. Everything is going well.

But then you don't get the part. Instead, some shmo named Woody Harrelson does. And the show, "Cheers", goes on to be kinda big.

You fall into a tremendous depression. Drinking, drugging, and partying accelerates until you're told by a doctor, "Stop right now or die very soon." And you know it's not a threat. It's a fact.

So what do you do? Why, go to Alaska to live among grizzly bears and dedicate your life to them, of course. I mean, duh.

The person I'm talking about is Timothy Treadwell. Treadwell spent thirteen summers along the Katmai Coast in Alaska, prime grizzly area, living with and filming the bears. During those summers, he lived alone among the animals with no weapons (not only did he not carry a gun, he didn't carry bear pepper spray or even set up an electric bear fence - something you can buy at your local sporting goods store for less than $200 and is 100% effective at keeping bears away from a camp).

Professionally, Treadwell did this to protect the bears and champion their cause. He, along with his former girlfriend Jewel Palovak, started Grizzly People, a "grassroots organization devoted to preserving bears and their wilderness habitat." When Treadwell wasn't summering with the bears in Alaska, he spent the rest of his time traveling to schools across the country, educating students about preservation of bears and the environment (he did not charge a fee for this).

Personally, Treadwell lived among the bears to work through his own demons. What was exactly wrong with Treadwell is impossible to say; certainly he had had his share of problems by the time he started coming to Alaska. But when he started living among the bears, he got so wrapped up in living with them that he, ostensibly, became a bear. He developed personal friendships with the bears, giving them names, talking to them, singing to them. In his films, over 100 hours of video, he talks at length about how much he loves them (really, really loves). After a few years his behavior became extremely bizarre. Bear tour guides reported seeing him in the bush among the bears, and when approached he would growl and huff like a bear before scampering away on all fours.

In September of 2003, Timothy and his girlfriend Amie, who had joined him for that year's expedition, left Katmai Coast to return to Juneau, en route home to LA. However, Timothy got into an argument with the airline rep at the ticket counter over changing his ticket, and so he and Amie returned for one more week to the area they called the "Grizzly Maze", a high traffic series of trails leading to a salmon-filled stream where bears gorged themselves before hibernating for the winter.

On their last day, October 6, 2003, the pilot who was to return Timothy and Amie to civilization landed at the same place that he'd picked up Timothy every year for twelve years before. Timothy was not there. The pilot got out of his plane, calling out for Timothy and Amie, before a grizzly appeared and chased him back into his plane. The pilot did a fly-over of Timothy's camp and his fears were realized: he saw a giant grizzly, hunched over what appeared to be a human rib cage, eating away.

Timothy and Amie were attacked and eaten by a bear or bears on the last day of their 2003 expedition. No one knows how exactly it transpired, but adding to the gruesomeness of the attack was a six minute audiotape, found later, that recorded the sounds of Tim and Amie being mauled and killed. By the time Park Rangers arrived at the seen, there was not much left of Amie and Timothy. Timothy had been eaten entirely, saved for his face and an arm. What was left of Amie's body was partially buried, something that grizzly routinely do with their kills so that they can return and eat them later. Two bears were shot on the scene by the rangers. The stomach contents of the larger one revealed clothing, human hair, bone, and forty pounds of human flesh.

But those close to him had said ad nauseum since his death that this was the way Timothy would have wanted it. He loved the bears, and so dying among them was his fate.

[Regarding the audiotape: Timothy was the first to be attacked, and Amie turned on the camera. However, the lens cap was on. So all that was left was the audio of their screams and death noises. Jewel Palovak owns this tape and it has never been released to the media.]


I remember reading about this on CNN.com when it happened during my usual work procrastination time and thinking, "Holy shit - that's fucking awesome and I'm never going in the woods or anywhere near a tree again." But it wasn't until last week when I was book shopping that I found "Grizzly Maze: Timothy Treadwell's Fatal Obsession With Alaskan Bears". When book shopping, I rely a lot on impulse, and this one really jumped out on me. A picture of a big-ass, scary bear; a kick-ass title; the words "fatal", "obsession", and "bears" in the subtitle; and an entirely reasonable 288 pages. I'm in.

And I was NOT disappointed. I'm not saying that I'm a fast reader or anything, but I read this book in three sittings over the course of two days. Of course, the story is enthralling, but author Nick Jans does a tremendous job of framing Timothy's life and obsession, providing details about Timothy, the Alaskan wilderness, and the nature of the grizzly, and, like those awful New York Times commercials say, really surrounding the story.

And wouldn't you know it - there's film out right now about Timothy's life and death. The film is called "Grizzly Man" and was directed and narrated by German Werner Herzog, who sounds so much like Arnold Schwarzenegger that at times it's hard to take his narration seriously.

The film was good but not great. Some thoughts:

1) Herzog's attempts to artificially create some touching moments, and it doesn't work. One of the people seen in the films is Treadwell's friend (whose name escapes me), who is introduced as "Bob Smith, Friend of Timothy Treadwell/Actor". And boy, does he act. Or rather, boy, is it obvious he is trying really, really hard to act. It's hard to take him seriously when he tries to be deep when talking about Treadwell and he comes off like a grade D actor (which is what he is, I presume). And if he really wasn't acting and is just an emotionally stunted person, I'm truly sorry for this loss.

There were also a lot of interviews with Treadwell's friends, and Herzog employs the old, "Let's keep the camera right in their face when they're finished talking, because they're probably going to break down if we film them in silence long enough" strategy. And they break down they do. But it feels cheap (not the genuine reactions of the aggrieved, but Herzog's manipulation to capture it on film).

2) I spent much of the film with my eyes half-closed and ready to fully close should any autopsy photos suddenly pop up on screen. The coroner plays a minor but substantial role in the film, and he discusses at length the injuries to Timothy and Amie. And it is gruesome, gruesome shit. I was cringing in my seat, expecting to see a shot of a skull with only a face left on it, or the remnants of a mostly-eaten rib cage. Thankfully, this was not shown.

Another concern was the audio tape. It is mentioned at length in the book, but of course a written transcription could never do it justice. A very touching scene in the film occurs in Jewel's home, with Herzog sitting across from her. Jewel sits with the camera that recorded the horror on her lap, Herzog with headphones on listening to the audio tape. Herzog tries to relay to the camera what he's hearing, before falling silent, seemingly overcome with the intensity and horror of the moment, and then asking Jewel, "Could you turn it off, please?" He then grabs her hand and tells her that she shouldn't never listen to it, that she should never look at the autopsy photos that he has seen, and that she should destroy it. All while she nods with tears streaming down her face. If I wasn't dead inside, I would have broken down. The tape is not mentioned again in the film. But I damn did I still want to hear it.

3) The film is worth seeing alone for the footage of Alaska and the bears. Treadwell is literally within feet of these giant bears, sometimes touching them. It's kinda hard for the viewer who is so used to seeing bears in movies to realize THESE ARE NOT TRAINED ANIMALS. And one of these bears later killed and ate him. Crazy.

But if anything, the film was a supplement to the book, putting faces with names and giving a more in-depth picture of Treadwell. Fascinating, sure, but after I saw what Timothy looked like and how he acted around the bears, I was all set and ready to leave thirty minutes into the movie. And yes, I know this is my fault, having finished reading the book only a day or two before, but shut up.


So if you have the time and are interested in bears, the nature of obsession, gruesome deaths, and wilderness, I highly recommend the book. And if you want to save a couple hours and are more of a visual person, check out the film.

And if we've learned anything from Timothy Treadwell's life, it is do NOT fuck with bears. I'm sorry to make a cheap joke and sum up the man's life's work so briskly, but seriously, I can't stress it enough - do NOT fuck with bears. Because they will fucking kill and eat you no matter how cool you think you are with them.

So if any of you reading this right now are friends with any bears, I recommend you start distancing yourself immediately. And buy one electric bear fences and some bear pepper spray. You'll thank me later.

Friday, September 16, 2005
nfl picks, week two
I'm very busy today and so can't do a big one for you now (will try to get more on later), but here's something you might like.

I've decided that for the rest of the season I'm going to pick NFL games on Friday (queue female readers groaning in disgust). I may have other posts on Friday, but at the very least I'll be getting my picks on here, with an update on the previous week's.

But there's a twist. In order to a) make it interesting for non-sports people and b) to prove that gambling is all luck anyway, all season long I'm going to pick games against someone who knows pretty much nothing about football: my mom.

My mom is not a sports person. Don't get me wrong - she knows a bit about sports by association. She does live in Philly after all, a town obsessed with da Iggles. She knows who Donovan McNabb and Terrell Owens are and knows that we lost the Super Bowl last year. But that's about it; she's more likely to know how good or bad her famous chocolate chip cake turned out for the Super Bowl party than the score of the game.

When I first emailed her about this idea, she was completely and utterly confused. I had to quickly call her to do some damage control to assure her that this was going to be easy and it's just a friendly competition and no, I do not have a gambling problem.

So after explaining to her for a good ten minutes all about the magical world of gambling, spreads, home field advantage, she said, "Well, I'm just gonna pick which one I like." My mother - like most mothers, I would guess - likes teams based on their names and colors. For example, she's a big fan of the Dolphins, because she really likes the teal, orange, and white combination (this proving that the Dolphins have the gayest color combination in all of sports - nothing says "We're a bunch of pansies" more than the Dolphins unis). She also thinks "Titans" is a good name for a football team.

And so it begins. Last week, I was 3-2, a surprising 66% correct. But we're wiping the slate clean this week so that we can have the ultimate gambling showdown: me vs. mom.

Here are my picks:

JETS -6 over Dolphins
Ravens -4 over TITANS
Steelers -6 over TEXANS
COLTS -9 over Jaguars
BEARS +2 over Lions
Vikings +3 over BENGALS
EAGLES -13.5 over 49ers
Bills +2.5 over BUCS
Patriots -3 over PANTHERS
SEAHAWKS pk over Falcons
Rams +1 over CARDINALS
PACKERS -6.5 over Browns
Chargers +3 over BRONCOS
RAIDERS +1.5 over Chiefs
SAINTS +3 over Giants
COWBOYS -6 over Redskins

And here are my mom's picks:

Dolphins +6 over JETS
TITANS +4 over Ravens
Steelers -6 over Texans
COLTS -9 over Jaguars
Lions -2 over BEARS
Vikings +3 over BENGALS
EAGLES -13.5 over 49ers
BUCS -2.5 over Bills
Patriots -3 over PANTHERS
Falcons pk over SEAHAWKS
CARDINALS -1 over Rams
Browns +6.5 over PACKERS
BRONCOS -3 over Chargers
Chiefs -1.5 over RAIDERS
SAINTS +3 over Giants
COWBOYS -6 over Redskins

The good news is that we picked 9 of the 16 games differently, so it should be interesting.

My ultimate hope is that this innocent lil' competition will open up a whole new world for my mom, exposing her to the dangerous underbelly that is gambling, so much so that eight months from now, she and I will be at the track together hiding in the parking lot from bookies and their goons. However, I realize that you must walk before you run, so let's take it one step at a time.

Thursday, September 15, 2005
San Gennaro, sleep, and sausage
Carnies have taken over my neighborhood. What was once a quiet, quaint little area (lie) is now teeming with the buzz of power saws, the banging of hammers, and the unmistakable sounds of Italian Americans yelling at immigrants from Mexico and Mexico-type countries. Yes, it's that time of year again: The Annual San Gennaro Festival is coming to Little Italy.

According to the website, the festival celebrates the patron saint of Naples, Saint, um, Gennaro. Despite its religious themes, by the looks of both the website and the way the neighborhood is bracing itself, there is apparently plenty of room for revelry and partying. In keeping with the Little Italy motif, I presume this revelry/partying will involve loads of overeating bad Italian food, saying things like "Eh?", "Whaddya say?", and "C'mon!", drinking lots of cheap wine, and talking about all things important to Italian American culture, namely wearing lots of jewelry, sneering, "My son is such a bastard", Tony Soprano, and tits.

To be honest, I don't know what to expect with the San Gennaro Festival. I didn't live in Little Italy last year, and though I lived only a few blocks away from Little Italy from 2002-2004, I only ventured into the area one time (and that was at the behest of some Italian American friends visiting from Philly). So prior to moving in, I was probably more familiar with actual Italy than the tourist-catering imitation of it tucked into Chinatown.

But what I do about San Gennaro is that I should be very, very afraid. A few of you have written in and warned me about this, saying things like, "If you think the neighborhood is loud and overcrowded now, just wait!" and "Honestly dude, just take off that week and get out of the area." Whether or not this warnings are justified remains to be seen, but I'm certain I'm going to find out the hard way.

The festival officially starts tonight, so for the past few nights I've been gently rocked to sleep by the aforementioned hammering, sawing, and, of course, yelling. Last night was especially raucous; as the carnies, Mexicans, and Italian Americans made final preparations for the massive influx of people/tourists/morons, the noise continued until well past 2am. I thought (as I do work at a law firm and all) that making such noise after a certain hour was illegal. I considered briefly either opening my window to yell or perhaps even going down there to confront the perpetrators, but I didn't want to get into some Ital (pronounced eye-tal)-machismo battle, resulting in me having to look over my shoulder every time I returned home drunk at 4am on a weekend night. So I did what any reasonable, intelligent pacifist would do: a drank half a bottle of Nyquil and then threw up all over my bathroom.

Sleep eventually came, but it was only a short visit, as just before 7 I was roused from my sleep by more banging and clanging. Truth be told, I don't mind the banging and clanging so much. Rather, I can deal with it. All my life I've lived in cities (Philly, New York, a brief stint in London) or noisy areas (Boston College's dorms and surrounding apartments). As such I've developed an immunity to most loud noises when trying to sleep, having learned how to bury them beneath the buzz of my air conditioner and thoughts of boobies, bouncing boobies, all over the place.

[Gorgeous boobies that are all at once large but supple, soft yet firm, and above all, proud. Proud, resilient breasts.]

But one noise I have yet to relieve myself of is the power saw, that weapon of carpentry that sounds like a dentist drill on cocaine and red bulls. When the noise started this morning, it was only of banging. Relieved (somewhat), I turned over the other side of the bed and let my mind drift to happier thoughts (think: Elisha Cuthbert, shower, shaving cream and razor, pubic hair). But then the power saw fired up, cutting through the cacophony and sending a jolt through my body. It was going to be a long morning.

Eventually, I rose, got dressed, went to work, etc, and have been passing through the day like a zombie. Work has been what one who hasn't been sleeping much would expect it to be: a series of short answers and retreats to my office. When I'm not closing my eyes or thinking "God, I'm going to take four Xanax tonight at 6pm and sleep for 14 hours", I'm constantly checking the corner of my computer monitor for the time, like I have some sort of nervous tick.

And I have the great Saint Gennaro to thank for this. All the grief that I'm experiencing today, all the misery of the past few nights/day, and all the forthcoming "I can't believe there are so many fucking people here!"-ness, all because of the patron saint of Naples. Actually, that's not necessarily true. I'm sure Saint Gennaro, when he was just "Gennaro", roaming the streets of Naples and being a good - nay, great - Catholic, had no idea that centuries later a bunch of mo-mo's would use his life and example as a reason to set up fifteen sausage trucks and countless games of chance (i.e. break the balloon with the dart, make a free throw and win, etc) on a fifth of a mile strip in New York City.

But such is life. The only thing that I can do now is try to make the best of the situation. And if this means eating so much sausage that at night I don't "fall asleep" but rather "lapse into a meat-induced coma", well, then so be it. I've never been one to shy away from a challenge, so bring on the encased meats.

Wednesday, September 14, 2005
I know I'm trying to put this issue to bed, but I got this email and couldn't resist putting it on here.
dude, don't listen to the haters. The QLCB theory is sound. Unfortunately there's another angle you overlooked. You forgot the part, the insidious, devilish part, however, where you (or I, because I am weak) tag yourself with a bit of that value you have sunk to. rare is the man, though he exists and I used to know him, who slums it, goes hogging, humps pregnant cattle, etc who turns around the next night and bangs underwear models two at a time.

it's tough to play in the mud without getting just a little stained. the more fat women i have fucked, the more fat women i tend to fuck. it's just the right playpen for me. and i can't leave because after all these years and precious few skinny women, I just know i'm about a 60 (on a good day) and a 70 is a major stretch.

for instance, i haven't fucked a skinny girl in a good two years, even though I've had the chance. i just can't do it. i get too close and i just crumble in the face of this self-imposed caste system. of course, there are plenty of hot women, mostly younger ones who are like 80's or 90's who i could bed, because to them, i'm older, occasionally funny, 'succesful' (as you point out they don't know about the habit of jerking off into a johnnie walker bottle while self-aphyxating with a pair of panties from Big N' Tall), etc and all the qualities that make my relative stock rise. But I know. And I know the last women I fucked could've made Shamu look shapely, and, somehow, that knowledge is deadly.

use a different name if you quote me. i'm dating someone. she is pretty. not skinny.

i enclosed a picture of my friend Brian's wife.

He has never fucked fat women.
I don't know what to add to this, and I'm not sure if I should laugh or cry or quit writing this website, but I wanted to give you an idea of the kind of emails I get. So I'll just throw this one out there and let you all take it in.

[By the way, the picture he sent was of a girl on a beach in a bikini who had a sick (as in "nasty", as in "great") body. Good for Brian.]

Tuesday, September 13, 2005
wedding primer
One of the staples of mid-twenties livin' is working the wedding circuit. After college, I got my first wedding invite and thought, "Awesome! A wedding! Free booze!" A year later, I got a second invite and thought, "Awesome! A wedding! More free booze!" In the time since then, I've gotten about 20 wedding invites. And now the feeling is, "Sweet - a wedding. I wonder how long it'll be before I clog the shitter at the hotel and get to feel awkward, looking apologetic as I stand in the bathroom watching some middle-aged Dominican guy plunging my feces-clogged toilet."

But recently the wedding invites have been coming in at an alarming pace. The good news is that this plethora of invites means that I have options. Being a wedding guest is an expensive undertaking, with transportation costs, hotels, gifts, and the inevitable raiding of the minibar/porn selection when I get back to my hotel room, loaded and lonely.

[Great name for my memoirs: "Jason Mulgrew: Loaded and Lonely." Up there with "The Rise and Fall of Nothing At All: How Jason Mulgrew and a Group of Con-Artists Destroyed the British Monarchy" and "Don't Tell Me How To Raise My Kids! The Jason Mulgrew Story" and "The Delicate Shepard: How Jason Mulgrew Saved NAFTA".]

It's not economically feasible for me to go to every wedding I get invited to, so I have to pick and choose which ones to go to. It may be slightly distasteful to turn down a wedding invite, but hey – what am I made of money? No - I am man made of iron and loyalty and passion, with a beard of steel wool and a penis like a Powerade bottle!


[I'm not trying to be a dick here by saying, "I get invited to so many weddings because I'm the coolest!" A lot of this has to do with being from an Irish Catholic family. My father is one of ten children and my mother is one of six, so I have forty or so cousins. Not only that, my extended family (second cousins and great aunts and uncles, etc), many of whom I'm close with, could fill a moderately-sized auditorium. So when I get an invite to a wedding in Minnesota of the orphan that my mom's cousin took in to raise as her own, I can decline. Unless of course (fill in stupid joke here).]

So since I've become a veteran of weddings - and will only get more experience in this area - I thought I'd write a little wedding primer for couples planning their nuptials. Because really, someone like me, who hasn't been touched by a woman not accidentally or in self-defense in ages, should really give wedding planning advice. On with the planning...

The Date
The first and most important aspect of wedding planning is the date. I'm not speaking of the specifics (i.e. according to the Pagan calendar, January 24 is the luckiest day to get married, whereas in Sephardic culture, April 12 is ideal) but of the general time of the year.

Of all the crap that goes into wedding planning, the groom should step up in this regard to make sure that the wedding does not take place during any major sporting events. For example, the first weekend in February (Super Bowl) is bad. As is the last weekend in October (World Series). Late March sucks (March Madness) and as do many weekends in June (hockey and basketball playoffs).

Please, do not believe that I am being glib here. Rather, I am very, very serious. There is no wedding on earth that I would go to if it coincided with my team playing in the Super Bowl or the World Series. None. I could be invited to a drug dealer's wedding where the party favors are prostitutes, the cake is made of cocaine, and the food choices are steak, bigger steak, and giant steak with blowjob and I STILL wouldn't go if the Eagles or Phillies were playing for the championship. Not debatable.

Serious grooms like myself (meaning, if I ever dupe a woman into marrying me or if she stays unconscious long enough) would essentially rule out everything from the last weekend in August until the second weekend in February (NFL and college football seasons and playoffs and end of baseball regular seasons and playoffs).

So grooms, if you take part in any part of the wedding preparation, do so here. Would you want to be getting married on the weekend on which your favorite team plays in the championship for the first time in fifteen, thirty, or fifty years? Do you know what the male guests at the wedding would do to/think of you if you let this happen? Not good, my friend. Not good.

As for non-sports related reasons, please don’t get married over a holiday weekend. It may work depending on where you and your family live, but if you have people coming from all over the place, pick another weekend. Do you really think guests want to spend their Memorial Day/Fourth of July/Thanksgiving weekends trudging half-way across the state/coast/country?

The perfect date to get married: Valentine’s Day. There are no major sporting events and for the rest of your life two presents/occasions become one. Studies have shown that knocking out Valentine’s Day and your anniversary in one shot could add years to your life. I'm not making that up. I'm just kidding – of course I am. But it's probably right.

The Time
Now we get more into specifics, because by "time" I mean day of the week and time of day.

This one is easy: Saturday evening/night. This is the best and really the only time to have a wedding. Friday nights are no good because that requires taking at least a half-day off at work. Fortunately, I get a crapload of vacation days, but if I had two or three weeks a year I wouldn't be so happy about using one of my days so I could travel to a wedding.

And any morning/afternoon wedding isn't going to cut it either. Who wants to wake up, get all dressed up, and go straight to church? That's the main reason I stopped being Catholic! And many times those with morning/afternoon receptions will say, "Well, the reception's over at 5 in the afternoon, but after that, we're going to a bar." Maybe it's because I'm getting older, but if I've been up since 9am and have been drinking from noon until 5pm, I don't want to keep drinking (wow - I never thought I'd write that. It kinda looks weird on paper.) I want to go back to the hotel room, order $60 worth of room service, beat off, and pass out. When I wake up at 9pm, I'll look for some more booze, but by then everyone else is passed out. Losers.

Saturday night is perfect. No day off required, plenty of travel time allotted beforehand, and also it's Saturday night - the universal time for getting messed up. Ideally, I don't want to go to a bar after a wedding. I want the reception to go from 8pm until 1 or 2 in the morning, so just as midnight comes up everyone is wasted and getting nasty on the dance floor (of course, while this is going on I'm in the bathroom with my dick in my hands crying because I'm lonely, but at least I have a nice buzz going). When the music stops, I want to go from the reception into a hotel room, preferably with a lovely lady to make our own magic but more likely with my buddy Joe to smoke some pot.

The Bar
You're probably thinking that I'm going to say that you must have a large open bar to have a successful wedding. But I don't think that's the case. One of the best weddings I ever went to had a cash bar. Obviously, an open bar is preferable, but it's not a dealbreaker. And sure, I say this now, at my desk, not really desiring a drink. Ask me again how I feel when I'm at my friend's cousin's wedding and I've just learned that it's a cash bar. I will probably punch you in the face (aiming for the neck of course, but I'm not much of a fighter).

What I think really makes or breaks a wedding bar is (and this may sound dumb) the bartender. I've been to weddings where I've been served drinks by a gruff guy in a tux who looked like the wedding bartending gig was part of his prison work-release program. I've also been to weddings where the bartender was a shot-giving boozehound who was indiscriminately serving tequila and high-fives all night long. This makes a big difference in the course of the evening.

I don't know how much choice couples planning their wedding have in this department and I'm pretty sure that no one's taking me seriously about this anyway, but please, pick a good bartender. For me, at least.

The, Um, Other Stuff

Location: Probably the most important thing to the happy couple matters little to the weird guy with the beard sitting at the table by himself smelling of brine and touching everyone's food as they're on the dance floor. A house, a hall, a yard - I don't care. So save your cash for the lobster cake appetizers and have it in that big-ass field just off Exit #126 on the Parkway. It matters not.

Music: Many might disagree with me on this, but please - no band. Wedding bands are so unconscionably cheesy I don't know how anyone would even consider a band over a DJ. What's better: hearing your favorite songs from the people who wrote them or some cheesy dickhead singing Shania Twain's "You're Still The One"? Would you rather get the party started with Chubb Rock's "Treat 'Em Right" or twelve thirty-something assholes blaring a sad version of "Play That Funky Music"? Having said that, some bands do work - apparently. I've yet to be at a wedding where I said, "You know what? That fucking band was awesome. And I can't believe that guy died on the dance floor. That shit was crazy."

And I know that most DJs are kinda cheesy, but there's an element of control here. Have a friend MC, tell the DJ not to say anything, and give him a playlist. What's so hard about this? Are you not paying the guy? And if he has a problem, fuck it - don't pay him. That's my motto when it comes to hiring people ("If they don't deliver, don't pay them") and it's gotten me pretty far in the past 26 years.

(Well, not very far at all, but whatever)

Food: Wedding food is for old people. Give me something to put in my belly to sop up the vodka, cranberry juice, and vanilla milkshake, and I'm cool. If you're looking to cut costs, do so here. I would focus more on the appetizers, which are consumed when people are still sober, then the main course, which many people view as an obstacle to get around before partying the night away. I can't count the number of times my friends and I have been at a wedding and have said, "Can they bring the food out already? I'm trying to get fucked up here!" That's when my buddy Bill usually says something extremely racist and the whole table gets quiet and awkward.

Transportation: Having a shuttle to take drunk guests from the reception back to the hotel is a must. Firstly because you don't want to have anyone driving around drunk (Q: "How was the wedding?" A: "Good, except for when I ran over that dog or deer or kid or whatever the hell it was"), but secondly because being a designated driver at a wedding has got to be one of the world's worst jobs. So get a bus or two.


So there's my lil' wedding primer. I hope you enjoyed it and take it into consideration when planning your next wedding. And now I'm going to go about the business of making the playlist for my wedding. Because you never know when you're going to fall in love and tie the knot or get someone pregnant and have to marry her because her dad was in prison and he's not going back under any circumstances if you know what he means and he thinks you do.

Monday, September 12, 2005
QLBC, a follow-up
There was quite a response to Friday's post about the Quantum Leap Cock Block theory. It was quite lovely to get all the emails on a Friday, when there are usually so few people reading it seems like I'm talking to myself (as you are all aware, I track my site statistics religiously and viewing them usually leads to my hand and my bird wrestling each other, locked in a mortal battle to the death).

The gist of these reactions was attacks on both me and JC for being - for lack of a better word - men. Maybe, they said, our female protagonist didn't have sex with JC again because he was a bad lay, or he was more of a dick to her post-coitus than he let on, or she simply didn't want to do him again, or maybe she was just drunk the first time, or maybe just looking for a one night stand. Why, they asked, did I and JC immediately assume that just because he couldn't do her again it was because of some grand philosophical issue? Why, they continued, do guys consistently need to make excuses when they don't get laid?

Ladies, we do this precisely because we are – for lack of a better word – men. We are insecure and just as dramatic as you all are. We get flustered in the face of rejection and half-assedly search for answers. And we are incapable of understanding why, when we have had sex with a woman, she won't have sex with us again. We don't understand what the big deal is; the hardest part is the first kiss, the first hook-up, the first love makin'. Shouldn't it follow that once that first one is in the books, the next should follow with ease? When it doesn't happen like this, we are at a complete and total loss.

So we invent things like the Quantum Leap Cock Block theory. And all things considered, I think it is a good theory and makes sense. Sure, the reason for JC not getting any was probably much simpler, but the important thing is that the QLCB allows JC to transfer responsibility for his lack of lovin' from himself and his own actions to a deeper, immutable law of the universe. And that, in and of itself, is all we men ever want to do: make excuses for our own sexual/relationship deficiencies. But please don't blame us. Blame our testes and penii. We simply can't control them.

I hope this short explanation answers some of your criticisms and preempts future emails on the subject. I also hope each of you is having as shitty a Monday as I am having. Until tomorrow, then.

Friday, September 09, 2005
2005 nfl preview
Because it's Friday and the NFL season technically started last night, I'm going to make this quick. Here are my NFL predictions for the 2005 season, as well as for some games this weekend.

(And please note: there is no way I'm adding up all the win-loss records to make sure they are even. That is entirely too much work for a Friday afternoon.)

NFC East
Philadelphia Eagles 12-4
Dallas Cowboys 9-7
NY Giants 7-9
Washington Redskins 4-12

There's the Eagles, then there's the rest. I'm not buying the Parcells-Bledsoe reunion, and the Giants and Skins haven't improved enough to warrant any serious consideration.

Minnesota Vikings 11-5
Detroit Lions 9-7
Green Bay Packers 7-9
Chicago Bears 4-12

The Vikings are NOT better without Moss, but they manage 11 wins with an improved D. The Lions have a lot of potential, and I think either Joey Harrington busts out (to respectability) or Jeff Garcia is starting by week six. The Packer's D is terrible and I'm actually third on the QB depth chart for the Bears.

Carolina Panthers 11-5
Atlanta Falcons 10-6
Tampa Bay Buccaneers 6-10
New Orleans Saints 5-11

Carolina is TOUGH. Vick, no matter how much of a "playmaker" or how "explosive" he is, continues to be a mediocre QB. I laugh as Gruden's Bucs flounder and the Saints have a long, tough year.

St. Louis 10-6
Arizona 10-6
Seattle 8-8
San Francisco 3-13

The worst division in football. St. Louis takes it because, well, someone has to. Arizona vastly improves, Seattle is just "eh" and San Fran continues to suffer. Alex Smith will be regularly getting picked off by week five.

NFC PLAYERS WHO CAN DRASTICALLY AFFECT THEIR TEAMS: Julius Jones, Kevin Jones, Steve Smith, Kurt Warner


New England Patriots 12-4
NY Jets 11-5
Buffalo Bills 8-8
Miami Dolphins 3-13

Same old situation. The Pats dominate, the Jets improve a bit, Buffalo show signs off life but Losman's learning curve is too steep, and what the fuck is going on in Miami?

Baltimore Ravens 11-5
Pittsburgh Steelers 11-5
Cincinnati Bengals 7-9
Cleveland Browns 4-12

Baltimore and Pittsburgh take turns beating the hell out of Cincy and Cleveland. I miss the days when the Browns were good.

Indianapolis Colts 13-3
Jacksonville Jaguars 9-7
Tennessee Titans 8-8
Houston Texans 6-10

Indy scores a lot. Jacksonville stagnates. Tennessee scores a bit too, but not enough. I actually had to look up Houston's team name because I had a brain lapse. I can only name about four guys on Houston and I'm a huge football fan. That usually means your team isn't that great.

Kansas City Chiefs 10-6
San Diego Chargers 9-7
Denver Broncos 9-7
Oakland Raiders 8-8

Four solid teams here and it wouldn't surprise me if any win the division. I'm thinking that Priest Holmes and Larry Johnson carry the Chiefs past the rest. But it really wouldn't surprise me if my picks were reversed.

AFC PLAYERS WHO CAN DRASTICALLY AFFECT THEIR TEAMS: Ricky Williams, Carson Palmer, Travis Henry, Randy Moss



1) Philly
2) Minnesota
3) Carolina
4) St. Louis
5) Atlanta
6) Arizona

Wild Card
#3 Carolina over #6 Arizona
#5 Atlanta over #4 St. Louis

#1 Philly over #5 Atlanta
#3 Carolina over #2 Minnesota

NFC Championship
#1 Philly over #3 Carolina

1) Indy
2) New England
3) Baltimore
4) KC
5) Pittsburgh
6) NY Jets

Wild Card
#6 NY Jets over #3 Baltimore
#5 Pittsburgh over #4 KC

#6 NY Jets over #1 Indy
#2 New England over #5 Pittsburgh

AFC Championship
#2 New England over #6 New York Jets

New England 31, Philly 25

And that's all I have to say about that.


Every Friday, I will be picking five games with spreads. I do this to show you that I am the worst gambler in the world. My guess is that by the time the season is over, I will have a winning percentage of around 35%. Because of karma, I will never, ever pick or bet on an Eagles game, as they are of course my favorite team.

So here are this week's picks (home team in CAPS).

VIKINGS (-6) over Bucs
BILLS (-4.5) over Texans
CHARGERS (-4.5) over Cowboys
Bengals (-3.5) over BROWNS
Saints (+7) over PANTHERS

Though I'm pretty confident about these games now, I bet when the dusts settles I go one, maybe two, for five.

On that note, have a good weekend and enjoy the return of the NFL. Finally, something to do with my Sunday afternoons besides sitting around, eating bacon, egg and cheese bagels, and feeling lonely/sorry for myself. Thank the Lord - not a moment too soon.

[Have a good weekend]

emails: the quantum leap cock block theory
First, thank you to all who replied with the name of the hot Levi's model that I mentioned last Friday. Chris from Philly was the first to tell me that it's the lovely and talented Tracy Zahoryin who starred in those commercials.

(Here's one guy's tribute to her. Scroll down for pictures and be filled with awe.)

(Actually, the Levi's ones are the only ones worth looking at really. In retrospect, she's not as good-looking as I thought, and I'm kinda sad.)

But the point is that once again, I made a call for help and many of you answered. God bless the internet. Thank you Chris, and Tracy, I'll see you soon. Cave pervert.

In other emails, after reading my Keith Sweat story, my buddy Chris from just outside of Philly (different from Chris from Philly above) wrote:

For the record, the best song to "have relations" with is "Also Sprach Zarathustra". I actually did it in college with a Phish bootleg and if you can time it perfectly so that you're hitting it with the climax part of the song, you're pretty much the f'n man. It's also good because since it's a phish bootleg you're just playing it off like it's some concert and "whoops this song just kind of came on." By far the best song for when "two become one".

2nd place: "Dogs singing Jingle Bells"... if you pull that off, well you're pretty much the f'n man.
Fuck "Zarathustra" – stop whatever you are doing now and download those dogs singing "Jingle Bells". When I first read Chris’s email, I quickly brought up my Limewire to download the dogs. Five seconds later I was on the floor with pee pee coming out my willy because I was laughing so hard. Then I listened to the dogs barking "Jingle Bells" on full volume about ten times in a row, causing my roommate Brian to barge into my room to say, "Dude, what the FUCK are you doing in here?"

This songs wins. Hands down. As a matter of fact, I DARE you to come up with something better than that. And please, don’t inundate me with stupid suggestions ("Dude, the best song to make out to is anything by the Spice Girls"). If you are unfamiliar with the rules, please read the Keith Sweat story (scroll down to the bottom of the post).

JC from Charlotte wrote in with an interesting theory:

I'd like to run something by you for your consideration. It happened to me a couple of years ago, but I wasn't reading your blog at that time. And since then, I've discovered what a sage you are when it comes to all things women.

I went to visit some friends in Atlanta (I'm in Charlotte) for a long weekend. One of the buddies was living with a platonic girlfriend at the time, and during that weekend they threw a nice little party (PJ, keg, and tons of whiskey). The girlfriend/roommate was an attractive brunette, freckles, the natural look, and kind of tall (5'8-5'10'), but she was a little overweight. Nothing to frown upon, but nothing to write home to mother either (assuming you write home to you mother about chicks you'd like to hump).

So one drink leads to the next and we end up naked in bed. We do the deed, sleep it off, feel awkward in the morning and then stay in touch via random emails for the next few months. No biggie.

A year or so after that a mutual friend was married and I saw the girlfriend/roommie at the wedding. She'd dropped a good 25 lbs. and was just SMOKIN' hot. Double take hot. Can't believe I slept with this woman hot. So naturally I went over to make conversation and see if she's interested in doing a little sheet dancin' later that evening.

The reaction I got from her was, as best I can describe it, polite disdain. It was just a very odd reaction to my flirting and friendliness. I've been shot down before and am pretty well versed in women's uncomfortable reactions to my humor, but this was a new one to me. I took it in stride that evening only to ponder it later on.

So, while high as a figurative kite, I stumbled on why I think I got the disdain. I call it the Quantum Leap Cock Block. (after the cheesy TV show, not the actual scientific theory).

This attractive, thin, personable young lady knew of my past relations with a heavy, attractive, personable young lady (her old self) and found it to be in poor taste. In other words, she didn't want to be with a guy who has hooked up with heavy chicks in his past. So my hooking up with her while she was heavy kept me from hooking up with her when she was thin.

Is it possible to cock block your future self with the same girl? I'm positive that I'm not explaining this well enough to make any sense, because it's making my head hurt just thinking about it...sober. But if you can muddle through the details here, I'd love to get your take on this strange phenomenon.
Hmm...this one has all the main mysteries of the universe: physics, cock blocking, and sudden weight loss. This is going to get ugly.

I have to say I have no precedent for this type of thing, nor have I heard of this type of thing happening to any of my friends. I've heard of two variations:

- Guy hooks up with girl, doesn't see her for a few months, sees her again and it looks like she's been spending time living in a cave eating dynamite and babies, but hooks up with her anyway because it's convenient;

- Guy breaks up with girl, doesn't see her for a few months, sees her again and she's hotter than when they dated. Tries to hook up with her to no avail, but not because he cock blocked himself by hooking up with her in the past, but because their emotional history/baggage prevents the hook up.

But at heart what this speaks to is something very important: stock price and lovin' market value.

When it comes to love, sex, and relationships, people are like stocks. They are commodities that have a value that a) can change over time; and b) allows them to be measured against others.

[My former writing teacher and pervert extraordinaire, Steve Almond, wrote a story in which one of his characters talked about the "beauty gradient". Meaning, I'm pretty good-looking and so a B+, you're pretty good-looking and so a B+ as well, so let's get together. But since I work in business (kinda) and Almond's gradient was immutable, we'll stick to stocks.]

Everything you do that is publicly known affects your stock price on the lovin' market. Get a big raise and promotion? Stock up 6 points. Get drunk and make out with a beast in front of your friends at the bar? Down 9. Lose a bunch of weight and get in shape? Plus 12. Get arrested for possession, go to prison for a few months, and get an STD? That's a veritable crash.

Whatever you do that isn't known, however, is ok. It matters not if you secretly watch tranny porn and get off by jerking off into your garbage disposal. As long as that information isn't known by others, particularly those of the other sex who can spread such information, then you're in the clear. Of course, when a company does not disclose potentially damaging information that would lower a stock price, that's securities fraud and there's usually a messy law suit. The good news is that the only thing that can happen to you when your girlfriend of six months catches you balls-naked crouching in the sink playing with yourself is that you get dumped. And trust me, getting dumped is MUCH better than being sued. Back back to the point...

Perhaps even more importantly that the fluctuation, this value allows you to be compared to others. Think about how often you walk into a room, look around, and judge others ("She's beat...she's out of my league...that girl looks like she would F somebody in the driveway...that chick has one leg, but is kinda hot"...etc"). You're immediately rating this people. If you talk to these women, their values might change depending upon how cool they are, but you're still constantly comparing them to others. Everyone has a value.

In this instance, we have a normal, slightly chubby girl. Let's say she's at 60. We have JC, normal guy who consents to hooking up with chubby girl. Therefore, he puts himself at her level - 60. It may be the case that he's actually 70 or 80 or 110, but his hooking up with her affects his value in her eyes, so she judges him as the same as her. And so JC is 60.

However, time passes. The chick loses weight and her value is positively affected. Let's say, if she's smoking hot, she's 90. When she sees JC again, seemingly the same as he was before, she views him at her old level, 60. Therefore, JC doesn't get his noodle wet by the girl, who is now out of his league.

So short answer: yes, it is possible to cock block yourself with the same chick. But this is so rare that though I support of the Quantum Leap Cock Block theory, I view it more as a microcosm of the larger lovin' market value system (and yes, I know that I need a name better than "lovin' market value system", one on par with "Quantum Leap Cock Block theory" - I'll work on it). Like I said, I don't know of anyone who this has happened to before (the QLCB), but people's stock prices fluctuate all the time - even dramatically so - so that I think the Quantum Leap Cock Block must be relegated to corollary status. Great idea, but not universal enough.

Coming later...the most abridged NFL 2005 preview ever.

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