Everything is wrong with me
Monday, October 31, 2005
No post today, as I try to make sense of a strange weekend, but I wanted to send my love. So, um, Happy Halloween and whatnot. Back tomorrow.
Thursday, October 27, 2005
For the most part, I have made it a practice not to lust after my younger siblings’ friends.
This may not sound like such a grand resolution, but you all know that I lust after everything and anything: boobies (and flesh in general), four-day old lunchmeat, used tennis balls, wires, tubing, worn hair pieces, etc. So for me to throw down the gauntlet like this, well, it’s pretty fucking impressive.
But, like they always do, things done changed. I left my hometown of Philly in 1997, at the age of 18. When I left, my little brother (and his friends) was 14. My little sister (and her friends) was only 11.
Since then, I have returned to Philly on breaks and vacations and watched these friends grow into, ahem, women. I don’t mean this in the pervy “I’m waiting in a trash can in your backyard” sense, but just that I see them when I go out.
(Ok, and one time I hid in one girl’s trash can for four days before I realized she was on vacation. What, and you’re perfect?)
But on each visit back home, I have managed to successfully restrain myself. It’s one thing for me to go up to an unfamiliar girl in Boston or New York and say, “Hey, I’ll give you $46 to come home with me and let me take pictures of you in my clothes”, but it’s another entirely to make such an offer to a woman and have her say, “You’re Dennis’ older brother, right? God, you are as creepy as I’ve heard.”
So I’ve done pretty well with this over the years. When I now go out in the bars in Philly, I’ll see my siblings’ friends, say a cordial and polite hello, and move on. Of course, I’ll spend the rest of the night with a mild erection thinking, “My god – look at her! The last time I saw her she was making her first communion, and now she looks like she’s been in at least a half dozen Vivid films!”
[Editor’s note: I realize that joke alienates the non-Catholics and the non-porn people, but get over it.]
But last week I spent a few days in Philly, hanging out, going out, and getting drunk and it was hard (no pun intended). Worse yet, it was (nearly) uncontrollable. I have to face the fact that my younger siblings’ friends are entirely lustworthy. Damn.
Firstly because, when I was 22 and 19, girls simply did not look like they do now. I know I sound like an old fuddy-duddy, but I know that every guy in America (and possibly Europe and Africa, but not Asia) who read that sentence is thinking, “Yeah, that’s true.” I don’t know what’s happened over the last decade or so, but I’m desperately trying to find out. When I was 18 (I’m 26 now), sure, there were some very attractive girls I was friends with (read: cranked called in the middle of the night to hear their breathing). But they were different…they were certainly good-looking and attractive, but, as referenced above, the didn’t look like they were coming off a shoot of “Island Fever 2” or “Where The Boys Aren’t, Volume 12” (of course, this isn’t to say that this new breed of girls is slutty, but that they just have a certain look about them – although if they were slutty, that is something I totally support).
Secondly, there is the element of the shock factor. For example, one night I saw a girl who I hadn’t seen since she was about 11 (maybe eight or nine years ago) and when she said hello I didn’t recognize her. When in mid-conversation I finally did recognize her, I actually blushed because she had really, um, blossomed. It’s kinda like that SNL skit I love so much: the one in which Lindsay Lohan plays a newly-busty Hermione, shocking Harry Potter and the other characters (sorry, I don’t know any other Harry Potter character names because I’m a grown-ass man).
Thirdly, young girls are HOT. Maybe it’s because they don’t have the baggage/history that women my age come with, baggage that renders them bitter, distrustful, and incapable of any emotions aside from “need” and “want” and “infliction of distress” (again ladies, that email address is firstname.lastname@example.org). Maybe because it’s unorthodox or even taboo to date someone much younger than yourself. Or maybe it’s just because we men want to do them first, before they’re collecting sexual partners like tubes of lipstick or scrunchies or whatever the hell else it is that women collect.
Fourthly, I’m no Denzel, but when learning of many of the guys these girls are sleeping with (most of them time, secretly sleeping with), it is easy to lust after them more, putting all your faith into “if he can get her, why can’t I?” that I have struggled many a night with. This conversation happened a lot:
Me: “My god – is that [some girl I haven’t seen since she was 13 and now looks like a Hooters trainee]?”
Buddy: “Yeah, that’s her. She really grew up, didn’t she?”
Me: “Good lord! Is she with anyone?”
Buddy: “Yeah, she’s messing around with Tommy C.”
Me: “Tommy C? Isn’t that the guy that pushed him mom down a flight of stairs? The really bad gambler, right? And isn’t he like 36?”
Buddy: “That’s him. But don’t tell anybody. He’s getting married next month to some hot-ass Rican broad from Fairmount, so it’s secret.”
Me: [stabs penis with fork]
So it’s over for me. I have tried very hard over the years to do my best and shrug off these sex kitten friends of my siblings, but I can no longer do it. And to be honest, I’m not concerned. I probably should have known this day would come eventually. But perhaps I’m worried that this is an après ceci, le deluge-type thing. Now that I am ok with lusting after them, maybe I’m going to start approaching them in bars asking them if they’d like to see my dad’s basement or if they know that I live in New York City (“In Manhattan, actually. Have you heard of Manhattan? Do you know the show Friends?”). Maybe I’ll start talking at length about the luxurious trips I take to faraway places, hoping that my stories about the African plains and the fjords of Scandinavia (all lies of course) will lead to a shared cigarette and a smooch. Or maybe I’ll just get very drunk and yell inappropriate things at them from the bar stool. Probably that last one.
The good news is that I’m not planning on returning to Philly for a while, so maybe I’ll cool off before then. Let’s just hope that happens, or else I am going to have some big problems. And by “I” I mean “These girls”. I’ll be just fine, only because I always am.
God I’m so fucking high right now. Time for a nap.
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
some world series-related thoughts
1) Do black people go to Astros games, or is that not allowed? Was it “White Night” at Minute Maid last night? I think I saw maybe a half dozen black people in the stands at the game last night, although most of the time it was only a quick glimpse so they could have been really tan Italian or Greek guys. Did anyone else notice this, or am I just sensitive because I’m been secretly dating a hot black chick?
2) Why do so many players have trouble being called off pop ups? Why do easy pop ups so often end in collisions or near-collisions between players? Do the players not hear each other saying “I got it?” Is it an ego thing? Do they get an extra $100 per pop up? When I was in Little League, I used to let my teammates go after pop ups all the time and it was not a hard thing to do. I mean, fundamentals, people. If one guy says “I got it”, let him take it. This is not hard.
3) What the fuck is wrong with Dustin Hermanson’s goatee? Are those white splotches on his chin or is he trying to do some AJ from the Backstreet Boys-type thing? Judging from this picture from when he was in Boston, I think he likes the AJ carved goatee look. Either way it looks ridiculous.
4) Craig Biggio is a very easy player to root for. Not only does he consistently produce despite being 5’1” and not having a batting helmet that actually fits him, but he’s a class act too. His wife was in the stands in Chicago for Game Two and was slapped by a (male) White Sox fan. Biggio went into the press and said it wasn’t a big deal and that he wasn’t going to judge all the ChiSox fans because of the actions of some jerk. Good for him. If someone hit my wife, I would have taken him into my basement and raped him with a shoehorn, but that’s just me.
5) AJ Piersynzkeisni looks like a real asshole. I know every team he’s played for has hated him and I can see this in his face. Something about the smug look he has screams, “I am a real douche.” I just want to punch him in his fucking face. And he doesn’t even owe me money.
6) Paul Konerko has a really unfortunate bald spot. I’m trying to thing of what celebrity he looks like with curly hair and the bald spot, but I don’t have anything (Steve Guttenberg maybe?). But regardless, he’ll be able to afford plenty of Rogaine come this winter.
7) I know the Sports Guy talks about this a lot, but the incessant promos for Fox shows are going beyond advertising and entering the world of psychological manipulation or even hypnosis. My god, enough already with “Bones” and “House” and “Prison Break”. If you’re going to promote at least one of these shows during EVERY commercial, can you at least make several commercials for each? Like maybe show one “Prison Break” commercial wherein the protagonist is sitting on the toilet in his cell pooping and the narrator says, “He broke into to prison to break out his brother. But he never realized how embarrassing shitting in front of another man is. [pause for six seconds while camera closes up on guy shitting with his head in his hands] Boy this is uncomfortable.”
8) I’m glad the Astros got rid of the playoff beards. This ain’t hockey, geeks: you’re wearing tights and hitting a little white ball. So dispense with the lumberjack look.
9) I’m sorry, but any pitcher with bleach blond hair doesn’t scare me. Houston’s Mike Gallo has hair whose color can best be described as “lemon.” And though he did his job, he looked ridiculous doing it. Guys, no hair dyeing. C’mon. You should know better than this.
10) Heck of a Series so far, despite the 3-0 Sox lead. But we’ve got to try to limit the extra inning games. I like baseball as much as the next guy, but after four hours, things get kinda blurry and I start zoning out. I think the ‘Stros win tonight, but then the Sox finish it in Houston tomorrow night. And I know a lot about sports, so feel free to wager on this if you like.
Monday, October 24, 2005
Many years from now, long after my spectacular death in a garbage fire, my authorized biography will be released. It will come after several unauthorized biographies, which will contain various half-truths and lies, like how I was briefly Vice President in Charge of Operations for Petco (half-truth; I was CFO), how I played a small but important role in the Falklands War (lie; not even sure what the Falklands War is), how I don’t know how to use a fax machine and have always hated this about myself (half-truth; no idea how to use a fax machine but I don’t care), and how once when cornered by a gang of youths in 2000 I turned a potentially dangerous situation into a satisfying sexual romp (lie; I wasn’t cornered, it was two men I met at club and not a gang, it was only somewhat satisfying, and it cost me $400).
Of course, there will be shocking revelations in this authorized volume, penned by my long time friend and confidant, this guy. And of course, I won’t reveal these revelations now, because I want you to buy the book. Not for me, because I’ll be dead, but for my estate, to whom I will leave many, many legal bills and gambling debts and countless half-Taiwanese children, all named Sip-Sip.
But there will be a lot of talk in the biography about how, though loved by literally millions – even trillions perhaps – I have, for the most part, few friends. This is my own fault entirely. It’s not because I’m not that open of a person and yada yada yada, but this isn’t therapy. It’s also because I suck at the whole keeping in touch thing and doing my part to make friendships work. I’m not good at following through with plans, I don’t return most emails, and if you call me, there’s a less than 10% chance I’m going to call you back (in part because of my horrible Sprint cell phone; by the way, I think I’m getting a Sidekick – please email me if you have one and tell me what you think).
Basically because I’m lazy, self-centered and somewhat private, I don’t have a lot of friends (I should say that this applies to NYC only; I have lots of friends in Philly and Boston and had lots of friends in NYC before everyone moved out). I have lots of associates and people I get along with, but few tried-and-true, “wipe my ass after I’ve shit myself on your bedroom floor and passed out” buds. Sad, but true. The good news is that I always manage to convince myself that I have more, but the bad news is that this weekend I learned that it just ain’t true.
On Saturday night, Brian and I had a joint party. Friday was Brian’s birthday. He is now 27, and we are all happy he made it this far. Seriously, I don’t know how he’s lived this long, but we’re not going to start questioning this, lest we jinx him.
On my end, I’m working on this. For legal/pr reasons, that’s all I can say about that until further notice. I’m also working on another project which I can’t speak about for the same legal reasons (not the same exact legal reason, but a different set). Additionally, my wonderful, wonderful employer has made it possible for me to work only one day a week while I pursue these other things. So basically this is the best time of my life and this party was to celebrate that.
[And yes, I hope to make an official, tell-all announcement very soon. But please, this is all I can say now, so don’t inundate me with emails. Believe me, I want you all to know, and as soon as I get the green light, I’ll let you all know, but this stuff takes time. But know that I’m working one day a week at my real job and writing (read: sleeping in, being slovenly and disappointing people) the rest of time. Thank you for understanding.]
We even classed it up a bit. We usually have our parties at the Keltic Lounge on Ludlow Street, but this time around we went for the Happy Ending Lounge. Brian and I had been there before several times, and it’s not too fancy for scumbags like us and our friends. Plus, it was a special occasion: Brian is old and I’m livin’ the dream, so a lil’ fanciness wouldn’t hurt.
What we didn’t know was that the location of the bar really didn’t matter. By the end of the night, Brian summed it up best: it was a new personal low. Ladies and gentleman, Brian and I had our party at Happy Ending. We were there from 10pm until 4am. We were expecting around 50 people. Six people joined us.
(Eight if you include Brian and I. But I don’t think we should.)
I should clarify to say that six people spent a decent amount of time at the bar. By that I mean that six people were at the bar for longer than one hour. Roughly ten others stopped in for a drink en route to other, no doubt more exciting places and parties.
Six. I sent out an email inviting around 80. Six came and hung out. Ouch.
In truth, I am not that bothered by this. I had a pretty decent time with those that did come, managed to get very drunk, bought drinks for everyone, and had my credit card rejected because it’s maxed out. Good stuff.
And like I said, it’s my fault too. I stink at being a friend, so I shouldn’t have been surprised. Also, a few people replied to the email to say that they couldn’t make it. Also, it was pouring rain and around 48° out, so if I didn’t have a party to host I probably wouldn’t have come either.
But damn – six. That’s just embarrassing. I don’t want to turn this into a pity party, because I’ll make it. Sure, Brian and I might just have to move out of NYC and rent a house upstate where we can get messed up and start fights with trees, but if that’s what we have to do, that doesn’t sound too bad.
And I’m not, in any way, mad at those who didn’t come. I’m sure they each thought, “Jason is the most wonderful and charismatic person I know, so I’m sure he won’t even notice if I don’t make his party, because there will probably be all sorts of athletes, celebrities, and strippers there.” I’m ok with that. Of course, these people didn’t know that I locked myself in the bathroom for two hours during the party while my friend Jeremy talked through the door consoling me, finally getting me to come out only when he promised me that we’d go to Friendly’s the next day. God bless him.
But the whole incident made me put things into perspective. I need to do one of the following things:
1) Be a better friend. I doubt this is going to happen, so let’s just move on. Although maybe if I get that Sidekick, that will help.
2) Join some groups or some shit. Maybe I can look for friends on craigslist or join a choir or discussion group or something. This probably isn’t going to happen, because I’m not good at meeting new people and I don’t really want to discuss anything except how awesome I am and how much I can bench press.
3) Move. I can either move to Philly or Boston where I have friends and family, or to LA, where I don’t know anyone but I can start over as a vegan, environmentalist, and horrible writer who uses way too may run-on sentences and doesn’t place quotation marks properly. Odds are not good on this either, because moving would require a ton of physical effort, something I am strongly averse to.
4) Nothing. Winner.
So that was the big party and this is what I’m going to do. I don’t really have an ending or a point, so I’ll go with this: Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go lie on the couch and watch ESPN all afternoon. If I get ambitious, I might make a giant omelet, but right now I can’t tell either way.
Friday, October 21, 2005
sizemore/paris, karaoke gibby, id1g1t, music, nfl (not) picks, b-day
Erin in the Philly was the first to send me this.
My fascination/love with/for Tom Sizemore has been well documented on this site, and this latest piece of news makes me very happy, because it just keeps getting better. Just when you think he can’t top himself after releasing his own homemade porn, he goes and claims that he banged Paris Hilton.
The thing is, I would believe him if his story wasn’t so far-fetched. Sizemore “heard the repeated clicks of a cigarette lighter and followed the sound to his gym, where he saw Hilton, and suggested rather explicitly that the two should have sex.”
Survey says? No way. That’s too, too…porno-like. That doesn’t happen in the real world, even in the world of celebrities. I’ve seen every Paris Hilton sex tape and I know that she’s not coy enough for something like that. If Sizemore had said,
“I had a party at my house and went to take a shit and found Paris passed out in my bathroom with a bottle of champagne. She attacked my penis like a piece of kielbasa, passed out, and I made her sleep in my pool house. It was pretty uneventful.”I would have believed him. But the clicking lighter and sex on the gym equipment? No way. Hell, I think I’ve seen that actual scene in “Masseuse 3”, starring Stacey Valentine, Jill Kelly, Raylene, and Dale Debone. So don’t try to tell me that actually happened, Sizemore.
But I wait with bated breath for his next misadventure. If I had to guess, I’m thinking it’s got to involve either a) a church or other house of worship or b) something racist. At least I hope it involves one of those two. Let’s keep our fingers crossed.
Thanks for the all the kudos on the karaoke post. A lot of y’all wrote in, offering additional karaoke types, but David from Venice (California, not Italy) gave the best example:
In your list you need to include what we can call the 'Kirk Gibson' or 'Gibby'. For whatever reason, he doesn't sing at karaoke bars...ever. Perhaps you've had one or two or ten drinks in yer belly and you try to cajole, harang, or intimidate him into singing (by the way, is there no better word in the English language to get another guy to do something than by calling him a "skirt"?). For whatever reason, he refuses to get on stage. Maybe he "isn't drunk enough". Maybe "all the songs the karaoke dude has sucks." Maybe he just doesn't "want to make an ass out" of himself. Maybe he's "got really intense diarrhea and cannot be away from the toilet for more than two minutes". Whatever. Over the years you have never seen him do anything at a karaoke bar but drink and make snarky remarks about everyone who gets on stage except for that drunk-ass Pancho who sings "Strokin'" before he passes out on the bar because that guy fucking rocks. Anyways, one night you are at a karaoke bar, and you don't expect 'Gibby' to sing, because it's just not in the cards.Dynamite. This is a classic karaoke guy who I overlooked: the guy who gets up and out of nowhere bangs one out, shocking the whole room, and rides off into the sunset.
Until one night, you notice that he has hobbled his way onto the stage. He looks in rough shape. You almost sense how much pain he is in being up there. You hope for the best, a miracle, but you feel that the deck is stacked against him. But somehow it all comes together, and he knocks it out of the park. Whether it is your version of Joe Cocker's "I Am So Beautiful to You" or Random Asian Guy with Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'" or some guy doing David Lee Roth's "Just A Gigolo" or Guns-n-Roses "Paradise City" (all eighty minutes of it), the song and performance just bring the house down...and then he never sings again. All of this is like Kirk Gibson in the 1988 World Series: wasn't supposed to play, suddenly appears in the dugout, hobbles out to the plate, belts out a memorable, emotional game-winning home run, and never appears in the World Series again. Hence, the Karaoke Gibby.
Also, I love any example that reminds of my childhood so vividly. The Gibson home run off Eck was one of the first “I remember where I was and what I was doing when that happened” sports moments of my childhood, right up there with the Tyson-Douglas fight, the A’s-Giants Earthquake game, and when the Ultimate Warrior fairly beat Hulk Hogan in WrestleMania VI. God I miss those days.
(Maybe I should write a book about my childhood?)
If you don’t know, now you know: ID1G1T is the coolest site on the web. It allows you to listen to songs right on your PC, or you can right-click and save the song to your desktop.
And they have a ton of stuff on there, including most, if not all, of our Six Songs selections. I was hoping from now on to hyperlink each Six Song to ID1G1T so that you can just click and listen, but for technical reasons that I’d rather not get into, I can’t do that. So you’ll have to search for them yourself using the link above, but at least you’ll be able to listen to each Six Song from now on (most of them, at least).
“Ain’t That Enough” Teenage Fanclub
I referenced it in a post about a week ago, but it deserves it own “Six Song” designation. Airy harmonies, fun guitars, and happiness, happiness, happiness. Download it and listen to it while driving in a convertible.
“Midnight In Her Eyes” The Black Keys
This is dirty, dirty rock. So filthy I want to take a shower after listening to this song. Distorted guitars and a singer who sounds like he could easily drink you under the table, not that he would ever make such a claim, because shit like that is for losers and drinking is for getting drunk and getting drunk only. On a side note, if I ever went to a strip club and saw a stripper dancing to this song, I would do everything in my power to make her my wife. And I’ve been working out lately, so I have a lot of power.
“Lady Stardust” David Bowie
Some of David Bowie’s songs are so beautiful they make me want to cry. If were talented and ambitious, I think I could write a whole movie or novel just by listening to this song over and over again. So, so pretty, except for the last line, where David mumbles (I think), “Get some pussy now.” Otherwise, pretty song.
“Fight Test” The Flaming Lips
I love sad songs the best, but I love original sad songs even more. By this I mean that there are thousands of songs that say, “I’m sad since you left.” This song says, “I’m sad because I let another man take you from me and I didn’t put up a fight for you.” Elegiac is the word I’m looking for, I think, but I only got a 470 on the verbal portion of my SAT.
“I’m A Cuckoo” Belle and Sebastian
If you want to walk around with a smile on your face, blast this number from your iPod. You’ll be skipping down the street by the second verse.
“Thundercrack” Bruce Springsteen
An epic on par with The Who’s “A Quick One While He’s Away.” I’m not particularly a fan of the Boss, but this one gets me all riled up (and not in that way).
You may have noticed that last week I didn’t write about my and my mom’s NFL picks. This feature has been permanently discontinued. Not because I was losing; indeed, if you’re read even a little bit of this website you know that losing is something that I am used to. Rather, no more NFL picks for two reasons:
1) You all didn’t like it. In keeping with the whole “We’re going to complain about something we get for free”, the email/hate mail was enough to turn me off. So I get it – you didn’t like it. No more.
2) My mom got WAY too competitive about it. Before, she and I never spoke about sports. By week two, she was calling me on Sundays, asking me how she was doing and who I picked for certain games. I was afraid that by week nine we’d no longer be speaking to each other.
So no more picks. Gambling is a bad habit anyway (and I have my fair share of vices already, thank you very much).
Finally, happy birthday to my asshole roommate Brian. We will be celebrating on Saturday night, so that means at about 4:14am on Saturday night/Sunday morning Brian will be incarcerated and I will be at the sixth precinct screaming, “Do you know who the fuck I am? I am my own man! I am a grown-ass man!” at the top of my lungs as some of New York’s Finest mace and/or club me (probably both). So if you want to meet me, come on down. And bring some oatmeal raisin cookies, because I’m thinking I’ll need some comfort food.
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
On Saturday night I went to a birthday party for a female friend (actually, two female friends) at a karaoke bar. That means tons of drunk girls with full access to a very loud microphone. Yikes.
Now I’m not one to throw stones and come down on karaoke. Last August, I gave arguably the greatest performance in karaoke history in the Bahamas, actually threatening the structure of the hotel because I received such thunderous applause. It was, and always will be, the greatest moment of my life. So before we continue, know that I like karaoke.
However, on this particular night, I wasn’t “feeling it.” I was suffering some several gastrointestinal distress (thank you Pomodoro’s vodka slice) so I couldn’t get drunk enough to let my inhibitions fly and sing my enlarged heart out.
But the good news is that I was able to sit on the sidelines and ponder. When I wasn’t thinking about the gargantuan breasts of the bartender and waitress (seriously, they were SPECTACULAR – and you know I’m not fucking around when I use capital letters like that), I took notice of all the people singing karaoke, dividing them into the ten main types of karaoke-ers below.
The group of screaming girls
By far, the most abundant source of noise, I mean, singing, at the karaoke bar. The group can consist of anywhere from two to ten girls standing on stage, screaming like a gang of deaf mutes to a girl power song (number one example: “I Will Survive”). Those girls that didn’t have the cajones to get one stage to sing will stand in front of the stage and root on their friends wailing their hearts out. Just a messy, messy scene. If I weren’t so lonely, I’d say that I couldn’t date a girl who partakes in this, but times are tough.
The black guy who can really sing
Every karaoke bar has one. He’ll get on stage and do a random D’Angelo, R. Kelly or Gerald Levert song just go OFF, singing every note perfectly, getting way too into him, and doing every noise, squeal, and extended “Oh yeah” and “Yeah baby” that his hero sings.
But however good his singing voice, he is looked down upon by the audience. His intense effort, seriousness, and high pitched “Oh yeaahh, yeah-yeah-yeah, you know I’m gon’ love you right, girl” turns the audience off. Instead of getting compliments like, “Man, you sound exactly like R. Kelly!” he hears, “Man, you need a hobby or some shit” and countless American Idol jokes. Poor guy.
The fat chick who can really sing
The fat chick who can really sing is closely related to the black guy who can really sing, with one main difference: he’s black and she’s fat. But another example of someone getting on stage and going for at all, leaving the audience feeling more saddened than awed.
The unattractive girl who after she sings is much hotter
One time, many years ago, I was at a karaoke bar in Boston and this chick got up on stage. She was somewhere between not good looking to average, but didn’t have any major physical deformities (giant head, one arm, moustache, tail, etc).
Anyway, she got up there and did a near-perfect Janis Joplin impression to “Piece Of My Heart” and every single guy in the bar was in love with her from the first note. It was an incredible transformation from meek average girl to sexual angel of sin and lust (or something). She didn’t have the scratchy voice like Joplin, but she nailed it. I remember my friends and I got quiet when she started singing and when she was finished, my buddy Tom broke the silence saying, “Well, that was just about the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”
I didn’t see her on this particular Saturday night, but I know she exists. Keep an eye out for her. In fact, you might want to hit on OK-looking girls at the karaoke bar hoping that they get on stage and do something hot. That’s called buying low and selling high.
The random Asian/Southeast Asian guy who lives for the stage
A karaoke bar staple. This is arguably my favorite character at the karaoke bar and this guy was in full effect on Saturday night. Up to the stage went a conservative looking bespectacled Asian guy in a red North Face jacket with the sleeves rolled up, and he proceeded to bring the house down with an impassioned performance of Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing”. When it was over, there wasn’t a dry eye in the room. Just tremendous in every way.
This would be the category that I fit into, I think. The guy who gets up there to do something funny, like dedicate a song to a girl or sing something retarded (i.e. Tiny Turner’s “Private Dancer” or The Scorpion’s “Winds of Change”). Of course, this has varying degrees of success and can either be an enjoyable experience or leave the singer and audience feeling awkward and ashamed. With me, it’s mostly the latter. Damn.
The group of douchebags/guidos/meatheads who sing a popular song
These guys will get on stage to show off their new striped shirts (which of course are opened to reveal their pumped pecs and white beaters), their awesomely gelled hair, and their muscles and sing something dumb like “Hit Me One More Time” or another corny pop song.
Of course, the performance stinks and anyone with an IQ over 90 and a moderate amount of self-esteem either shakes their head in disgusts or laughs at these guys, but what amazes/saddens me is how many dumb (yet super hot) girls go nuts for this stuff. I mean, it is a rule that really hot girls have to be dumb and go for dumb guys? Did I miss this somewhere along the line? If I were a dumb hot chick, I’d think that maybe I’d think to myself, “I’m hot, but very dumb. And being dumb sucks. So since I can have any guy I want, I’m going to go with a smart guy, a guy who knows that ‘longitude’ is not a way to brag about the length of one’s penis. This way, maybe my kids will be smart and won’t have all the problems I faced in my dumb life.” But I guess that never happens and if I ever want to fulfill my dream of making it with a hoop-earring wearing, busty and tan hot mama, I’m gonna have to hit the gym, salon, and Banana Republic. Crap.
The drunk guy who has potential but then it gets sad
This is my other favorite character. This is the blitzed guy who gets up on stage to the cheers of his friends, who are expecting a stellar, alcohol-fueled performance. The drunk guy who has potential but then it gets sad will soak in the cheers, waving to his buddies as he slowly rocks back and forth on stage, drunk off his ass. Now is his time.
Then the song will start, and it’s all downhill from there. He’ll mumble through the most of the song and forget the rest, not realizing that the words appear right on the screen in front of him. His friends, who had been cheering, will look at him in disgust and start heckling him as he struggles through “Billy Jean” in a monotone voice. Most of the time, disappointed with his performance, he’ll simply walk off the stage mid-song. And everyone is sad. Except me of course, who is standing by the bar laughing and looking at the bartender’s cleavage, wondering why I woke up in an abandoned car that morning. But that’s just me.
The guy/girl who gets way too into it
This guy (or girl) can take my different forms. Perhaps, like two examples above, he can really sing and gets very emotional and into the song. Or perhaps, this guy can’t sing but still gets into the song anyway, because he thinks he sounds exactly like Robert Plant. Or perhaps even this guy is so wrapped up in the majesty that is “Closer to the Heart”, he starts dancing around and doing the air guitar.
Any way you cut it, he needs to relax, come down of the stage, and sit the next few plays out. There’s a little bit of this in every karaoke performer and that’s ok, but when you rejoin your friends at the table and they say, “Dude, what the fuck was that?”, you’re doing something wrong.
This guy is the perfect combination. He knows his voice and range, has good stage presence, has his timing down, and delivers a smooth performance. Rare is the person who can make everyone at the karaoke place happy, but this guy can do it. “Magic” is the only word that comes to mind.
[I read the above a paragraph over and debated changing “guy” to “guy/girl” and “his” to “his/her” to lessen the homoerotic overtones, but fuck it. I stand by everything I write. Mostly.]
So there are the ten types of karaoke-er. The question is: which one are you? I would say you’re probably The random Asian/Southeast Asian guy who lives for the stage, only because over 87% of my readers live in Asia, Southeast Asia, and Eurasia. Christ, I’m like a god in Hindustan. Or maybe it’s one of the other “-stan” countries. Whatever.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
a life lesson
If I’m not careful, this post will degenerate into a word orgy about men and how they are dumb and women and how they suck, so I’m going to try to limit myself here. Not because I have anything better to do, and not because I’m lazy (though I certainly am lazy), but I’m trying to get the posts away from “hateful tirade” and most toward “reasonably coherent complaining”. Wish me luck.
One important thing I learned this weekend:
Never underestimate how long a group of guys will watch a decent looking girl play pool poorly in the hopes of getting in her pants.
On Friday night, I went out with about ten guys...and one girl. Rest assured, the girl was not my friend. All my female friends moved out of the city a year or so ago, and since then I haven’t been able to find replacements. I assume this is because every time I get close to a woman (emotionally) I rub my penis against her (physically) and usually any friendship that was building between us gets washed away (or rather, wiped away). But such is life.
This girl was a friend of one of the guys we went out with. It was a larger than normal crew; both my roommate Brian and I had friends in town, and we met up with more friends, so we were rolling thick.
And we were having a good time. Beers and shots were flowing freely, as it was nice to have so many friends gathered in one place. Special props go to my roommate Brian, who wakes up every day during the week for work at 4:45am but somehow manages to go out drinking every Friday night from the moment he leaves work until the lights come on at the bar (more on this later). Jesus. I sleep ten hours a night and on most days I have to have two red bulls to help me get through a shower.
I couldn’t really determine the connection between the girl, whose name I don’t remember but who I’ll christen Jessica, and our mutual friend, my buddy Mike. She was just sort of there, no questions asked. And she was a nice enough girl and pretty good-looking. I harbor no ill will toward her, nor do I blame her for how my friends behaved through the course of the night.
At the beginning, things were fine and normal. Everyone stood around drinking, talking to each other. There were comments made on the side between the guys (“She’s a PYT, eh?” and “She’s got a slammin’ lil’ body” and “Is that Mulgrew over there praying with the guy in the wheelchair?”), but for the most part, everyone was civil and well-behaved.
But as the night progressed and more booze was consumed, I noticed changes in the way my friends acted around her. Chests were stuck out and puffed up. Body language changed, was more confident, louder. The guys started standing around Jessica, hoping to be closest to her. Each man subtly jockeyed for positioning in the race for her affections.
It was more and more apparent that this was becoming a competition for her. This was never admitted between my friends, but it was true nonetheless. It was as though after enough booze, each man had made a decision: “I’m going to get on this girl. But first I’m going to get another beer. But I am totally going to get on her. Oh yes, she will be mine.”
And so we left the first bar and went to the second, an awesome place that has 32oz beers for $7 (trust me, in NYC, this is a steal). At this bar was a pool table, which was the chance for my friends to show off their pool playing to Jessica, akin to when we were in 7th grade and the star basketball player got all the girls while I talked to them (the girls) on the phone about how the star b-ball player was really a dick and they deserved better, perhaps someone who could read above a 4th grade level and knew that the US had a president, not a king.
Once the pool playing began, what followed was a scene that appeared to be adapted from the African plains. My friends (male lions) lorded over their domain (the pool table) while Jessica (the lioness) lolled about. Guys got territorial, each tried to teach her to play pool, and there were some rivalries going on. Each guy did his best pool shark imitation, leaning over her, teaching her to shoot. Then she'd play against guys and with other guys, all the while they'd be refuting each other's pool knowledge, putting each other down to look better in her eyes. It was like the way lions strut around and fight to show how tough they are to the female lion. It was not only primitive, it was primal.
Where was I in this whole process, you ask? I was playing the role of the "slow" lion. You know, the one that sits in the shade, laying around in his own feces, waiting for others to kill something so he can eat it, and occasionally roaring (but not to intimidate, but to complain). I've never done well when there's a competition for a girl among a group of guys. I think this is because of my delicate mixture of low self-esteem, apathy, and pride (and yes, I know low self-esteem and pride are opposites, but bear with me).
For one, I don't know if I've mentioned this, but I'm not exactly "all that". I am chubby (on a good day), have bad hair, have a weird speaking voice, and when I talk to women at bars I spit all over them. Not to mention my baby penis and pea-testicles. So I'm when in a bar in a competitive environment for a woman, I will defer to the other, fitter males present. Hell, I could be in a shelter and still have to defer to the the other, fitter males, but I digress.
Secondly, I really don't care that much about chasing tail. If going after a girl means that I'm going to have to forsake having a good time and subtly compete with my friends, f that. I know that most times when I go after a girl I usually go home with a slice of pizza and a chicken roll, so I'm better off saving my energy and effort and having a good time with my friends.
Thirdly, and probably most importantly, I don't want said girl to think that I'm just another a-hole vying for her attention. I'd rather go with the attitude of, "Well, you ain't that special to begin with, so I'm not gonna go out of my way to impress you because I've had a few beers. Go with one of the other geeks." I know this makes me sound like an egomaniac and very bitter, but, well, I am a bitter egomaniac. You suck too.
I wish there was a happier ending to this story, but there ain't. After watching the guys watch this girl play the worst pool that humankind was ever seen for a solid two hours, she got a phone call, stormed out of the bar, and was gone. Poof. No one knew why, no one knew what happened, and no one said anything about the little competition. When it was all said and done, all that effort, wasted, for nothing. Sheesh.
I'm done. I can't wait to get my eHarmony profile going. Or perhaps I'll just put an add on craigslist like:
Look, I'm tired. About me:
I have some money
My friends mostly like me
I am a little bit famous, or at least known
I have a very well-trimmed beard, and my pubic hair is pretty nice too
I am not good-looking and in terrible shape
I drink perhaps a little too much
I pretty much just want someone to have sex with
I am vengeful
If you are between 21 and 25, live in Manhattan, and most of your friends would describe you as "doable", please send a picture. Please, no fatties. No small boobied-women either. Thank you for your time.
Keep your fingers crossed.
[Also, a small story about my roommate Brian. Brian had a family wedding in NJ at noon on Saturday near his hometown (it takes him about two hours to get there via public transportation). After work ended on Friday at 4 in the afternoon, he went out boozing and put in a solid half day, staying out drinking until 4am. When he got home, he set his alarm for 8am so that he would make the 12pm wedding. Of course, he slept through the alarm and woke up at 12:15pm. Horrified, he jumped out of bed to learn that his parents and siblings had been texting and calling him since 10:30am. We talked it over and decided he had only one way to go: tell his parents that the power went out and his alarm didn't go off and that his phone's ringer was off. We thought it was the only option, even though his parents would know it was a lie and that he was drunk. For this reason, surely they wouldn't ask him to attend the reception, what with the wedding being two hours away and Brian so very late and hungover.
That was not to be. Brian's dad was more than a little p.o.'ed and ordered him to come to the NJ for the reception. Brian raced to Penn Station, but missed his train. Ashamed and beaten, he spent a whopping $112 on a car service to take him to the wedding, getting dressed in his suit in the car ride over. He went to the reception, spent a few awkward and hungover hours with this family, and when it was over, came back to NYC. He brushed the whole thing off and three hours later, we were all out together and Brian and I were hitting on two girls, him telling them that he's related to Captain Cook and me saying I was in Fountains of Wayne before they got big. Brian was a true champion this weekend and I am very proud of him. His birthday is Friday and I'm going to by him something special. And by "something special" I mean "nothing".
And I just read those two paragraphs over and I swear I don't have a man-crush on him. Thank you for understanding.]
Thursday, October 13, 2005
A crapload of emails. That’s what I got from you all after yesterday’s nickname post. Thank you to everyone who wrote in, because now I don’t have to come up with an original post. This is a good thing, since I was up very late last night waiting for the mouse stuck in my wall to die so it would stop scratching. It kicked the bucket (or at least stop scratching) just after 3am, the brave lil’ bastard.
Below is what I thought were the best of the bunch. I couldn’t include everyone’s responses (I tried to keep this post around 3000 words), nor could I answer everyone’s emails. But again, thank you. Some of these are really f’in’ hilarious.
[I would like to point out that three separate emailers submitted the nickname “HorseFace Killer”, after the second chubbiest and arguably raunchiest member of the Wu-Tang Clan, Ghostface Killah. Three may not sound like a lot, but I find it interesting that three different girls at three different colleges looked so much like a horse that they were called Horseface Killer. Astonishing, really.]
I’ll let the rest of the emails speak for themselves, but I should say that this first one, from a Catholic school teacher in Queens, is probably one of the top five emails I’ve ever gotten.
I am an 8th Grade Catholic School teacher and my colleagues and I find cryptic nicknames indispensable when discussing (okay- insulting) the students while in crowded halls. Below is a list of some favorites:
Vili Vanilli – given to a male student who is the White version (hence “Vanilli”) of Vili Fulauu, the pint-sized Casanova who successfully seduced his teacher, Mary Kay Letorneau. While I can proudly say that all female staff members, including myself, have thus far managed to spurn his advances, it hasn’t stopped the pervy pubescent from constantly finding excuses to hover over our desks for cleavage shots or from bragging that he knows how to “treat a lady- if you know what I mean”- and I am afraid that I do.
Firestarter- an incredibly creepy girl who caresses her pocket-sized stapler like she is assessing its many uses as a murder weapon. When given a failing grade she simply stares at me over the paper as if imagining my death AND as if by imagining my death she can make it happen.
Color Me Badd- 50% wigger, 50% guido – 100% fashion victim, he sports diamond-stud earrings in both ears and wears white button down shirts open to reveal a wife-beater tee and a crucifix medallion larger than the one they actually hung Jesus on. Name derived from the horribly cheesy 90’s one-hit wonder. When this student walks past us, my fellow teachers and I are prone to sing “uh tick tock ya don’t stop”. The poor bastards are too young to appreciate the reference.
The Closeted Quarterback- the most popular boy in school who also happens to enjoy a lingering hug with certain male friends and occassionally paints his nails a bright pink for “comic purposes” only. Sadly the joke’s on him, because although his innocent, naïve classmates are not savvy enough to spot a closet case when they see one- my co-workers and I are convinced that once he heads off to college on football scholarship, an unexpectedly erotic locker room encounter will finally set him free.
I currently have a total of 120 students and disparaging nicknames for the vast majority of them. When you were in school did you ever wonder if your teachers sat around making fun of you and your classmates when you weren’t around? Well – we do- and we’re ruthless. But hey, what they don’t know won’t hurt them and it helps to keep a keen sense of humor when dealing with over 100 teenagers for less than
$30,000 a year!
(Peggy in Queens, NY)
I used to know a girl who we referred to as Six Pack. She got this nickname when it was found out that on spring break she had a foursome with 3 dudes. My friends and I got to talking about how she had 6 balls on her at one time and the nickname was born. So one time I slipped up and called her 6 pack to her face. When she asked why I called her that I quickly made up a lie, and told her its because she parties so hard, and can drink like a champ(which she couldn't). Thats probably why she ended up getting railed by 3 dudes at once. She bought it and thought that we were complimenting her. So from then on out we started calling her 6 pack to her face, and while she was proud of her new nickname we were laughing our asses off behind her back.
(Brian in Chicago)
My friends and I used to call this girl "One Headlight" after the Wallflowers song, which was very popular at the time. We named her thusly because one of her nipples was always hard and protruding while the other remained limp and inverted. This one was doubly-satisfying because it was not only a nickname, but a soundtrack as well that me and my buddies sang whenever this girl walked into a room. Whenever she entered a party, one of us would start in with the "bump-ba-da-bump-ba-da" bassline that begins the song. Shoot-beer-out-your-nose funny when timed right.
(John in Los Angeles)
Fanny Pack- I dated this guy briefly who had really bad diabetes, so he had a really small tube permanently inserted into his pancreas or something enzymey like that, and the other end was attached to a little machine that could regulate his insulin, which he carried in a fanny pack so it could be near his body. Everyone made fun of him for wearing a fanny pack, and when I told them why he had to wear it, it somehow didn't make it less funny. Moral of this story? Fanny packs are fucking hilarious.
(Jen in NYC)
My husband shared this nickname with me and I was horrified by the imagery. Apparently a girl in college was called GC which stood for Giant Clam. I'm sure that's not very original, however when the fellas talked about her they would equate screwing her to screwing a giant bowl of warm oatmeal. EWWWWW!!!
(Mary in Great Falls, MT)
Back Door Ninja:
When I lived in Kansas City, I had a roommate that lived in the finished basement. He was the type of guy that would bring chicks home and not talk about it. But, we always knew it was happening because there was always the inevitable walk of shame the next morning that we would all witness. But, he had this one girl that came over all the time that no one had ever seen. She always came in through the back door that led to the basement. She would service my room mate, then leave undetected. We always knew when she was there by her car out front. So, we'd always try to catch a glimpse of her coming or going, but was like a fucking ninja. She would strike undetected then leave like the wind. Always through the back door.
(Agdeez in NYC)
Real whore at a small liberal arts institution in upstate New York. She fucked 7 out of a possible 22 fraternity brothers. She had a penchant for coke, ritalin, booze and cartons of cigarettes. She also loved too get it in the arse. Wouldn't give head, and completely shunned missionary, straight on down to the dirthole. Unfortunately for her she was also a real pain in one as well. Hence, 'Anus the Menace' was born. She is now married...to a guy that did not go to school with us.
(Larry in Boston)
"Dirty J": Stunning similarity to your "dirt hole" hoe. An older member of the frat's little sister who had slept with AT LEAST 13 members (including yours truly). No denying she was sexy, she also wound up with a boyfriend who had no idea about her horrible rep.
"Merry Mellons": hottest chick at our school. massive double d's, hot face, super rich boyfriend....damn.
(Scott in South Fla)
This nickname might seem really fucking lame, but there was a guy who lived across the street from some of my buddies that we called Joey Elimidate. I have no idea what the guy's real name was (or even if Joey was his real first name), but this guy used to come over at like 5am, give us weed and other drugs, and just kinda hang out. Nobody really knew him, but he had no other friends (and he gave us free drugs), so we tolerated him. His nickname was given to him because, if you've ever seen the show Elimidate, you know what kind of pieces of shit appear on that show, what with their douchebag jokes and trendy-ass outfits. If ever someone was bred to be on that terrible show, it was Mr. Joey Elimidate. What a massive tooljob.
(Mark in St. Louis)
The Fungus Among Us
Roommate of a friend freshman year in college. They guy never cleaned up his dishes or did the laundry, he just stuffed it all under the bed. When he went back home one weekend, the mattress was pulled back to reveal all sorts of gross organisms gaining consciousness, hence, the nickname. Moreover, the particularly nice assonance of this nickname really helped it to stick.
(Brian in Santa Rosa, CA)
Long story short my buddy was getting it on with this chick who was really into butt-play. Anyway according to him she wanted to stick some things up there but he wasn't down with that. She was disappointed and then asked if she could at least "go down" there and explore herself. Not wanting to screw up a sure thing, he agreed.
Now here's where things get a little more gross. He hadn't showered for a few days like many college boys are prone to do. So she went down there and started licking around and sticking her tongue in his ass. Well that didn't last long as she quickly got a taste of some, oh how do I put this, "leftovers".
Needless to say that pretty much killed the deal and she left very disgusted. Our buddy didn't really have anything to worry about with having something go around campus about him since this chick wasn't going to go running around to other chicks starting out a story "so I was eating this guy's ass...". That wouldn't have done her any favors for her rep.
But anyways from that day forward we refered to her as "Brownie Backwash" or "Double B" or "BB". That phrase actually has its own definition on urbandictionary.com . So here it is:
"The slight taste of shit that one tastes when rimming the anus of another person."
And the rest is history...
(Matt in St. Louis Park, MN)
After reading your blog about college nicknames, I was reminiscing back to a time in college when one of my friends brought a guy back to her place for a little action. Well, after about one minute of kissing he rolled over and said, "Will you give me a hand-job with lotion"? That's right--HIS SENIOR YEAR and he's askin' for a bj with lotion. Of course, my friend obliged-she went into her bathroom and curiously wondered, "scented, un-scented, glittery, etc". Needless to say he was forever mentioned amongst our group as Lotion. And the kicker? He was the senior speaker at college graduation. Pretty sure Lotion got tons of laughs during his commencement speech........
(Erin in Atlanta)
The Phantom Pisser (aka PP, The Golden Ninja): Yet another dumb freshman. Cute, blonde, nice boobs....she was a girl that most guys wouldn't think twice about putting the screws to. However, early on in her first semester, it became widely known that she liked to piss in a dude's bed after sex. While a rumor at its best, it was not quantified until my buddy Chris plowed her and she promptly pissed the bed 15 minutes after falling asleep, and he kicked her out. Fast forward to the next weekend. We're having a party at my house and my roommate is kicking game to the Golden Ninja. I say nothing because my roommate had the uncanny ability to turn off even the most retarded of girls. Towards the end of the night, most people have gone and I walk into my room to find She of Weak Urethra and Bladder chomping on my roommate's bit. I excuse myself and frantically wave for my roommate to come out and talk to me. Not to be a cockblock, but to warn him. I tell him what happened to Chris, with Chris standing right next to me backing me up, and my roommate waves me off and goes back to the room. Fast forward to the next morning when I walk into my room (I have no idea where I slept that night) to find my buddy scrubbing his mattress with solvent and his sheets piled on the floor. Before I could say anything, he looks to me and says "I know, I know. Go fuck yourself." Since then, she was the Golden Ninja or Phantom Pisser.
(Matty Mac in Boston)
Gorilla Spice - Chubby, hairy, but still insisted on wearing tight, clubby clothes all the time. Not pleasant.
Man Face - self explanatory, and not that funny or original. But it spawned ...
Son of Man Face - much funnier, I think. She did in fact look younger but eerily similar to Man Face.
Trash Bag and Twist Tie - two inseperable girls. Trash Bag must have banged 50% of the entire male student body. Twist Tie, as sidekicks often will be, was not worth the effort. Somehow then entire campus knew when Trash Bag got a urinary tract infection. Maybe because half the campus shared her pain.
Cunty Munchinez - The c-word ain't pleasant, but it was actually a group of girls that gave this nickname to another girl (whose last name is Martinez) when they found out she enjoyed going down on women. More power to her, I say.
(James in Chicago)
the cade (as in barricade)
this girl was very big. we threw lots of parties. there was one area in our house that was a tight fit. on your way to the bathroom, you had to shimmy between the kitchen counter and tv. we had a huge tv. anyway the cade stood there every party the entire party. we got annoyed to calling her the cade to her face.
(Keith in Philly)
Growing up (i.e. ages 17-22 or so), I spent my summers in the poconos, with a bunch of friends who also had family members up there. Because of the relatively small amount of people, this led to parties consisting of anyone b/w the ages of 16 and 30. (And yes, this did lead to many instances of underage illegal sexual activity.) Anyway, to allow us to talk about all girls, and the whole culture in general, out loud, we developed an entire analogy based on the NBA. For example, everyone partying and over the age of 16 made up "the league." Girls were "hoopers," guys were "GMs." It was a guy's duty to "sign" top notch "hoopers" (i.e. hook up with the hottest chicks.) A 10-day contract was a random hook up, a longer term contract was dating, and a lifetime contract was marriage (i.e. the celtics kept paying Bird even after he was retired). It got so big that each girl had a name of an NBAer who they were similar too. Some examples; Michael Jordan (the best of all time), Michael Olawokandi (highly drafted, ended up sucking, meaning this girl was hot as hell at age 15, and ended up gross), Dennis Rodman (only served one purpose on the court, rebounding, just as this girl only had one good trait, tits), well you get the point. It extended to "college hoopers" which were girls ages 13-15, who GMs would "scout" and prepare to sign in future years when they entered the league. If these girls were hit on before the age of 16, this was deemed illegal recruiting. This analogy goes far far far far beyond what I just described, but no way you'll read this email if i make it that long. You probably wont read it even with this length, but thought i'd pass it along.
(Mike in NYC)
3BC - Three Beers Clear - Not only could you give this girl three beers and score, but after you had drunk three beers, scoring with her seemed like a good idea. At any other time, unattractive and uninteresting. I never took the bait, although a friend of mine did.
FAS Danny - This poor dick had eyes that were so far apart that he looked like a fish with blonde hair. When we found out that one of the symptoms of Fetal Alcohol Syndrome was indeed "wide-set eyes," FAS Danny was born. It was especially funny if you threw in a joke about his mom's alcoholism. (She must be right? Look at her son for god's sake.) We're going to hell.
BBK - Big Boobs Kate - My god Kate's boobs were big. She was about 5'7" with a size zero waist and DD knockers that bulged through even the most forgiving sweaters and hoodies. I gave her a topless back massage once with oil. She lay facedown and topless, so I never actually got to see them. I'd still kill a nun for the chance though.
Moses - This poor bastard had sex with a girl on the rag and then came back to the dorm and bragged about it. We never let him live that one down. (Moses parted the red sea...)
(Mike in Grand Rapids, Michigan)
Adding validity to your "be careful what you do in those first few weeks of college" theory, Doubleheader blew a dude on the top bunk in a room on my dorm hall September of frosh year while his roommate "slept" on the bottom bunk. On her way out the door to clean up, bottom bunk guy jokingly asked Doubleheader if he could get a beejer too. She agreed, blew him and then left without saying a word. For the rest of college, whenever we saw her we said behind her back, "it looks like a fine day to play two."
It was well documented that this girl had floppy saggy boobs and massive nipples. She resembled one of those 3rd world natives on the cover of National Geographic that we used to ogle at in the school library in 5th grade.
At some point in the mid 90's I saw Gary Busey rambling incoherently on a late night talk show and was suspicious of his sanity. About 6 years ago, before the modern media confirmed my theory that Gary Busey is bat-shit crazy from coke, our frosh dorm was blessed with our own female version of Gary Busey. This insane girl, who vaguely looked like Gary Busey (granted, the resemblance was more striking after witnessing her train wreck exploits), would crush and snort just about anything for a high; coke, Aderol, Ritalin, acne medication, Fun Dip, Flintstones vitamins, you name it. Odds were strong to quite strong that she would be incoherent, disheveled and YAO'd out when you saw her on the weekends. During the week, when she was sober and straight edge, we called her FBI Agent Angelo Pappas.
(Ted in DC)
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
This past weekend I went to Boston. The occasion was the Boston College vs. University of Virginia football game on Saturday afternoon. I didn’t go up for the sport of the game, though. I traveled 200 miles so that I could get drunk in a field. My parents must be so proud.
[By the way, next time I come to BC for a game – probably next month – I’m going to arrange for one of you BC students reading this to booze up me and some friends. At this particular game, it rained non-stop and was about 52°, so my friends and I stood soaked, freezing, and buzzed. Thanks god we had a ton of food (including four kinds of encased meats – bless you Danielle) and loads of booze, or else it would have been ugly. So if you’re a BC student reading this and want me to come to your mod, dorm, or apartment to drink during or after a game, drop me a line. But I’m going to piss all over your bathroom and stick your toothbrush in my secret places. Just an FYI.]
But it’s more than just getting drunk before, during, and after a football game. As I’ve alluded to before, tailgating for BC football games is also like a mini-reunion, a chance to see friends that you haven’t seen in a while. Also a chance to see women you borderline stalked in college. But I digress…
And the tailgate/mini-reunion is also a time to take part in one of my favorite pastimes: making fun of people behind their backs. My friends and I did this relentlessly in college, as we ourselves had low self-esteem and needed to make ourselves feel better my tearing down those around us. If you have read this website for any length of time, you can see that I’ve come very far from those days.
One of the best parts or angles of making fun of others is the secret nickname. You know, what you and your friends call a person behind their back, unbeknownst to them (duh). Usually it’s something disparaging and it can be used in front of them, provided the nickname is well-disguised.
In college, my friends and I had tons of nicknames for people, but I find that my NYC friends and I don’t. The reason is simple: at college, there is a set pool of people that everyone (or mostly everyone) has in common. You and your five other roommates either know or are about two degrees of separation away from the weird guy with the hamsters who lives upstairs, the girl in your econ class who once fucked a cabbie on a dare, and the guy who walks around campus wearing a tie and jeans and carries a late 80’s model boombox everywhere. In NYC, this is not the case. A whole group of friends is not spending their days in the same academic buildings, eating in the same cafeterias, and going all together to the same bars. Because there is so little overlap between friends and acquaintances outside of the college environment, the opportunity for shared nicknames is diminished. Sad.
Over this past weekend, my friends and I spent a good deal of time reminiscing about these old nicknames. Sometimes it was because we saw the actual person, other times it was because we ran out of things to talk about and people got tired of me saying how I’m one of the 50 hottest men in the universe. Whatever.
So below are some of our favorite college nicknames. I was going to rank them, but in many cases it’s too close to call, so I’ve listed them alphabetically. Keep in mind, these nicknames were freely bandied about in college and used exclusively to identify that person (i.e. Sara was no longer Sara, except to her face; at all other times, she was Farty Pants). And excluded from the list are all nicknames that have actually names in them. These include Horse Christy (looked like a horse), Ghost Angela (believed in ghosts), Stinky Emma (had a notoriously stinky cooter), Meshugganah Lynn (was crazy), Weird Rob (was weird), Fake Asian Mulgrew (was the Asian version of me), and Herpes Tara (had herpes), among others.
Asian Bombs Construction (aka “ABC” aka “Alpha Tits”)
A name given to a very attractive Asian girl with large breasts, it was christened at a Halloween party my junior year when she showed up wearing a sexy lil’ black dress with a piece of yellow construction tape wrapped around it. This was a typical now-familiar example of a girl using Halloween to look hot/like a whore, but at the time we were very impressed. She was Asian + plus she had bombs + plus the Construction tape. Simple. Her nickname was later shortened to ABC and then to Alpha Tits (Alpha for Alphabet, but Alpha also works well because it implies dominance. Her titties were certainly dominant).
The Bearded Criminal
A wook who worked around campus with the largest beard any 18 year-old has ever had. One day, our friend Steve got very high and laughed for a solid six straight hours about how if that man were to go to jail, he could hide weapons in his beard. And yes, I know this isn’t funny. But the nickname stuck, precisely because we needed to remind Steve about how drugs are dangerous and can render you unfunny.
This girl hooked up with at least six of my fifteen or so closest friends and slept with at least three of them. The best part is that late in senior year she started dating a guy at another college who had no idea of her reputation and thus wasn’t aware that I once stood in a room with five other dudes while my buddy stuck a Q-Tip in her butt (hence the Dirt Hole). God I miss college.
If there is any advice I can give to incoming college freshman, it’s to be careful what you do in those first few weeks. This nickname was given to a girl who, when blowing a buddy of mine in the first week of school, farted in mid-fellating. For the next four years, she was known as Farty Pants and guys generally stayed away, fearing another ass blast during a beejer (of course, I hooked up with her, but was spared any flatulence).
Jesus Christ Buzz Cut
This guy did two things all the time: a) smoke cigarettes; b) look like Jesus Christ with a buzz cut. Huge, huge beard, short, short hair. Nice guy though.
Lou Diamond Food Service
A legend at Boston College, this guy is the head of food operations and thus is always in the cafeteria holding court. Also, he looks exactly like Lou Diamond Phillips. This is a classic for which words can not do justice.
I believed I wrote about her before, briefly. She had a very motherly quality to her, looking like the kind of girl who’d bring you chicken soup when you were sick and knit you a scarf to help you through those cold New England weathers. However, she more than likely gave my buddy genital warts. So don’t judge a book by its cover, I guess.
Don’t really know the origin of this one, because though pale, the girl in question did not look like a horse. Or maybe I’m just being nice, because we had intercourse in my living room. Whichever, really.
As with Farty Pants, be careful of those first few weeks freshman year. This is my buddy’s roommate who one night when very drunk got out of bed in the middle of the night in the dark, took off all his clothes, walked over to the radiator, and pissed all over the window and radiator. My buddy dove out of bed and got my friends and I and we were able to see some of this in action. Piss Dawg was born.
This is probably my favorite, and certainly the longest lasting. There was a girl in college who was famous for her two fingered handjobs. She didn’t just use two fingers (as opposed to the whole hand), but she rather made a “V” or peace sign with her two fingers and ran them up and down the bird. What is interesting to note is that these handjobs sucked (I didn’t get one, but a few of my friends did), but we later learned that she bragged to her friends about her handjob giving ability. Whatever gets you through the night, sister.
We started calling her “Robert Frost” after we paraphrased the Robert Frost poem “Road Less Traveled” (“Two roads diverged in a wood/And I took the one less traveled by/And that has made all the difference”). This chick’s V-shaped handjobs not only represented a fork in the road, but also her unorthodox style made all the difference (between a good handjob and a bad handjob – and yes, this was early in college when handjobs were still kinda ok).
To this day, we joke about the Robert Frost or Frosting, which is jerking off with the V. All because of this chick’s crappy handjobs and our relentless pursuit to beat every joke to death (no pun intended).
Somethin' Ain't Right
On paper, this girl was perfect: about 5’10”, blond, blue-eyed, in great shape. But looking at her, one couldn’t help but think “somethin’ ain’t right”. It was as though God was in a rush and though he had all the right ingredients, he just threw them all together in a huff and ran to his dentist appointment. The result was a certain intangible flaw that could not be pinpointed, but existed nonetheless.
(My apologies to this woman’s now-husband, who is more than likely reading this right now.)
One of my roommates was enamored with this chick all throughout college. She was only about five feet tall and 100 pounds, but 80% of her size was her gigantically disproportionate breasts. Sadly, she drove a Jetta and hung around with athletes, so Titty Mama was way out of our league.
VR (aka “Voice Recorder” aka “Black Box”)
This is also a pretty good one. This girl was originally called Black Box. This was because a few friends made the dance of love with her and equated her sexy area to that of a seventy year-old black woman’s. Hence, black box. Black Box degenerated to Voice Recorder, because an airplane’s black box is a voice recorder (duh). Eventually, that was whittled down to VR, a nickname completely unrelated to a subpar vulva area.
(Ladies, I hope this stresses the important of lovely and well-kept privates. Thank you.)
And now I’m going to be deluged by about two dozens emails from college friends asking me to reveal the identities of all the nicknames that they aren’t aware of. At least it will give me something to do to pass the afternoon.
And if you all have any good nicknames, email ‘em to me. I’m not sure if I’ll put them on here or not, but when you write, be sure to include your name, location, and if I can use your email. If I get enough good ones, I’ll put them up.
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
From country star Chris Cagle's website:
To All My Loyal Music Fans:Um, ouch. I'm not sure which is worse: finding out that the baby you thought was yours is not actually yours or finding out that the baby you thought was yours is not actually yours and posting it on your website.
"As many of you are aware, I had been anxiously awaiting the addition of a new baby to my life. The baby has been born and both mother and child are in good health. Since the birth, however, we have discovered that biologically, the child is not mine.
As excited as I was about becoming a new father, my disappointment is equally as strong. So out of respect for all that are involved, please allow this situation to remain private and know that I will not be commenting further on this very personal matter. I'm thanking you in advance for your kind cooperation and understanding."
I think I'd have taken a different tone if I were Chris Cagle. Something like:
To All My Loyal Music Fans:Yeah, that's more like it.
"As many of you are aware, I had been anxiously awaiting the addition of a new baby to my life. The baby has been born and both mother and child are in good health. Since the birth, however, we have discovered that biologically, the child is not mine. Yes, you read that correctly.
As excited as I was about becoming a new father, my disappointment is equally as strong. And by that I mean I threw my 'wife' down a flight of stairs and set her car and most of her clothes on fire after learning of this development. Please do not misunderstand me; I do not, in any way, condone spousal abuse. Never in my life had I laid hands on a woman. But you'd be surprised what you can do when you learn that your baby isn't yours because your 'wife' can't stop fucking everything in her line of vision.
[I use quotations around the word 'wife' because I though this child was 'mine', and am not sure what to believe anymore. The only things I know now for sure is that whiskey soothes and pain is real.]
So out of respect for all that are involved, please allow this situation to remain private and know that I will not be commenting further on this very personal matter. In the meantime, I will be going to Mexico for the extended future, bringing only two handguns and $14,526 in cash. By next Friday, I hope to be known to the locals as 'El Gringo de la Muerte'. I also hope to have collected the pieces of my shattered psyche by noon PST on Wednesday, October 26, 2005. If not, please turn on CNN or your local news station at that time. And may God help the citizens of Cuernavaca, the Mexican State Police, and Steve Winwood and the other members of Traffic.
I'm thanking you in advance for your kind cooperation and understanding."
Monday, October 10, 2005
Jason Mulgrew, Hot Sexy Bear
I’m currently on the LimoLiner, traveling from Boston to NYC. I was off from work all last week, dividing my time between NYC, NJ, Philly, and Boston, spending most of the week away from the internet. It was difficult, but fortunately I had many, many beers during this time off, so I made it through. Seriously, I think I gained a solid twelve pounds last week, but more on that later.
Due to the miracle of technology, I can check email on the LimoLiner, something I have neglected to do for the better part of two weeks. I apologize for this – both for my lack of posting and to everyone who emailed me in that time – but sitting at my dad’s computer, which was purchased in 1996 and outfitted with the slowest dial-up internet possible, while he stood behind me smoking cigarettes and asking me questions like “Have you seen the show on cable about the 600 pound woman?” and “You been talking to any girls lately?” and “You want a cigarette?” was not the ideal scenario for me to answer emails.
But while checking email now, I came across this gem from Owen in Chicago:
Jason,All I can say is: God bless the internet. I write something about someone I don’t know and a few days later, he writes me to say that he’s seen it. I’m not sure if I should be happy or afraid. My only hope is that Lindsay Lohan somehow gets wind of the letter I wrote her on here last week.
I just wanted to drop you a line because my friend pointed me toward your blog, specifically to the post about The Weekly Dig cover and how you look exactly like the dude in the Red Sox jersey. Reading it cracked me up, mostly because I am that dude in the Red Sox jersey. To compound the irony, I too am from a big Irish Catholic family in Philadelphia (Narberth, actually), and I also love dairy products and Otis Redding. Super weird.
Anyway, I read a bit of your blog and I wanted to compliment you - it's great stuff. Obviously, I'm not the only one to reach that conclusion (dude...People magazine's 50 Most Eligible Bachelors? Rock on). I have my own blog over at livejournal although many of the posts I make have limited visibility, because I lack the balls necessary to put my entire life out there to the psychotic internet public. However, I've made a series of public posts about The Weekly Dig cover that I did with my boyfriend Dave (who is from Boston) and the little stir it's created. There is also a larger version of the picture, if you REALLY want to shock your friends and family.
All the best,
But back to Owen’s email, which was appropriately titled “Big Gay Doppelganger”. I checked out Owen’s blog and we really do, in fact, look like each other. Although Owen is a more clean-cut version of me (or rather, us), as I’m growing my beard out, shooting for the Jesus look, and I haven’t had a haircut in about two months, shooting for the homeless person look.
Even better, Owen has a post dedicated to my post, complete with dozens of gay men riffing about me! One guy even comments about Owen and I: “YOU'RE BOTH HOT SEXY BEARS AND MUST DO DIRTY BEAR THINGS IN FRONT OF ME!!!”
Ladies and gentlemen, I have officially made it. As anyone in Hollywood can tell you, once you take root in the gay community, you’re in. And please note that that sentence was not intended to have any puns.
So thank you Owen and friends. Now I can start calling myself “Internet Quasi-Celebrity/Hot Sexy Bear”. This is an important first step toward something I have aspired to since I first saw “Grease” as a pre-schooler: gay icon. Baby steps, but we’ll get there.
But for now I must get back to the other emails. It’s all I can do to keep me from murdering a woman on the bus with me. She’s your typical middle-aged “I’m fat and so very needy” type. She’s already asked the attendant for cranberry juice mixed with water, potato chips (when the attendant informed her the chips would be given out to all the passengers later, she asked for hers now), and “anything sweet” (the attendant got her some cookies). She’s also complained about the movie and the sandwich and when she’s not laughing and snorting at the Johnny Carson rerun on one of the televisions, she’s breathing like a cow with a hand down its throat. Good lord. I want to stand up and yell, “You’re the reason that people hate fat people! Just sit there and shut the fuck up! Don’t you see that other passengers are looking at me as the other fat person on the bus and starting to hate me because you’re being such a pain in the ass! God damn it! You’ll be home with a Whopper soon enough – just behave, chubby!” But instead I’ll just look at the rain out the window do my best to keep under control. Wish me luck.
Friday, October 07, 2005
multiple orgasms and Sex Stages
Yesterday, for the first time, I witnessed a man having multiple orgasms on film.
I have spent half my life studying (read: arousing myself to climax to) pornography, but until yesterday I had never seen a man have multiple orgasms on camera. The scene was simple: one man and one woman. I don’t know the name of the man, but the woman was Briana Banks, heir apparent to Jenna Jameson’s throne. They were – surprise, surprise – having sex, when the man pulled out to ejaculate on Briana’s ridiculously large fake breasts (this is known as the “money shot” or the “pop shot”). After he’d emptied the chamber, he did the unthinkable: he started having intercourse again with Briana, and after a few minutes, gave her another pop shot. Twice in a row in under two minutes. I was enthralled and didn’t know whether to cheer or run away. I wound up taking a nap. Go figure.
But it got me thinking about sex (well, I guess I was already thinking about sex when I said to myself, “Why don’t we download some new porn?”, but you get it). But more specifically, it got me thinking about the relationship between orgasms, multiple orgasms, and sex.
Apparently, women can have orgasms. I know – it was news to me too. But allow me to blow your mind further: apparently, women can have more than one orgasm in a short amount of time, sometimes several in a row. I know, I know – I didn’t believe it either. But I looked it up and it’s true (I read a lot). This, cleverly enough, is called “multiple orgasms”.
Men apparently can have multiple orgasms, but it’s much more difficult. Men need time for their bodies (specifically their birds and testes) to recuperate between orgasms. This is called the “refractory period” and it increases with age, so that when you’re 18 you might be able to rub one out again in ten minutes, but when you’re 60 it might take three or four days (because of my obesity, high blood pressure, and general lack of sex drive, it takes me a full season).
However, there is hope for men. In order to achieve multiple orgasms, a man must conscientiously exercise his PC muscles (PC stands for pubococcygeus, easily one of the greatest words in the English language). I can’t tell you where the PC muscle is, but I can tell you that if you’re taking a piss and you can stop your piss mid-stream, then you’re exercising that muscle. Alternatively, if you have a half-boner and can make your bird jump/rise, that’s your PC muscle.
If you want to have multiple orgasms, you’re going to have to work this muscle by practicing Kegel Exercises. But it ain’t gonna be easy. One site suggests:
Simply begin squeezing and releasing your muscle for 2 minutes a day and gradually work your way up to doing it for 20 minutes at least 3 times a day. You should eventually be able to perform at least 200 repetitions per session.
So guys, that’s all you have to do if you want to have multiple orgasms. Just one hour a day or 200 reps clenching your insides. Sounds great.
There’s just one problem: I don’t want to have multiple orgasms. One is just enough for me. One of the best parts of sex is after it’s over, when you get to feel all tired and satisfied and only want a sandwich. If I were capable of multiple orgasms, I’m sure my lady would say, “Hold on a minute – I know you have another one in you. So put down the hoagie and let’s keep going. Eighty-nine seconds is not long enough, mister.”
I think a lot of guys my age would agree with me on this. What’s the point of multiple orgasms, especially when you have to put in so much work to get them? Isn’t this being a little greedy? Wouldn’t this only backfire (no pun intended) in the end? So I’ll stick with one spooge and a nap, thank you very much.
But my lackadaisical attitude towards sex is because of my age and Sex Stage. You see, the male sexual libido/sexual prowess can be broken down into three stages. Using myself as an example, here are Three Sex Stages.
Stage One: “I have no idea what I’m doing and am just happy to be getting laid”
Time Frame: high school, early college
When men are first introduced to sex, we have a “just happy to be here” glow for the first couple of months/years. We have zero idea of what we’re doing, but we’re ok with that. After all, we’re just beginners – we can’t be expected to know everything. At this point, we’re just taking it all in and thanking our lucky stars that after years of masturbating on the cold tile bathroom floor with our sister’s moisturizer we’re finally putting our penises into something warm that hasn’t been microwaved.
We do try, but unfortunately, it takes us a while to learn. Learning how to make the most of sex is like learning of foreign language through immersion. If you take a guy and put him in Moscow, he’ll eventually learn to speak Russian. It’ll start off slowly; he’ll only learn words and simple phrases like “Thank you” and “Where is the bathroom?” and “I am hungry”, but soon he’ll be able to have basic conversations. At Stage One, we’re still marveling at Red Square and are thrilled when we can order a beer properly. Baby steps.
Some learn more quickly than others and advance to Stage Two without much practice. Conversely, some, sadly, never get to Stage Two and wade in Stage One for most of their lives. Personally, I was somewhere in the middle. My poor first few girlfriends/victims were with me when I was firmly entrenched in Stage One, and I’m sure they’ve told many a person about my inability to distinguished the skin of a woman’s thigh from some cold cuts I left in the bed the previous night. Oh well. Sucks for them.
Stage Two: “I know exactly what I’m doing and I’m gonna rock your world”
Time Frame: late college, few years after college
But then, after much practice, men start getting an idea of what’s going on. They see how women respond differently to different things and grow confident with experience. Confidence, of course, breeds hubris, and this is where the desire to please every lady comes from.
Yes, a man’s willingness to satisfy his lady is not altruistic, but rather selfish. We realize that if we are better lovers, our ladies will be more willing to put up with us (i.e. “Listen, I’m sorry that I pooped in your bed on a dare. But remember how giving and caring I am in the sack? So it’s all good, right?”).
Not only that, but it’s about this time that we realize that girls talk. This is especially true in college environments. Mike will make an extra effort to please Sally, because then maybe Sally will tell her roommates all about how good Mike is at lovin’. This is certainly not a bad rumor to have spread about you.
To use our foreign language analogy, this would be the point where we have friends visiting and we’re taking them out, showing them how much we know about Moscow, speaking Russian like a champ, impressing them with our ability to chit-chat anyone around. All to impress them (and possibly sleep with them if they are attractive).
Personally, I’m not sure if I ever got to this stage. I think there was a three week period back in my senior year and a two week stretch just after college when I made a conscious effort to love right whatever lady I was with/paid for at that time, but it was short lived. While admittedly it would have been nice to be known as a good lover amongst gaggles of girls, my reputation was already beyond salvation at this point, what with the whole incident on Upper Campus on October 12, 1999 that I can’t get into for legal reasons. But how the hell was I supposed to know that huwag meant “don’t”? I don’t speak Tagalog, but apparently that doesn’t matter in the eyes of the law. I mean, fuck.
So men’s desire to become better lovers comes from a) arrogance and b) the aspiration to look better in front of other women, who we will hopefully also sleep with. Sorry, but it’s true. Ladies should therefore not ask questions, and just enjoy it while it lasts. Because eventually men get to…
Stage Three: “I’m sorry, but I really don’t care if you’re enjoying this or not”
Time Frame: present – death
This is the Sex Stage in which most men will spend their sexual lives. We’ve had enough sex to know how the whole thing works, and maybe we even know a few tricks, but to be honest, we’d rather not be bothered. Once a man’s been having sex for a while, especially if he’s been with the same girl for a while, sex becomes less important than it once was. This is part of a larger shift in priorities for men as we age. For example, the average 20 year-old priorities go:
• Fuck everything that moves
• Get drunk
• Beat off
• Seriously, that girl over there is smokin’
• I mean, look at her tits!
The average 26 year-old’s go something like:
• Hate work/life
• It’d be nice to get laid, I guess
• Get drunk
• Watch television, preferably sports
• I’d like to have sex with that attractive girl, but she’s way out of my league and just talking to her would require a lot of effort that would ultimately be wasted
Now don’t get me wrong – men in this stage can occasionally “bring it”. We still know what to do and how to do it, but we need a special occasion to elevate our game, like spending a romantic weekend in the woods or taking an overnight at a swanky hotel or getting obliterated watching the Eagles tremendous comeback victory over the Kansas City Chiefs. But for the most part, we’re going through the motions. Sad, but true.
[If we’re living in Moscow, at this point we’re speaking Russian quite well, but we’re using our knowledge of the language to complain about the weather, the transit system, and the incorrigible Russian mafia.]
And so with age our sex life becomes adversely affected. I can’t really speak about this stage from experience, simply because though I’ve been at this point for a while, I simply haven’t had enough lovin’ to give you any sufficient examples (maybe because I advertise on the internet what a terrible lover I am and will be?). I hope that one day very soon I will be able to give a terribly inadequate love-making experience. Keep your fingers crossed.
Thus the three stages, all because I watched some dude spooge twice in one porno clip. God I need a hobby.
[Have a good weekend]
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
Fantasy baseball 2005, a look back (with playoff picks)
The following is a list of ten things that I am good at:
• Wastepaper basket basketball
• Acting really gay when I dance
• Talking shit to old guys at the OTB
• Eating pints of Ben & Jerry’s Oatmeal Cookie Chunk in under three minutes
• Masturbating in hotels (esp. showers, sinks, elevators, air conditioners)
• Having a beard
• Alienating friends by constantly showing them my scrotum
• Lying to people at weddings and parties
• Drinking too much beer and crying
But we have something new to add to that list: being totally fucking dominant in fantasy baseball.
On Sunday, the season came to a close, as did each of my four fantasy baseball leagues. Four might seem like a lot of leagues to be in, until you realize that I really don’t have much else going on, so spending every day for six months studying every players’ statistics – times four – is really not that big of an issue.
The good news is that it was totally worth it. After six hard fought months, when the season closed on Sunday, I finished 2nd, 1st, 1st, and 1st in my four leagues. To repeat, that’s three first place finishes and one second place finish. In four leagues. I won 75% of my baseball leagues and made over a grand. If there is a God, I am probably Him.
[How many ladies reading about my fantasy success right now are clawing at the buttons of their blouses and panting, so aroused that they feel as though they’re going to explode? Hmm? I’d say zero. Not a single fucking one.]
I’m not going to bore you (even more) by listing my four teams in total or talking about the moves I made during the year to best my competitors. But I will highlight four players that I was right about and four players that I was completely wrong about.
Four guys I thought were going to kick ass and did
1) Brian Roberts (.314, 18 home runs, 73 RBI, 92 runs, 27 stolen bases)
Heading into the draft, 2B was exceptionally weak. I stayed away from drafting guys like Soriano and Kent very high and ignored old guys like Vidro and Boone and took a flyer on Roberts very late. Even though he had a solid year last year, (.270- something, 100+ runs, 25+ SBs), I was able to get him 12th in one draft and 19th (!) in another.
And yeah, that worked out pretty nicely, as Roberts had career highs in average, home runs, and RBI. Although his production declined after the All-Star break, he put up great numbers for a 2B that was on average was the 8th or 9th picked in many leagues.
2) Cliff Lee (18-5, 142 strikeouts, 3.79 ERA, 1.22 WHIP)
Extended streaks will tell you a lot about a pitcher. I’m not talking about a string of five solid starts or a month of lights out pitching, but rather anything over ten starts or two months. In the first half of 2004, Cliff Lee went 9-1 with 87 K’s in 107 innings and an ERA of 3.77. He had some control problems (highlighted by his 1.41 WHIP), but there were times when absolutely dominated. Besides, he was only 25 at the time, so a little wildness was ok.
Though he shit the bed in the second half of last year, I drafted Lee in three of my leagues with my last or second to last pick, taking a flyer on a young guy on a solid team. And what I got was a potential Cy Young winner (seriously - he should finish in the top three in the AL).
The key is age. While 27 is a bad year for rock stars, that’s when pitchers tend to put it all together. And yes, I know that Lee was 27 for only the month of September, but you get it. If you see a guy who has potential, has shown over an extended time that he can pitch well, and is around 27, grab him.
3) Pat Burrell (.281, 32, 117, 78, 0)
Another thing not to ignore: former #1 picks who have done it before. Burrell is that guy. Taken #1 overall back in 1996, he had stunk up the joint the past two years, but as recently as 2002 he was a monster (37 home runs, 116 RBI, 96 runs).
And what did he do in 2004? 32 homers and 117 RBI, with a solid average. His runs could have been higher, but considering I grabbed Burrell around round 15 as a fourth OF, I can’t complain.
4) Derrek Lee (.335, 46, 107, 120, 15)
I can’t say I saw THIS coming. But the thing about 1B is that there are a ton of them. Usually, I’ll stay away from the big guns. Why would I draft a guy like Todd Helton in the second round when I could get a star pitcher there and take Derrek Lee in the tenth? Sometimes this works (i.e. passing on Helton or Thome for Lee or Konerko) and sometimes it doesn’t (skipping Teixeira or Ortiz for Huff or Morneau [see below]).
One thing I’ve always loved about Lee is the steals. How many 1B have the potential of 30+ HR and 20+ SB? One. If you can squeeze 20 or so steals out of 1B, a position where the average player is not exactly fleet of foot, you have a major advantage on your opponents. I’ve always called this the Lee/Kendall corollary, so named for Derrek Lee and Jason Kendall, who’s always drafted under the pretext of “Well, all catchers stink, so I might as well take Kendall, since he’ll steal a couple of bases” (of course, this year Joe Mauer led all catchers with 13 stolen bases, but let’s not talk about that).
The rest of Lee’s gaudy numbers were only a bonus, a reward for my diligence and for God giving me the shaft in every other part of my life. I think it was a fair trade.
Honorable mention: a shitload of relievers (Cordero, Turnbow, Dempster, etc). My philosophy with relievers is to draft one guy who you know isn’t going to lose his job, and then pick up shit relievers during the season with the tenacity of a wolverine. It never fails.
Four guys I thought were going to kick ass but actually sucked ass
1) Justin Morneau (.239, 22, 79, 62, 0)
I don’t even want to talk about this. I was enamored with the power hitting Canuck lefty, believing Peter Gammons when he said in spring training that Morneau would be the first Twin to crack 30 homers since I don’t know who. He was close (22 homers), but Gammons never mentioned anything about Morneau not being able to hit very well. Asshole.
The worst part is that I took Morneau around round ten in most leagues, totally buying into the hype. F him and f you.
2) Melvin Mora (.283, 27, 88, 86, 7)
Speaking of hype, before the season started, I wanted to marry the offensive lineup of the Orioles. The thought of Roberts, Mora, Tejada, Sosa and Palmeiro batting in order was enough to give me the chills.
Unfortunately, we all know how this ended (“period”). Mora’s final numbers weren’t bad, thanks to a late season surge, but, like Morneau, I bought into the hype and drafted Mora high, thinking he’d improve on his 2004 season in which he hit .340 and drove in 107. Nope.
3) Edgar Renteria (.276, 8, 70, 100, 9)
Like the Orioles and Mora, I thought Renteria would have a career year hitting behind Johnny Damon and in front of Manny and Big Papi. I also thought that Renteria might steal a little more, reverting a bit to his 2003 form, when he stole 34.
What I got was a subpar season, despite taking Renteria very early in my drafts, ahead of guys like Chone Figgins, Jose Reyes, and Jhonny Peralta. Seriously, I think I could have gone for about 80 runs and 60 or so RBIs in that Red Sox lineup, and I have to have three people help me shower. Thanks a lot Edgar.
4) Aubrey Huff (.261, 22, 92, 70, 8)
I loved Huff in my drafts because we had so much in common: we were both young, both angry, and both powerful. However, only one of us once shaved his pubes for his girlfriend on her birthday, which she called “the worst birthday present ever.” Poor Aubrey.
But what I liked even more was his eligibility at 1B, 3B, and OF. This not only make setting your lineup easier, but it also makes trading a breeze. Getting rid of your stud 1B? Slide in Huff! Need someone to replace that OF you just traded for pitching? In goes Huff! Need – ok, you get it.
But instead of the .300, 30, 100, 90 he’d been putting up for the past two years, Huff decided to take a year off and suck. That’s cool and I support him and all, but I just wish he told me before I took him as high as the 4th round (!) in one draft. I mean, fuck.
Honorable mention: Randy Johnson (not bad final numbers, but I thought this guy would have about 38 wins in that Yankee lineup. Whoops.)
And now some quick and dirty playoff predictions.
St. Louis over San Diego (in four games)
Houston over Atlanta (in three games)
St. Louis, who had about 55 more regular season wins than the disgraceful Padres, lose the first game then whoop some ass in the next three (Woody Williams and Adam Eaton vs. Albert Pujols and Jim Edmonds?).
After winning their fourteenth consecutive division title (with a grand total of 18 people celebrating), the Braves take another early exit, getting out-pitched by the ‘Stros in one of the most boring series of all time.
[Can you tell I’m a little upset that the Phillies aren’t in the playoffs?]
Houston over St. Louis (in six)
Riding strong pitching (seriously, Clemens, Oswalt, and Pettite with Lidge at the back end? wow), the Astros take it to the Cards.
New York over Anaheim/LA/Los Gatos (in four)
White Sox over Red Sox (in five)
The Yankee bats are too much for the Vlad-and-nobody-else-Angels.
The White Sox ride their late season momentum and the “no respect” card and best the hurting Red Sox. Finally, 50 million Red Sox fans shut the fuck up.
New York over White Sox (in five)
Experience takes the day and the Sox head home.
New York over Houston (in five)
Not even close. Clemens chokes, Oswalt wins, Petite loses a close one. The Yanks pitch well enough, but their offense carries the day. The Yankees win. And then 50 million Yankees fan starting fucking yapping again. Sweet.