Everything is wrong with me
Friday, December 30, 2005
fun with the homeless, wishes
I always give money to homeless people. I rarely give to organizations, but always to people on the street that ask me for money. I know a lot of people are against this. Their logic is, “Well, if you give that bum money, he’s just going to get drunk, and that’s not going to help him any.” On the contrary, I think it will help him a lot. If you’re homeless and you use the $2 I give you to buy a bottle of Mad Dog, well, then go on with your bad self. If you have to sleep on the street every night, I’m not gonna judge you for wanting to get a lil’ fucked up. Whatever gets you through the night, s’alright, s’alright.

I admit that my willingness to give is not out of the kindness of my heart. It is rather a selfish gesture. I give to people less fortunate to cleanse myself of all my sins, which include but are not limited to lying, swearing, wishing death upon enemies and most women, misogyny, one count of manslaughter, twice masturbating to Dakota Fanning, and hatred toward those less fortunate. My hope is that when I die on September 15, 2008, I will stand before God at the gates of heaven and He’ll say,

God: “Let’s see here…on January 12, 1998, you punched a dog – in the face AND in his testicles – over a turkey club. On March 22, 2001, you lit your roommate’s car on fire because he beat you at Trivial Pursuit. You spent most of April 2004 on a crime spree in Illinois, Indiana, and Ohio. You have paid for sex on numerous occasions, three times with a man – whether or not it was ‘accidental’, as you claim, is not important to Me. And you haven’t been to Church regularly since you were 11. So tell me Jason, why should I let you into heaven?”
Me: “Well, um, I did give a lot of money to homeless people.”
God: [giving me a good look over, conferring with St. Peter, taking a deep breath] “Ok, here’s the deal: 500 years in Purgatory. If you get enough prayers, I’ll knock it down to 400. Take it or leave it.”
Me: “We have a deal!”
[Me and Gary Shandling, who will die only seconds after me on 9/15/08, exchange high fives.]

But I’m not stupid when I give either. If I don’t have any change or spare ones at the ready, I’m not about to be stand with a homeless person, routing through my wallet, only to eventually say, “Sorry, I don’t have any change.” If money is not at the ready, I’ll get change at a nearby store and then give some to the guy. This wariness was heightened when a few months ago a homeless man in the Lower East Side, right around the corner where I used to live, stabbed a guy my age. So I’m not about to get shanked while I’m standing there looking for a dollar bill.

Right now, I’m at home in Philly, and (almost) every morning (read: early afternoon) when I wake up, I head down to the Oregon Diner for breakfast. It’s only a few blocks from where I live, but hey – I’m fat – so I drive. There I get my usual meal: creamed chipped beef (if you don’t know what creamed chipped beef is, my sadness for you could fill an ocean). I then take the CCB back to my dad’s house, where I eat it in peace and quiet.

After parking in the lot of the diner, I was approached by a homeless guy, the first of three that would ask me for money (god I miss being home). A black guy in his late 30’s, he had the bottle of “cleaning fluid” and mess of newspaper and offered to clean my windshield for $1.50. He offered me this as I was walking from the car to the diner, and I told him I didn’t have any change. Then he started following me, asking, “What you need change for? I’m out here tryin’ to hustle!” I shouted back, “I need to get change. I’ll hit you when I get out of the diner.” At this point, he began stomping after me, now yelling, “I said, WHAT YOU NEED CHANGE FOR! You need it for $5? $10? $100? I got it baby! I’M A HUSTLER!” I wasn’t perturbed by this, but rather walked into the diner and went about my business.

I got my creamed chipped beef and my change and left the diner. I gave one homeless guy standing by the entrance a buck. Then I gave a homeless woman laying in the handicapped parking spot of the diner a buck too. As I headed over to my car, I saw the guy who was yelling at me, standing near my car (actually, my mom’s car).

As I walked toward him and the car, he slowly moved away. When I got to the car, I learned why. He had taken it upon himself to “clean” my windshield: there was a disgusting, milky-looking residue smeared all over the windshield, a mix of blue cleaning fluid, newspaper ink, and the windshield’s natural grime. My reaction? That mother fucker. Even though he was yelling and being a dick, I was still going to give him a dollar. And the jerkoff messes up my windshield.

What followed was a parking lot shouting match between me and a homeless guy that I’m almost embarrassed to recount here. When I said, “What the fuck did you do this for?”, he asked for change. When I said, “Look at my fucking windshield!”, he laughed. And kept on laughing. Then I shouted, “Fuck you, dude. I’m going home – TO MY HOME!” I was hoping that this would sting him, what with me pointing out that I have a home and he does not – but he was unphased and kept laughing like a goddamn hyena. I got in the car and drove away, the wiper fluid shooting over the windshield, trying to clean off the mess, cursing the whole way.

There’s no real point to this story, except I admit that in retrospect (since this happened about an hour and a half ago), the homeless guy totally got me. He got some fat white kid to yell and curse at him after he intentionally dirtied his windshield. I was the one looking like the crazy person, yelling at this guy, while he laughed. I only wish that a car full of my friends would have driven by (“Why is Mulgrew getting all red and yelling at that laughing homeless guy?”). Homeless guy: 1, Me: 0.

This is one of several reasons why I love coming home to Philadelphia.


It’s been a crazy few days, but it’ll be worth it when Sunday, my favorite day of the year, rolls around. Those of you who have been reading a while know that I am a Mummer. I won’t rehash an explanation of the Mummers Parade here, but you can read all about in a post from last year, which I just reread and found very informative. Good for me.

Next week, I’ll do some sort of year in review post or some crap, but just haven’t had the time to give it a proper review this week. Expect the next post to come either late Tuesday or sometime on Wednesday.

Until then, have a happy and safe New Year’s. I love you all and would be crushed if something were to happen, so be safe (within reason) on New Year’s Eve.

And I’ll save my mushiness for my week-late “year in review” post next week, but 2005 was a PHEEEEnomenal year, solely because of you jagoffs reading, spreading the word, and continuing to come back. I’ll leave it at that for now, but know that I am eternally grateful to each of you for everything that has happened for me in 2005 and I wish you nothing but the happiest of years in 2006.

See you next week and wish me luck on Sunday.

Thursday, December 29, 2005
explanation, chuck, jake is gay, memo emails, totally weird, drunk santa, music
I’ve been bouncing around the Northeast very much the past few days, trying to make it through this awkward week between Christmas and New Year’s.

Since my schedule is hectic, you get a hectic post. Hopefully, I’ll be able to write something more coherent now that I’ll be spending more than one night in the same place for the first time in over a week. But I’m pretty sure I’m losing my mind, so I can’t promise that.

God I love you all.


Look, it's funny. It really is. But please stop sending me facts about Chuck Norris. I've gotten a least three emails a day for the past month or so with these Chuck Norris facts. Yes, I know they exist. And yes, I know they are funny. But I've known about them for a while. The original target of these "facts" was Vin Diesel. The facts were basically the same, sans beard and roundhouse kick jokes. They were funny.

So I appreciate y'all bringing this to my attention, but I am aware of it. But what the hell - here are some of my favorite facts:

Chuck Norris raised his IQ by eating gifted children.

Einstein actually had a theory explaining how the roundhouse kick of Chuck Norris broke all laws of physics. He died on the day of the planned release.

A masked man once stabbed Chuck Norris in the alley behind a children's hospital. The knife bled to death.

Chuck Norris has only celebrated April Fools Day once. The result was homosexuals.

Chuck Norris proposed to his wife by spelling out "Will you marry me?" in semen. Needless to say, she said yes.

When God said, "Let there be light", Chuck Norris said, "say please."

Chuck Norris does not hunt because the word hunting infers the probability of failure. Chuck Norris goes killing.

When Chuck Norris sends in his taxes, he sends blank forms and includes only a picture of himself, crouched and ready to attack. Chuck Norris has not had to pay taxes ever.


Mark my words: Jake Gyllenhal will come out of the closet sometime after the New Year. Trust me on this.

I'm not saying this because I've seen "Brokeback Mountain", because I haven't seen the movie. I'm telling you this because I'm "in the industry" and I know shit like this.

Trust me. I can’t wait to say “I told you so!” in a few months. Because there’s nothing I love more than being right. And ejaculating on sleeping people. Being right and ejaculating on sleeping people are definitely my two favorite things.


I got a lot of responses to the post I wrote about check memos. Some of you are even sicker than I thought. Scott from NYC chimes in:

I'm totally with you on the check memo thing. Been doing it for years myself. Then my friends started doing it because of the public shame they would feel when they had to deposit one of my checks. The best one that any of my friends ever pulled was when we sent checks to the winner of our March Madness fantasy pool this year. My buddy Dave wrote on the memo line of the check, "I have a bomb," and mailed it to our buddy Kevin. Poor Kevin never thought to inspect the memo line before going to the bank a few days later. He handed it to the teller, completely oblivious to the fact that the teller then slowly walked away and summoned security. Two burly guys came over and pulled Kevin aside and asked him what he thought he was doing. Still clueless, they asked him why he wrote "i have a bomb" on his check. Then it hit him that Dave wrote it. Luckily, he got away without any time spent in the clink.
The only thing I can say about this is that I have never heard prison referred to as “the clink” before. Is this a known expression or did Scott just make this up?

Jake in Columbia, MO takes advantage of an old rule: mention Dalton in an email and it’s definitely going on the site.

When I was in college, my roommates and I made it a point to try and creep out our landlord each month with something ridiculous on the memo line. We liked to have a lot of parties and it was a great way to keep him out of our hair. The key was to make the message ominous, but keep it short of a threat. It also couldn't be something so vulger that he could call the police if he wanted. A few examples:

1. No one ever has to know... (The ... makes it. I forgot what those are called.)
2. Your doggie is never coming home. (This is much better if you imagine saying it with a clown voice)
3. Soon...
4. I love you.
5. We can still be friends, right?

Well, you get the idea. The plan worked great. He never bothered us, but then again, he also never fixed anything. A fair trade, I'd say. I'll take a broken garbage disposal over him coming over and seeing everything covered in a fine cocaine residue left by Joey Elimidate.

I actually loved the idea of this so much, that I started writing fake checks made out to real and fake people and hanging them on the walls.(I realize how awesome this sounds) I once wrote out a check to Dalton (Swayze in Roadhouse) for 1 million dollars. I told myself that if I ever have 1 million dollars in my bank account, I would change my name to Dalton, cash the check, and then spend the cash to open up a bar called the Double Deuce in Jasper, Missouri. I would not, however, wear sleeveless guis. Unfortunately, I spend all my money on Natural Light, Rumpleminze, and frozen Jack's pizzas.

Help me.
I think Jake and I would be very good friends. Jake, if you’re reading this, please IM me soon. I can move out there now, but early February would be best. Let me know.

Finally, we have CarolAnne in Philly. I would never, ever do this.

Hey Jason....Lets see if you have the brass balls to try this one.

Put this on the memo area of your next check:
"Donation to Al Quida/Al Qaida" (however the hell they spell it.)

Let's see Bush spy on your phone calls and emails. That should make good blog reading.
No thanks. Not unless the Bush people want hours of videotaped footage of me masturbating on the bathroom floor and laying in bed eating Tostitos and a lot of phone conversations between Brian and I that go:

Me: “Dude, did you clog the toilet in the middle of the night?”
Brian: “No, dude.”
Me: “Oh, I guess that was me.”
[eleven seconds of silence]
Me: “I can’t wait to get fucked up this weekend.”
Brian: “I know. It’s gonna be awesome. I love getting drunk.”
Me: “Me too.”
[fourteen seconds of silence]
Me: “Alright, later.”
Brian: “Later.”

But if that makes for a safer America, well, so be it.


I get a lot of really fucked up emails. This sort of comes with the territory, and I get a kick out of many of them. Some are annoying. These include the many emails I get from “hot” girls who talk about how “hot” they are and proceed to tease me about their “hotness”, but fail to include a picture. In the old days, I used to press these women for pictures, and when I eventually got one, 95% of the time it’d be of a 250-pounder eating a big-ass bowl of chili, looking like Mama Cass on a hot August afternoon. But now, jaded and disappointed, I don’t even respond to these emails. So ladies, if you’re only point in emailing me is to tell that you’re hot, please don’t. However, if you want to email me a picture of you eating a big-ass bowl of chili, that’s totally cool. I collect those.

Most emails are fun to read. These include some of the stories that y’all send me, links to stuff you think is funny, and drunken ramblings (and I have been getting an inordinate amount of drunken ramblings lately – gotta love the holidays). Really, I could put up one reader email a day instead of a post and it’d be more entertaining than any of the garbage on here.

I’ve seen a lot of crazy ones, but I think this is the single strangest email I’ve ever gotten.

Hi Jason,
My name is Sarah. I'm 32 years-young, and my husband recently died. I just saw your internet profile and I loved it. You're very attractive! I LOVE to travel, and I'll be visiting the US in January. Also, since my husband died (he died by overdosing on Velotrin - I'm curently sueing them and I hope to get a lot of money - I feel bad he died but I'm glad he died the way he died, he was fuckin' till the very end!!!!) I've become a chronic masturbater. My phsychiatrist tells me that the best way to cut down on jerkin' is to meet a man. So, I'M REALLY GLAD I FOUND YOUR WEBSITE ;)!!!!!!!!!! Hopefully, we will be able to meet up when I visit. I travel a lot, and I would love to travel with you. Lookin' forward to hearing from you,

[This is me, being speechless.]

[So Sarah, where are we going?]


If you want to see a picture of me drunk and dressed as Santa, you can do so at my MySpace profile. Don't get your hopes up - I'm not doing anything crazy. I just have a big dopey smile on my face because I'm wasted and I know I'm gonna eat soon.

God I hate Christmas.


Six Songs

“Hope I Don’t Fall In Love With You” Tom Waits
This song is heartbreaking. I don’t know what else to say, except for we have a new flagship song on the “Sad As Fuck” playlist. Best of all, this is before Tom Wait’s voice went to shit, so it actually sounds good.

(There are two versions of this song. Be sure to get the slower, longer version.)

[INTERRUPTION: The battery on my laptop is about to die at any moment, so the rest of our Six Songs selections must be abridged. Thank you for understanding.]

“Love Me Like You” The Magic Numbers
I’ve pimped them before, and I really, really, really, really like this band. Get as much of their stuff as you can.

“Invisible Touch” Genesis
Did you guys know that this song is really about Hitler? Swear to God.

“Romeo and Juliet” Dire Straits
The line “And all I do is kiss you/Through the bars of a rhyme” used to send me into convulsions of emotion (great band name: Convulsions of Emotion). Then all my emotions, save for lust and hunger, went away. Such is life.

“The Wait” American Analog Set
A better definition of “mope rock”, I can think of none.

“Symphony of Destruction” Megadeth
I cannot possibly count the number of people I have punched while listening to this song. It is easily in the dozens.

Wednesday, December 28, 2005
Unexpectedly traveling today, so no post. Will get you tomorrow.

Hugs and kisses,

Tuesday, December 27, 2005
Last night, ABC aired its final episode of Monday Night Football. Monday Night Football will still continue, but it will be shown on ESPN next season (NBC will get the Sunday night game). Though it will still be shown, MNF will never be the same.

I tried explaining this to a female cousin over the holiday weekend and she didn't get it. This is mostly because she was completely shit-bombed at the time. Also, I've been sleeping about three hours a night as of late, so when I drink I'll have four beers and turn into Drunky McPassOut, meaning my powers of elocution have suffered.

But it's also it's just a difficult thing to explain. I won't try to either, because there's nothing I can say that hasn't been already said, either during the show last night or in this article. Also, I'm only 26 and have no knowledge of MNF pre-mid 80's, so I can't offer a proper retrospective. But it goes without saying that MNF was more than just another game. It was an event.

Some of my fondest childhood memories involve MNF. For my birthday, probably when I turned 7 or 8, my dad got me a handheld black and white TV (kinda like this one, but much more primitive). My bedtime was 9:30, but every Monday night during football season I'd tune in to watch Al Michaels, Frank Gifford, Dan Dierdorf and whatever two teams were battling it out. I can still see images from those MNF games in my head. I'd hid under the covers, the glow of my lil' TV emanating in the dark, watching those games until I fell asleep (usually with the TV on). I miss those nights, and I suppose by extension those better times.

[Actually, that's not true. At this point in my life, I have a good job, live it up in NYC, and am adored by tens, possibly dozens, of people. Back then, my parents were going through a terrible divorce, I was disregarded by many of my peers because I could do things like "read" and "multiply", and I beat up my brother almost daily so that he'd go to the store and use the food stamps that we had, since I was too embarrassed to use them. So strike the second half of that last sentence.]

[Thus concludes out Pity Party.]

The point is that last night I was genuinely moved, and I can't really explain why. MNF football is gone. Maybe I'm just delirious right now, what with all the painkillers coursing through me, but I am genuinely saddened by this. It's not like the loss in the "death of a loved one" sense, or even in the "friend moves away" sense. I think it's somewhere between "Princess Di is dead" sad and "The Ranch One by my work is closing" sad.

"What is the point of this post?" you might ask. Well, there is no point. I just wanted to give a lil' shout out to Monday Night Football. And I know it sounds strange, but I'd like to thank it for being there for me on all those Monday nights when I was a kid as I sat in my bed, watching it on my little TV, thinking I was the baddest dude in the world for secretly staying up late. Though I continued to watch it as an adult, it was just as big a part of my childhood as my GI Joes, wiffleball, cartoons, and the ice cream man with the HUGE veiney penis. And for that I am grateful.

Friday, December 23, 2005
merry christmas
Just a quick note to wish y’all a Merry Christmas. I’m not really good at giving holiday wishes since I hate Christmas and all, but have a good one. And be safe.

(And be sure to really hit the egg nog, since you won’t be able to enjoy it again until next year. God I fucking love egg nog.)

Posting will resume on Wednesday, 12/28.

Thursday, December 22, 2005
things that I do that everyone else should do, volume one
The “memo” area on your average check is a comedy goldmine begging to be spelunked, yet people fail to recognize this. More often than not, people use this space to describe what the check is being written for: “May 2004 rent”, “John’s birthday”, “Account Number 193883984297”, etc.

But in reality, this is an opportunity for free-form comedy. I’m telling you this now because the holidays are upon us, and, like many of you, I have no imagination when it comes to giving gifts, so I often give money. Since we all know that giving cash is too…Italian (read: tacky), I always give checks. I know that receiving cash is preferable, but my logic is, “Hey – I’m giving you free money. The least you could do is take your lazy ass to the bank to cash the check.” Sartre says that the purpose of giving a gift is to enslave the recipient. I think that giving a gift is just another opportunity to be a dick.

[Please note: this does not apply only to holidays. Every check I write has something retarded in the memo. This is a year-round thing.]

So this holiday season, instead of writing in the memo of the check, “Merry Christmas, Tom!” or “Happy Hanukkah, Chaim!”, have a little fun with it. Write something ridiculous and/or offensive. You’ll at least get a laugh out of it and perhaps that person will have to hand that check to a teller to be deposited. Sweet.

Here are some examples to get you started:

- “Third place prize - Semen Eating Contest”
- “Killing my father”
- “Licking ass on a dare”
- “Your mother tastes like cocaine”
- “Head”
- “I rubbed this on my balls”
- “Are you my brother?”
- “Still tasting you xoxoxo”
- “This is for the drugs you sold me”
- “Sorry about your sister’s uterus and all”

So please, try this at home. I do it, it’s awesome, so you should do it.

Wednesday, December 21, 2005
a long boring post about my terrible fucking hangover
I had the worst hangover of my life on Saturday.

I know I employ hyperbole a lot on the site, i.e. “It was the best sandwich I ever had” or “There is an International Jewish Conspiracy that is out to destroy me” or “I was so upset that I ran him over and it was the best Sunday ever.”

But there is not a hint of overstatement when I say that this past Saturday, I had the worst hangover of my life. Every New Year’s Day, I get so drunk marching in the Mummer’s Parade that I can’t maintain an erection for the next three weeks. My twenty-first birthday began a month-long drunken orgy that ended with my roommates and I being evicted and sued for $23,000 in damages to our apartment. I went to Oktoberfest – the real Oktoberfest, in Munich – where I spent an astounding ELEVEN days and nights drinking $7 liters of beer fourteen hours a day, leaving in such a state of withdrawal when I got home that I would sit at my desk at work, shaking and sweating, counting the minutes until I got off from work and could go home, smoke pot, and take a very long shower.

None of those hangovers compared to Saturday.

I’ve had a lot of time to think about it and I think I know why I was so hungover on Saturday, but before I go into these reasons I should provide you with a satisfactory recap of Friday night.

On Friday night, my friends and I got together in Philly for a drinking tour: “Whacked on Foot”. This was the second year of the tour’s existence. It was started last year by my buddy David to celebrate his birthday. I’ve written before about Dave on the site – among other things, I went to London with him and Jimmy the Muppet in February 2004; he and Jimmy were the guys who had me unknowingly passing out counterfeit $20 bills on a night out drinking in April 2004 (under pseudonyms); he was my partner in the 7th Annual Quasi-Celebrity Drinking Tour (“Drink Until You Shit!”) this summer; and most recently he organized the still-untitled drinking tour on the Wednesday night before Thanksgiving of this year, which involved a bus with a DJ and two girls making out.

Long story short, David has a flair for the dramatic – and I mean this in the most heterosexual way possible. Simple nights or standard drinking tours do not entertain him. There always has to be something else, something usually retarded, to make the time mo’ better. Even if it involves something illegal and could possibly result in your friend serving very real jail time for a federal offense, well then so be it.

(And yes, I’m still bitter about the counterfeit money thing.)

Thankfully, there was nothing illegal about this Friday’s drinking tour, but there was a catch. There were about 14 guys on the tour – and one Santa suit. Each guy had to wear the Santa suit to a different bar. We started at 7pm at a bar on 2nd & Pine and we worked out way down 2nd Street, stopping at every bar on the way, back to our South Philly neighborhood.

And let me tell you, things got pretty ugly pretty quickly (of course, I don’t mean “ugly” in the “not good” sense, but rather the “booze soaked and totally and completely fucking awesome” sense). I should mention that my buddy Mark really upped the ante. Unbeknownst the rest of the crew, Mark went out and procured a Polaroid camera, film, and (literally) hundreds of candy canes. This was the perfect compliment to the Santa suit (see below).

My buddy Doc raised the bar pretty high when he was the first to put on the Santa suit. There is something wonderfully iconoclastic about Santa buying a round of shots, pounding a beer, and then screaming at the TV, “C’mon! Santa’s got $200 on the Sixers, so let’s go there Allen or else you’re getting coal, you mother fucker!”

I was determined to get out of wearing the Santa suit in any way, shape, or form. Don’t get me wrong – I loved the idea – but early on it was apparent that I was too drunk to be very jovial. This doesn’t mean that I wasn’t having a good time, but it means that I just wanted to drink, sit back, and laugh. One of the rare moments that I didn’t want to be at the center of attention.

So we kept drinking and moving on, guys switching in and out of the Santa suit as entered or exited each bar. Eventually, the idea of being Santa started to appeal to me. I’m guessing this has something with the fact that we’d go into bars and girls would start lining up for a Polaroid on Santa’s lap (and a candy cane, of course). As you guys know, there is nothing I advocate or enjoy more than sticking an unsuspecting woman with my thumb-sized boner. The origins of this go way back to my adolescence, when I would ram my bird into girls that I was slow dancing with at school dances, wondering, “Can she feel this? Because I sure can and it’s totally sweet.” The prospect of reliving my early boner-poking days was making me feel more and more jovial.

But near the end of the night, it didn’t look like it was going to happen. At the second to last bar, our friend Phil had the Santa suit on. The plan all along was for David, the birthday boy, to wear the Santa suit at the last bar. That would mean no Santa for me. But the good news is that by the time we were at the second to last bar I was so drunk that I was incapable of getting an erection. Hell, I was nearly incapable of sitting down. All I could really do at the point was breathe, piss, drink, and lean.

David, however, was in worse shape. I don’t remember the specifics, but I went to the bathroom, came out, and he was gone. When I asked Phil where he had gone, he told me that David had to be taken home by two other guys in the drinking tour because he was too drunk. It was about 12:15am. A total pussy performance to be sure (the first of three in a row for him), but this meant the Santa suit would be mine for the last bar! Victory!

At about 1am, I got into the suit, and the remaining four of us headed to the last bar. And that’s when it gets a little fuzzy.

I remember that Mark and I were the last two guys left at the bar. I remember doing a lot of shots with Mark. Bars close in Philly at 2am, but we stayed until 3am. I don’t remember any girls sitting on my lap (by that point, I’m pretty certain that at least two detectives from the Philadelphia Police Sex Crimes Unit were following me around as a precautionary measure), but there some Polaroids of me at the bar, which sadly I don’t have to scan.

And I do remember leaving. Or rather, I remember getting home. Knowing that I would be terribly wasted, I made some preparations: I had a sandwich and some Gatorade waiting for me. After I housed those, I popped two aspirin and passed out, the room’s delightful spins lulling me to sleep.

And then – whammo. When I woke up the next morning, I was in the throes of death. I never sleep in when I’m hungover and so was up at 9:30 in the morning. My usual remedy is aspirin, water, and a long shower. When after my first shower I felt like shit, I took another shower. And then another. And another. All told, I took FOUR showers through the course of the day Saturday, leaving the shower each time only when my I drained the house’s hot water heater and the cold water left me shivering. Even then I contemplated checking into a hotel, just so I could look myself in the bathroom with my iPod and a bottle of Poland Spring while the bathroom steamed up. I ultimately decided against this because – what am I, made of money?

I can’t begin to describe the misery. Obviously, it was bad. I was bedridden until dinner, when the scent of stromboli got me out of bed. All day long I couldn’t move, look at anything, or touch anything without something hurting. I looked the part too: my eyes were red and bloodshot since I slept in my contacts; my hair, which hasn’t been cut in almost two months, was a mess; I had stained the undershirt I was wearing; and my breath, beard, and ‘stache stunk of death and SoCo and lime. Just nasty.

At dinner I finally got some strength and was even able to make it out later that night. However, I had about three beers in five hours before coming home, popping a Xanax, and sleeping the sleep of the dead. But the damage was done. My original intention was to return to New York on Saturday afternoon. I got back Monday evening. Oops.

So why was I, such a seasoned drinker, so hungover, even when I was “prepared”? Two main reasons:

First, I was bombed. Duh. That isn’t going to make for a good morning any way you cut it. But on this particular night, two things did me in:

1) Late binge drinking. The tour started at 7pm. By midnight, I was in the bag. But between 1:30 until the bar closed, I must have had six shots. Six shots at the end of the night (especially sugary shots like SoCo and lime) are going to ruin you. If anything, it’s best to drink heavily early and more slowly later or to pace yourself all night. Of course, I drink like I make love: quickly and without remorse. And someone usually gets punched in the face. So no dice.

2) When I came home, I ate a chicken caesar wrap and a 32oz (or thereabouts) Gatorade High Endurance. Gatorade is a TERRIBLE thing to drink before going to bed on a load, since it’s very high in sugar. Sugar is very bad for hangovers. This is because sugar takes longer to break down in the body and robs it of hydration. I just made this up, but trust me, sugar is bad. One should drink water and only water the night before a hangover. I know this, and don’t know why I had this lapse on Friday evening.

I’ve been miserable lately. Duh. Alcohol is a drug that induces mood shifts, usually (in me, at least) helping me get from low to high. But once the alcohol is retreating from your body, so go your good feelings.

So as I lay there on Saturday morning/afternoon/evening, I more readily wallowed in self-pity. Instead of thinking, “God, you’re so hungover and such a pussy. But I have to admit that it was pretty awesome when you hit that junkie with the snowball and then blamed it on the other junkie and the two junkies fought each other.”, I was thinking more along the lines of, “Way to go, chubby. Keep pissing away the opportunity of a lifetime because you can’t stop drinking anything put in front of you. Now roll over, fat chops – our left arm is going numb.” This doesn’t help.


And so what is my resolve and/or solution? None and none. Things are looking decidedly downward: I’m getting older, I can’t drink like I used to, and I’m wasting precious pre-deadline time. Not only that, but it’s the holidays, which I hate (maybe this is why, but I’m not a therapist). Maybe that nervous breakdown that I wrote about in Post One is nigh. At least, I think, that would be very good for site traffic. In the meantime, I can only do what I do best: sit at my desk and stew. And of course, keep you updated – whether you want to be or not.

(And you thought I was kidding about the title)

Tuesday, December 20, 2005
strike (love)
This morning at around 3am, the MTA went on strike. All subway and bus lines were shut down. Traffic restrictions limited vehicles into Manhattan, mandating that each vehicle have at least four people in it before entering the city. Seven million New Yorkers needed to find an alternate way to get to work this morning. I mean, fuck.

This was originally supposed to happen last Friday, and so I was indifferent about it. I only really have to leave the house the one day a week that I work - Tuesday. Otherwise, I'm content to sit at home. Everything I need in my life is within walking distance of my apartment: food, booze, chaffy handjobs from Chinese immigrants who don't have all their teeth but really know how to handle a bird, etc. I figured that the strike would happen on Friday but then would be resolved by the time the next Tuesday rolled around, when I had to go to work. Once again, I escape unscathed.


Of course, the strike was delayed until today, and my ass had to walk to work in the cold weather (wind chill: 19º). Fortunately, I live only about a twenty-five minute walk to work. Not great, but it could have been much, much worse. So I tried to maintain a positive attitude (hey, I only work one day a week) and took the transit strike for what it's worth: an opportunity to show up egregiously late to work.


When I strolled in forty-five minutes late this morning, I was the last person in my department to do so. Because I really don't pay attention to most of the emails I get at work that aren't from my friends, I didn't notice that my firm (which is even more prestigious than Opinionista's) had developed a balls-out contingency plan. Busses were dispatched to all five boroughs, operating every half hour with multiple stops, making it very convenient for my co-workers to get to work. I even heard one co-worker say that because of the firm's efforts, his commute was actually better than normal. But like I said, I didn't read these emails because I figured that the strike would be resolved by today and if not, I'd just walk anyway. And come in really, really late.

Yet everyone else was here on time, if not earlier. They woke up early, waited for firm busses, and made it to work to do their job. Meanwhile, I woke up late, took an extra long shower, ate TWO bowls of cereal, and stopped off at the Starbucks just outside my office for a leisurely hot chocolate, taking my time and listening to my iPod the whole way, occasionally stopping to window shop. I could almost imagine my two bosses watching me dilly-dally around the building from their office window:

Boss 1: "There's Jason. And he's going into Starbucks."

[twelve minutes later]

Boss 2: "Look - he just came out."
B1: "And he sure is taking his sweet time to get to the building."
B2: "Look Ted - he appears to be arguing with that homeless woman."
B1: "HOLY GEEZ! He just threw his coffee in her face!"
B2: "And now they're fighting!"

[Boss 1 and Boss 2 watch in shocked silence as Jason and the Homeless Woman begin to tussle. It appears that Jason has the upper hand, but soon the Homeless Woman starts getting the best of him with a series of swift headbutts. Jason responds in kind.]

B1: "Good lord! He's really fighting dirty!"
B2: "I've never seen such gratuitous use of teeth and elbows!"
B1: "Oh wait - here comes the police to break things up."

[Both bosses watch as the police separate the two combatants. Jason, the more cantankerous of the two, is sprayed with mace. Homeless Woman laughs and claps her hands as Jason writhes in pain, first against a car, and then on the ground. After getting an emergency radio call, the two police officers flee the scene.]

B1: "Well I'm glad that's over with. I need him here today, because I need him to [some business related task that Jason surely doesn't understand]."
B2: "Check it out - Jason and the homeless woman are shaking hands."

[Jason and Homeless Woman begrudgingly shake hands.]

B1: "That's always good to see. Even though it wasn't a fair fight, at least it's ending well."

[Boss 1 moves away from the window, thinking the matter is over.]

B2: "Oh no, Ted. You gotta see this!"
B1: "What is it, Max?"
B2: "Jason is...Jason and the homeless woman are kissing."

[Cut to view of street below. Jason and the Homeless Woman are kissing - not lustily, but rather softly, delicately, staring into each other's eyes. Both start crying.]

B1: "Hmph. I thought he was gay."
B2: "I was pretty sure he was gay."
B1: "Well, I guess the strike makes people do crazy things."

[Both sip their coffee in silence, watching from the window while Jason and the Homeless Woman affectionately kiss and giggle like seventh graders. Some tickling is involved, and possibly baby talk. Six seconds pass.]

B1: "Well, back to work."
B2: "Yep."


[I don't really know where to go from here, so I'm just going to end it. Kinda got away from me there. Oh well.]

Friday, December 16, 2005
cartoon, colagero, destiny, ipod, pandora, music, philly
Someone I know was very, very upset about this. We will call him “Justin.” Justin went away recently. On his first day out of NYC, he got a frantic voicemail message from his roommate, “Bill.” Bill was very wound up and upset, wailing like Ron Burgundy in his glass case of emotion, unable to even explain what happened before abruptly hanging up.

Justin tracked Bill down and got the scoop. It was the unthinkable: their “source”, with whom they’ve had an on-again off-again relationship for the past four years, had been arrested, busted by the feds. So no more of one of the few things that makes Justin’s and Bill’s lives bearable. This is especially bad, since Justin has recently transformed into the most miserable human being on the planet and derives pleasure only from abuse (particularly from the substance that the source offers, but also from the abuse of booze, other people, and himself).

Not only that, a list of the source’s clients had been confiscated. On that list are, presumably, Justin’s and Bill’s names and contact information.

Once Justin got the fully story from Bill, he tried to calm him down. “I promise you,” he said, “They’re not going to come after us. Not with athletes and celebrities on that list anyway.”

“Yes,” Bill replied, “But what about [unintelligible screams and sobs, things breaking in the background].”

Bill eventually bought into Justin’s reassurances, but deep down Justin himself was worried. See, Justin is an almost-celebrity. I can’t get into the nature of his fame, lest I reveal too much of his persona. But let’s just say that Justin is kind of a big deal in some circles, especially in New York City. We’re not talking “Oscar-winner” big deal, but one time he did get recognized on an Amtrak train. Which totally made his entire year.

But though initially worried, Justin realized that getting busted by the feds might just be great for his career. After all, everyone knows there is no such thing as bad publicity and an attention whore like Justin is always willing to take it where he can get it. Besides, it’s not like he was having drinking parties for 12 year old boys from PS 128 at his apartment every Friday night (there was no drinking, just a lot of group masturbating).

So soon Justin was no longer worried. There were two possible scenarios, he figured: either nothing happens or he gets arrested and becomes a political prisoner, using his captivity as an excuse to strike out at the man and the system, with the help of his legions of (completely bored and totally looking for something to do) fans.

But there’s another problem: Justin and Bill need their “goods”. This, thankfully, is not an issue. In a city as large as New York, there will always be sources and always be goods. I *heart* NYC.

I mean, Justin *hearts* NYC.

The end.


Speaking of breaking the law, Colagero is implicated in a murder.

I’m tempted to make a racist joke here (you guys know how I turn everything into a racial issue), something akin to, “I wonder if this would have happened if he had found a nice Italian girl instead” (and that’s a really mild one). But my sister has recently started dating a black man, so I have to start biting my tongue. A bisexual brother and a sister dating a black guy. Now all I need is for my mom to somehow get retarded and my dad to convert to Judaism I have license to make any joke I want.

[Not that I make any jokes about Jews, if any of my friends in the entertainment industry are reading this. I am totally down with the Tribe, and you guys know this.

Anyway, I don’t really have a joke about Colagero being a criminal, but how does something like this? One minute you’re working with Robert DeNiro, the next you’re involved in the death of a NYC police officer. Fame goes to the unworthy. I promise you that if I ever get famous I will not, in any way, be involved in the death of a police officer. The only death I will be involved in will be my own, which I will take like a man, in a closet, smoking a cigarette, listening to Sigur Ros, consciously drawing my heart to a complete stop because my dog died in my pool a few days earlier and I no longer have anything to live for. Thank you.


Speaking of famous people being assholes, has there ever been a more condescending commercial than the Destiny’s Child Wal-Mart Christmas commercial? Perhaps “condescending” is not the right word…hypocritical? Anger-inducing? Piss-me-off-ish? (Can someone help me a word here, please?)

In the commercial, Beyonce (‘cause Lord knows I haven’t seen enough of her) and the other two girls in Destiny’s Child are at Beyonce’s house on Christmas morning, exchanging gifts. These gifts include: a giant plasma TV, a laptop, a tricked out digital camera, and other exorbitantly expensive gifts.

Maybe it’s because I grew up poor, but I don’t want to see really rich celebrities exchanging $60,000 worth of gifts on Christmas morning. This doesn’t make your product more appealing to me. Instead, it makes me want to punch these rich fucks in the face.

No surprise that this commercial comes from Wal-Mart. The median income of the average Wal-Mart employee is $22,400. Of course, I just made that number up, but it’s got to be pretty low. But then they show Beyonce and the gang throwing presents around that probably 98% of their employees (and probably 90% of their customers) can’t afford. This angers me so much that I can’t believe more hasn’t been written about it.

So fuck you, Wal-Mart, and fuck you, Destiny’s Child. Take your $6000 59 inch plasma TVs and your $800 digital cameras and shove them up your asses.

And Merry Fucking Christmas.


Speaking of expensive things, I got the new 60 GB black iPod. I have no idea why.

Well, that’s not true; I saw my brother’s and decided to get one. Simple as that. I have to admit, it’s pretty sick. I bought my original iPod back in March of 2004 (just after starting this blog, actually) and it was getting pretty beat up. Worst of all, the battery was completely shot to shit. I even had the battery replaced, but I was only getting a solid 1.5 hours of use of it before it conked out completely.

So the real reason I got a new one is that my brother’s looked cool. My fake justification for getting the new one is that my old one was dying.

I don’t have a product review or anything, and I don’t regret buying it, but I had a moment. I bought it and raced (in as much as I can “race” anywhere) back to my apartment, and set it up, marveling at its beauty as my songs were copied onto it. Then, when it was finally ready, I put in the headphones to try out my new $400 toy and I learned that IT IS THE SAME AS MY OLD IPOD.

I don’t mean that literally of course, but when this thing is in my pocket and music is coming out of it, I can’t tell the difference between this one and my old one. Sure, more battery life and cooler looking, etc, but really, it’s just the same.

(And I know this one holds photos and TV shows and stuff, but I don’t take pictures and I don’t watch TV. So there’s no way I’m going to do use these functions.)

So I’d like to congratulate myself for an exorbitantly expensive and completely unnecessary purchase that does not alter my life in anyway, except to distract from my bank account. Guess I’ll pay off those credit cards later. Or I’ll just die and let my family take care of it. Haven’t decided yet.


Speaking of music, get ready, because I’m going to make your day.

Lauren in NYC introduced to me www.pandora.com. It’s an ingenious idea really. It’s a music site. You put in an artist or song that you like and based on the artist/song will then build a “radio station” of songs like that artist/song. For example, if you put in the Beatles, you’re going to get a lot of songs that sound like the Beatles, some familiar (the Kinks, David Bowie, Badfinger), some not.

Two complaints:

1) The library is limited. For example, if you put in the Beatles, there’s a limited number of songs they have for their station. Meaning, on Tuesday I listened to my Beatles station. I did the same on Wednesday, and heard a lot of the same songs I did the previous day.

2) Jackson Browne is linked to every artist I liked. So far, I’ve done the Beatles, Elvis Costello, Squeeze, the Grateful Dead, and Jimi Hendrix. Jackson Browne has been on every station, even Hendrix’s. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s behind this whole thing. And Jackson Browne sucks.

3) I wonder who exactly is behind this. Perhaps a computer nerd in some hipster band put this together to get his/her music out there. Think about it: many, many people are going to make a station around the Beatles. If you put your song second on that station’s playlist, a lot of people are going to listen to it. Hmm…I wonder.

At any rate, it’s a great site if you’re just sitting at work and looking for new music. My Grateful Dead station is my favorite so far, as I sit back and get into heady tunes when I write some of the unfunniest “comedy” the world has ever seen. It’s great.


Six Songs

“Something Pretty” Patrick Park
This dude’s voice sometimes gets on my nerves (especially when he starts belting it out in the third verse). But there is something achingly endearing about saying to a woman, “Now show me something pretty.” If I were high, I could write a 1500 word discourse on the word “pretty” and how, since as children it’s the first word that we learn to describe beauty, it carries a more significant weight and therefore (I would argue) is much more poetic than any of its synonyms. I might also go into how in this particular line the juxtaposition of the harsh command (“Now show me”) and its soft object (“something pretty”) is particularly, well, pretty. But my fucking drug dealer got arrested last week, so I ain’t high.

“Showdown” ELO
Never has there been a song that is at once so ridiculous, so overly dramatic, and so totally fucking awesome at the same time (“It’s raining all over the world/Tonight, the longest night”). Every time I hear this song, it pumps me up. It’s like my personal Rocky theme.

(And yes, I know it was used in “Kingpin”, a very underrated movie. I just saved myself from having to read about 50 emails telling me this. Score for me.)

“Idiot Boyfriend” Jimmy Fallon
Speaking of ridiculous, when this song came out, I hated it. This is because it was released at the height of Jimmy Fallon’s career, which I would guess was in 2002. I remember because I lived with a girl at that time, and all she talked about was how hot Jimmy Fallon (it was the same time that everyone thought the Strokes were the second coming of Christ, if Christ were a really great band).

But I heard this song recently, I had no animosity toward it. I even kind of liked it. And I realized that the reason why I like it now and not then is not because my musical tastes have changed, but Jimmy Fallon is no longer “hot”. It’s not like his career is over, but let’s face it, once SNL brought in the post-Will Ferrell shit fest and he left to do the taxi movie with Queen Latifah, well, let’s just say I don’t think that girl I lived with is talking about him every day anymore.

Still a dumb song, but marginally funny, with a nice hook. Next.

“Out To Get You” James
A must for any make out mix. Trust me on this, since I make out with chicks all the time. I just made out with one like five minutes. And yes, she was hot. We had lunch together and went for a walk and then she was all like, “When are you gonna kiss me?” and I was all like, “I’m gonna do it now – how does that suit you?” and she was all like, “It suits me just fine” and then we made out for like a minute and a half. Wicked.

“Vicky Verky” Squeeze
I can’t tell you what this song is about, since Glenn Tilbrook sings so damn fast. But it’s a really catchy, lovely 80’s Brit pop rock tune. I don’t know why more people don’t know about or appreciate Squeeze. They are an incredible band, one of my top five favorites (seriously).

“I’ll Make It Clear” Teenage Fanclub
While we’re at it, another British pop rock band. This song, all two minutes and thirty-three seconds of it, just may be perfect. Listen to it once. Listen to it again. If you’re not at least humming along the second time around, something is seriously wrong with you.


Back in Philly now for a buddy’s birthday drinking tour tonight. I don’t like to hype things, especially on here (lest I get too pressured to do something ridiculous and write about it here on Monday), but this should be a good one. I’m not saying something outrageous is going to happen, but I’ll make a few predictions:

1) I’ll get too drunk.
2) I will spend well over $100.
3) I will have a massive hangover the next day.
4) I will be miserable.
5) I will say things like, “I’m retiring from drinking.”
6) Eight hours later, I will be drunk.

I’m pretty sure I can go 6-for-6 here.

[Have a good weekend.]

Thursday, December 15, 2005
The web page says it all. Be there.

RSVP at info@GloriusMustache.com.

Wednesday, December 14, 2005
return, recap
First, I apologize for my behavior over the past few months. Not for generally being a sucky person, but for sounding so "mysterious" with the projects that I've been working on. Let me backtrack: typically, when I'm feeling down, I'll print out some posts from this here blog and read them aloud to myself. It never fails to get me up and even a little randy. Knowing that this past week was going to be a rough one (mood swings, depression, etc), I printed out a few months worth of archives to bring with me on my self-imposed exile. And though there were parts that brought me near climax, I realized what an incredible douche I sound like when referring so mysteriously to my "projects".

[Right now you're thinking, "I really hope he's not serious about printing out his old posts and reading. But I can't say for sure."]

Though I apologize for my doucheness, I still can't give y'all full disclosure. I will however, tell you as much as I can:

- Since the end of September, I have only been working one day a week at my normal job. That day is Tuesday.

- I will continue working one day a week through December. Then I will take a leave of absence from work until mid-February. That means I'll have off from work entirely from Jan 1 until mid-Feb.

- I've divided my time between time between two projects: developing a TV show based on the site (I refuse to say "my life", because that would make it the saddest TV show ever), as mentioned in Variety; and working on another project which can not be named for contractual reasons.

- In about a month or so, I will be able to tell you everything (hopefully).

- Over the next few months, there will be some changes to the site. Don't be scared; they will be good and exciting. One of the upshots of these projects is that I have a little bit of money. Instead of using this money for rent, credit card debt, student loans, etc, I'm going to make my site prettier (I will also pay off many of my speeding tickets). For the entire length of his "employment", Site Guy Brendan has been held captive in an apartment in Dorchester, MA and beaten with bamboo shoots, while he steals stuff from the internet for this site. I can now give him so money to buy shiny things to make the site nicer, which will happen over time (though I will still continue to beat him with bamboo shoots). So even though I was on hiatus and I may slack a bit over the next few weeks while I take care of business, I'm more committed to this site than ever. And I know I'm being vague about these changes, but I want to surprise you (because I love you).

This past week, from Wednesday until Tuesday, I was "down the shore" in North Wildwood, NJ. Typically, my family and friends summer there, but in the winter, there ain't much going on. I went down there because my aunt and uncle have a lil' place down there and I needed to get away from the distractions of NYC (read: craigslist's "casual encounters" section).

The good news: it worked. I managed to get a lot of work done. You'd be surprised how industrious you can be when you have no internet, no friends, and not even any contact with other humans to occupy your time.

[Confession: I did get internet for a little bit when I was down there. On Saturday evening, I suddenly was able to piggyback someone's wireless signal. It was probably one of the top five moments of my life. I immediately went onto MySpace to search for girls living in the Wildwoods to invite them for some hanky-panky. Surprisingly, none accepted. I suppose I shouldn't send messages with subjects like "I WANT TO TASTTE [sic] YOUR HEINIE" and "MY BIRD IS YOURS TONITE".]

But I did learn one thing for sure: you're never too depressed to drink alone. I'll get into this later, but writing humor - when you are being paid to do so and people are waiting for your product to judge it - is a very daunting task. Not only that, it can't be forced. Either it comes, or it doesn't. And when it doesn't, you'd better watch out.

I didn't have much to do, so I just drank beer and ate a lot. Then I'd try to write and get bummed out when it didn't come to me. Then I'd get drunker. And then I'd get sadder. At one point, I was so depressed that I was laying on the bathroom floor with no pants on (though wearing a t-shirt and socks) as the shower ran while I played Monopoly on my cell phone. This lasted for over an hour. Also, it was probably about 3:30 in the morning when this was happening. I'm guessing that I probably shouldn't tell this story on a first date, but I'm trying to give you a little insight into the mind and life of a really, really, really bad writer. You're welcome.

But I'm back in NYC to the comfort and safety of my apartment. I missed the little things about my life here in NYC: the way my heat in my apartment only turns on after midnight and then makes the room temperature rise very quickly to about 85 degrees, causing my body to go into shock; the thousands upon thousands upon thousands of people on the streets in my neighborhood who are determined to walk very slowly in front of me, stopping suddenly for unknown reasons so I can walk into their backs; the way a sandwich and a gatorade costs $11; the fried chicken wing/rotting garbage smell that permeates my neighborhood even though it's 15 degrees out; my 8x10 bedroom, filled with stuff I haven't even unpacked from my move back in May; my bathroom, which is getting so disgusting that I've taken to shitting in the gas station bathroom three blocks away; the garbage trucks, which seem now to be coming every night at around 2am; the hipsters who stand around in bars acting superior because they listen to bands with names like I Love You But I've Chosen Darkness and have the same haircut their mom/dad had in 1974; the frat guys in striped shirts who down $5 shots of tequila, high five, and pick fights; and the fact that it costs me $60 to get a buzz on on a night out. Just to a name a few.

I think I'm getting old. I think I may need a change of scenery. Good thing I'm headed back to Philly tomorrow.

[God I miss Los Angeles.]

Tuesday, December 13, 2005
back and press
God I missed you sons of bitches.

More to come tomorrow, but I wanted to write to say that I’m alive and (reasonably) well in NYC. Also, a plug: today I’m quoted in a New York Sun article about the attempted revival of the moustache. It’s only a little blurb, but hey – it’ll make my mom happy. I don’t have a hard copy, so I don’t know what page it’s on, but you can view the online version here.

Now let’s never be apart again.

Wednesday, December 07, 2005
hiatus until 12/14
I will be on hiatus until next Wednesday, December 14. That means I won’t be posting again until that day.

I have some deadlines approaching for a project and since I can’t get done any work in NYC, I’m going down the shore. In the summer, North Wildwood, NJ is bumping: seasonal tourists fill the streets, drinking with abandon, speaking in thick South Philly accents, and getting into fights. In the winter, it’s a ghost town. There’s only one bar, one liquor store, one restaurant, and a Wawa (Philly’s localized version of 7-11) open, so I will be distraction-free. Except for the fights, which I think are a year-round thing. Sounds great, doesn’t it?

What’s more, I won’t have internet access. At all. Well, that’s not true; I’ll have internet through my Treo, but that is very limited to begin with and I can’t imagine how good my reception will be down the shore anyway. The prospect of no internet is both terrifying and liberating. I have a feeling that by Day Two of my self-imposed exile I’ll either be in the grips of a complete nervous breakdown (who’s going to check up on my fantasy basketball team to see in Andrei Kirilenko starts actually making shots?) or I’ll be skipping along the beach playing a flute followed by a line of dancing orphan children (an internet icon without his internet is a freedom most men can never know).

But I ask that during this hiatus you do not email me. I’ve been very bad with email recently because a) I’ve had to cut back on my time responding to emails to work on my other stuff; b) about three weeks ago, every spammer in the world simultaneously discovered my site, so I’m getting inundated with emails with subjects like “)*&@*)&^#($(!” So please don’t email during the hiatus unless you have something supremely important to tell me or you just took an especially hot picture of yourself in the shower and want to share it with me. Dig?

To be honest, I’ll be worried about some people while I’m on this hiatus. I’ll worry about my friends, who will have no one to email them at 1 in the afternoon to remind them that he just woke up and has no plans other than to make a giant sandwich and possibly shower. I’ll worry about my roommate Brian, who will have no one to clean up after him, do his dishes, and buy all the toilet paper for the apartment (but then Brian will probably be glad that someone isn’t sitting in the bathroom playing Monopoly on his cell phone from 7pm until 11pm every night). And I’ll worry about the people who are paying me for this project, who will be sitting in offices in New York and Los Angeles, unable to get in touch with me, convinced that I’m sitting in a dark room drinking cheap vodka and crying because “I just can’t do it” as they frantically try to stop payment on the checks they’ve given me.

(Oh wait – I haven’t received ANY checks yet and am as poor now as I was in college. Thanks again guys for really taking care of me. See you in court.)

But I’m not worried about you guys. It’s only a week and it’ll go by quickly. Besides, it’s the holiday season, so you can get over your boredom at work by looking on the internet for gifts – for me. I take either an XL or and XXL and though my favorite color is green (or blue), my favorite color to wear is black. It’s slimming.

Have a good week. I promise that I will miss you much more than you will miss me. And wish me luck. Because lord knows I need it.

(Seriously, I need a lot of luck. So send it this way. Thank you.)

Tuesday, December 06, 2005
hack, ray, tech problems, eagles, quoteable, music
Loyal reader and friend JC from Charlotte was the first to bring to my attention that my post yesterday was similar to an episode of the FX show "It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia." In the episode, the main character learns that his old high school teacher was accused of sexual misconduct and he (the character) wonders why he was not a target of this teacher. So it's pretty much the same exact idea that I wrote about yesterday.

Four things about this:

1) I have never seen this show. Therefore, I did not steal the joke from it. You might call "bullshit" on this, but it's true. You can believe me or not. I don't reallly care (I added an extra "l" for emphasis).

2) If we're being honest, I've only consciously lifted one joke from someone else to use on this site without giving credit, and it's bothered me since. Back in March of 2005, I wrote about attending my 12-year 8th grade reunion. For the reunion, I wrote a speech (which I never ended up giving). In that speech I wrote:

But I look around the room and I’m happy with what we’ve become: good men, upstanding women, and whatever the hell Wick is. And I feel nothing but respect for you all, nothing but respect. Not pride. Not happiness. Not friendship. Just respect.
The "I look around the room and feel nothing but respect; not pride, etc" joke is not mine. Steve Martin said it in a speech about Lorne Michaels in some honorary ceremony. And I stole it. So there.

But in my defense, I stole it for the speech, not for the site. Sure, I later put the speech on the site, but it's original intention was for the speech only. And we all know it's much more acceptable to steal for the spoken word than the written word (although it was T.S. Eliot who said, "Good writers borrow. Great writers steal." and he was writer, not a stand-up).

3) I'd like to thank the dozens of other people who emailed me after JC, calling me out on the post. It's also a good sign for that show, I think, that so many people would know the plot of one of the episodes.

However, for the douchebags who took a nasty tone in their emails, F you guys. Through November of this year, I've written around 475,000 words on the site (the equivalent of 940 singled-spaced pages). Many of these 475,000 words have been used before, sometimes even in a comedic setting. So if I accidentally repeat a joke, give me a break. You don't need to send me a dickhead email calling me a hack. No offense to "Philadelphia", but it's not like I wrote a post about some cook in my neighborhood who screams "NO SOUP FOR YOU!" or anything. Like I said, I've never seen the show, but I think I might have to watch it now.

4) Something that is worth noting: the star and creator of "It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia" went to my high school. I do not know the extent of his interaction with this teacher, as he was two years ahead of me. But at the very least he knew him. Strange then, isn't it, that he would write a presumably fictional episode about not being the target of his predatory high school teacher's advances and then later it would be learned that in real life he actually had a predatory high school teacher?


I just blew your minds, didn't I? That's why you guys pay me the big bucks.

(Oh no wait, you don't pay me anything. You just send emails accusing me of stealing jokes. Sorry - I got mixed up there for a moment.)


I saw Ray Lamontagne last night at Town Hall here in NYC. If you're not listening to Ray Lamontagne, I don't know what to tell you. A year and a half ago I stood with 30 people watching him at the Mercury Lounge. Now the dude is standing on the stage at Town Hall, just him, his guitar, and a harmonica.

The show was very good, but I have to say it was the least good of his previous performances that I've seen (but still very good). He seemed a little off, and eventually said to the audience, "I'm frustrated about something. Can you tell?" It's a shame, because I had awesome seats (5th row orchestra, center) and I felt like a total hot shot sitting so close.

Also, to the people who yell out during concerts: if I find out who you are, I will punch you in the fucking face. As I said, it was just him and his guitar, so when he wasn't playing or when he was tuning up, you could almost hear a pin drop. Of course, every once in a while a dickhead would yell, "YEAH RAY!" or "[unintelligible noise]!" I think this is extremely annoying, and 95% of the crowd thought so too. When during one of the silences some guy trying to be funny yelled out, "I dig music!", a girl in the balcony countered, "Shut up, frat boy!" The crowd approved, so much so that I thought they'd start attacking the frat boy and tear him to pieces. A comical moment in an otherwise depressing night, just because Ray's music is so damn sad.

God I love him.


You may have noticed that we had some technical difficulties recently, but these have been fixed (I think). Long story short, I did something I shouldn't have, probably for the sole purpose of giving Site Guy Brendan a headache. Mission accomplished. Several emails back and forth between he and I and the problem is solved (I think). And I'm pretty certain that the next time I see Brendan he's going to belly punch me. Can't wait.

But in the future, please send all tech-related issues to Site Guy Brendan at brendan@jasonmulgrew.com. For the last time, I am a technical retard. I don't know anything about web design, html, RSS feeds, or the intricacies of a woman's private area. For help with any of these issues, go to Brendan. If you want someone to console you because you got wasted and made a sandwich out of processed cheese slices and toilet paper, drop me a line. Got it?


I'd like to thank the Philadelphia Eagles for making the past three months (and the next month) miserable for me. After the Ray show, I walked into a bar just in time to watch a Seahawk taking a fumble into the end zone to make it 41-0 - WITH 14 MINUTES LEFT IN THE THIRD QUARTER.

Typically, when I'm miserable, I want everyone else to be miserable with me. And fortunately, many of my non-Eagle fans felt that way after last night's game. You see, the over/under on the game was 43. Many of my friends bet the over. Like I said, with just under 14 minutes left in the third quarter it was 42-0. Surely someone would score again, since the Seahawks managed 42 points in a little over half the game, right?

Nope. Neither team scored. Those betting the over lost. To make matters worse, the Seahawks missed a field goal that would have put them over. Sucks for you guys.

And sucks for me too. But at least we can commiserate together.


My buddy Tim was responsible for two phenomenal quotes this weekend:

1) "Imagine how slutty women would be if they could have orgasms with the same ease that men can."

2) "The closest I ever came to a threesome was at a Santana concert."

I think I'm going to write a whole post about the first and the second is arguably the greatest conversation starter I've ever heard. Kudos to you, Tim.

[I had a line about how I was going to really "explore the space" with that first point, but I think it's time to officially retire every line from the Christopher Walken/Blue Oyster Cult SNL skit that gave us the line, "I need more cowbell!" I like to think that it was me and this site that stopped the whole "Best. [Noun]. Ever." phenomenon that got so brutally overused that I started to tense up every time I saw it written, so let's all now focus our energies on preventing further quoting from this skit. Yes, it was awesome, but it had its time and place. So join with me in chanting: NO 'MORE COWBELL!' NO 'MORE COWBELL!']


Since it's only a half week (more tomorrow on this) we can't do Six Songs, so here are Three Songs.

"Angel" Aerosmith
I hate Aerosmith. I read an interview in Maxim once (I think I've written about this before) with Steven Tyler, in which he was asked where Aerosmith ranks in the rock pantheon. His response? "Just below the Stones, but above Led Zeppelin." Um, no Steven. Not even close. More like...

1) The Rolling Stones
2) Led Zeppelin
3) The Who


14) The Edgar Winter Group
15) Aerosmith
16) LA Guns

So I don't know why I'm pimping this song, except to say that I like it even though it was a precursor to their later Diane Warren co-penned schmaltz. Eck.

"Unsung" Helmet
I was in a band in college. We were terrible and we played scary music, but we had fun. Though I was more inclined to Elvis Costello and Squeeze, we played a lot of Rage Against the Machine and Tool. "Unsung" was one of the "hard rock" songs that we played, but I actually really liked this song. And it's very easy to play to, so I would rock on stage, pounding away on my bass, looking out onto a sea of women admirers before me. And by "sea of women admirers" I mean my roommates, three alcoholics, and a Chinese lady selling roses. But whatever.

"Four Leaf Clover" Badly Drawn Boy
I have such a strange affair with Badly Drawn Boy; some of his stuff I don't think I can live without, while other songs of his I find wretched. This falls into the former category. I could use more words, but it's a nice tune. It makes me all moody and unsure of myself. And that's a good thing. I think.

Monday, December 05, 2005
the teacher-student relationship
When I tell people that I went to an all guys high school, the most common response is, “Eww – that sucks.” Their logic is that since I was surroundded by 800 guys during my sexual peak, high school must have sucked for me.

But in truth, I have no regrets about going to an all guys high school (and not because I am actually an aggressive homosexual and spent four glorious years in high school giving handjobs to bi-curious classmates in the locker room). My counter to the no-girls argument is that a) just because I wasn’t with girls in class doesn’t mean I didn’t know any girls in high school; and b) I still wouldn’t have gotten laid in high school even if half of the student body was made up of young ladies. So the “no girls” argument, the biggest negative to the all guys school, is thus rendered moot.

And there are a lot of good things about going to high school without girls. The first is the absence of sexual pressure. Every day when I went to class, I didn’t have to worry about what I looked like. Hell, I didn’t even have to worry about whether or not I properly wiped my ass. No girls around meant a lot less pressure, and that meant that we guys could be total fucking pigs.

This, in turn, led to more male bonding (and I don’t mean that in the circle jerk kind of way). I’m trying to decide how I can explain this without it sounding gay, and I don’t think I’m going to be able to. But let me put it this way: if I went to a co-ed school, I would most likely now be living in my dad’s basement, working at the local Costco, and spending my nights drinking cheap beer and masturbating to amateur British pornography (also, I’d have no sense of humor). Instead, I’m not working at all, living above an Italian restaurant, and spend my nights drinking expensive beer and masturbating to equally expensive pornography (also, not to toot my own horn, but I have a pretty good sense of humor).

The bottom line about my high school experience, with its 800 guys and all, was that it was fun. It was more than fun – it was a fucking blast. When I look back, I can’t imagine going to school with girls and what an awkward mess that would have been for me in those years (or now even).

But there is one minor drawback to going to an all guys school: the teachers want to fuck you.

A few weeks ago, a much-loved (no pun intended) teacher at my old high school abruptly resigned. According to a letter sent to parents of current students by the president of the school, “Church officials received inquiries concerning [teacher] and incidents of alleged inappropriate kissing and hugging with three students in the mid-1990s.” The letter continues, “In 1996, [teacher] denied any inappropriate intent when confronted with these allegations. Nonetheless, at that time, [school] reprimanded [teacher], mandated psychiatric evaluation and counseling for him and restricted his non-class time interaction with students.” But it wasn’t until now, under threat of official Church inquiry, that the teacher resigned. The letter doesn’t give any more specifics of the inappropriate conduct.

Before I continue, you should know that my old high school is a very prestigious and very expensive prep school. Kids come from all over the region to go there and their parents pay buckets of money for them to do so. The only reason why I even went to the school was because I got a scholarship (the same reason I went to notorious stingy and very expensive BC). But what I’m trying to get at is this is a big deal school with some very wealthy alumni and parents.

There are several possible stances to this that students, parents, or alumni can take, but I think there are two main ones:

a) “You’ve known about these infractions since 1996 but did nothing until nine years later! I pay a lot of money for my son to go to this school and I expect nothing less than his well-being to be cared for! This is a travesty!”

b) “[Teacher] is a longstanding member of the [high school] community and is very well-respected. Have you any proof of his inappropriate conduct other than the words of the students?”

Both have merit. However, I won’t get into either of them, as we all know that we discuss nothing of merit or substance on this site.

Instead, I will tell you about my reaction, which followed this progression:

- “This guy made out with students in 1996, my junior year.”
- “I wonder who he made out with?”
- “Wait a minute – I was in school at that time!”
- “And I knew [teacher] pretty well!”
- “So why the hell didn’t he make a pass at me?”
- “What, like I’m not good enough for him?”
- “You know what? Fuck him.”
- “His loss.”
- “Bet those others assholes aren’t famous now.”
- “Loser.”

This may sound like a joke, but it’s really not. When I first learned about all this, I was a little offended.

I would have been an ideal target for a pedophile during my high school years. I was the total package: sexually confused, popular because of a sense of humor that belied my low self-esteem, and desperate for anyone to get my nut off that wasn’t me, in a place that wasn’t the cold tile floor of my bathroom. Really, all the elements were there.

So when I learned about my teacher making passes at guys I went to school with, after I got over the nastiness of it, I wonder what I did wrong that I was off this guy’s radar. Maybe I wasn’t his type. Maybe he preferred the athletic type, though I don’t know many athletes that I went to school with that would like a teacher kiss them on the mouth. Maybe he preferred nerds. But who “prefers” nerds? Why would you take a nerd when you could have the Student Council Vice President (notice the caps)? I mean, c’mon.

But after much thought and discussion with some of my old classmates, I figured out why this teacher didn’t go for me. I can’t keep a secret. I don’t know if you guys know this, but I like talking about myself and things that happen to me – a lot. This teacher thought to himself, “Well, that Mulgrew kid is ripe for some doing. But he’ll probably tell just about everyone under the sun if I invite him back to my office and slip him the old mamba.” Perhaps he even knew that years later I would start a website which explicitly details my masturbatory habits, one that makes me highly undateable and completely unemployable. So though you may be against using a position of authority to sexually molest young men, you have to at least give the guy credit for doing his homework. Mostly.

But ultimately, I don’t know how I feel about the whole situation. Part of me agrees with the first camp (though not for money reasons): why, if the school knew about the infractions in 1996, did it not dismiss him then? But part of me aligns with the second camp. These are allegations only, and school officials have no concrete proof that any misconduct actually occurred.

So my bitterness about not being a target and my ambivalence about the issue leads me to apathy. I really don’t care. I don’t think touching up on kids is right (unless she’s really hot and looks much older than her 15 years), but I’m not entirely sure if it really happened. So instead of taking a stand, I’ll lean back in my chair, think about it for a second, and then say, “Eh.”

(But that doesn’t mean I won’t think about what could have been. Man, that teacher really missed out. Again, his loss. I’m going to read your emails and masturbate, because I need a self-esteem boost over here.)

Friday, December 02, 2005
laundry incident, mustache march, jessie spano, CL, women's studies, music
When I graduated college, I swore that I would never do my own laundry again. I know this sounds hoity-toity, but this was back in the halcyon days of 2001, when a 22 year-old with no real skills could get a job making $60,000 a year based on a solid GPA and some witty banter during an interview. So when I accepted my big time job in the big city for the big money, I decided that my laundry doing days were over. Fine.

And I’ve been true to my word since. Like many New Yorkers, I take my laundry every week to an Asian laundromat. I don’t understand why everyone doesn’t do this. Though it’s more expensive than doing one’s own laundry, it’s not that much more expensive. And when you factor in the ease of it – I drop my laundry off in the morning and pick it up after work, rather than sitting in a laundry room for two hours a week – it’s a real no-brainer.

But there are times when I feel guilty about dropping my laundry off to be done by immigrants (Jason Mulgrew: Always Culturally Sensitive). Not necessarily because they’re immigrants or anything, but because of the nastiness of my laundry (the squeamish might want to skip this next part). You see, I beat off into my dirty laundry. Before your mind starts wandering, no, I do not ejaculate from a standing position directly into the laundry basket. Not because that’s gross, but because at the moment of orgasm my knees buckle and are unable to support weight for fifteen to twenty minutes after spooging. Instead, I have three pairs of old boxers that serve as ejaculate receptacles when I’m roughing up the suspect. But fear not – these three pairs of boxers are never worn, but serve only to catch my man juice. And every week, some poor Chinese lady washes these semen draws. Nasty.

But in sooth – I’m mostly over it. I justify my general apathy with a perverted cost-benefit analysis. To wit, it would be devastating if I were to stop beating off into my laundry. I’d have to start using paper towels or something and the whole mood of the moment would be ruined. So to stop doing this would be very bad for me. Meanwhile, I do not think the Asian laundry people really care or are grossed out by my nasty boxers. They do laundry for a living, all day long, so I’m sure they just grab my gizz undies and throw them right in the washer without even thinking. Therefore, I continue to use the boxers as beat rags. I have grown immune to the guilt or embarrassment of doing so.

But last night, I had a horribly embarrassing moment at the laundromat. I walked in to pick up my laundry and noticed an Asian guy working there. If I had to guess, I’d say he was about 18-22, but we all knows it’s very hard to guess the age of Asian people, so in truth he could have been 35. But what was unique about this young guy working in the laundromat was that a) I had never seen him before; and b) he was wearing a Boston College sweatshirt (my alma mater).

This really blew my mind. Before I could process any information (i.e. why would a kid who goes/went to BC work in a laundromat), I blurted out, “Hey, did you go to BC? I went to BC.” He was surprised by my question and looked at me funny, and then looked away. I then said, “I graduated in 2001.” He got embarrassed by my pressing, looked at me strangely again, and then walked to the back of the laundromat without answering me.

I’m not sure exactly what happened, but I know that I was very embarrassed. I hope that the kid didn’t speak English and so walked away from the strange dude asking him strange questions, but any way you slice it, it was pretty clear that this guy did NOT go to Boston College. If he did, why would he be working in a laundromat and why would he react so uncomfortably to my question?

(And the dude definitely worked at the laundromat. You can tell who is a customer just doing their laundry and who is a staff member. This guy was definitely a staff member.)

So then how did he get the BC sweatshirt? It’s not like BC is a popular school like Notre Dame, which has easily accessible merchandise. And like I said, he didn’t seem to go there. My only hope is that he had a relative who goes or went there, but still, why wouldn’t he just say that to me? I mean, I went there too!

My conclusion: perhaps he took the sweatshirt from some lost laundry pile and started rocking it. I realize that this sounds terribly elitist or arrogant or some word that means both but escapes me because I only got a 520 on the verbal portion of the SAT, but I can’t think of another scenario. And I feel bad about it.

Well, I felt bad about it. I’m not really into the whole guilt thing, so I’ve gone from feeling guilty/embarrassed to wondering how exactly he got that sweatshirt. But unless I get drunk enough to ask him before 8pm (when the place closes), I guess I’ll never know.

(Not that getting drunk before 8pm is a problem, but getting drunk and LEAVING a bar before 8pm is.)


The Mustache March from Wednesday night was a resounding success. I had no idea what to expect with the whole thing, as I’m not really into arts or marches or anything like that. Bad facial hair, sure, but pseudo-activism? Nope.

But I was pleasantly surprised. There were about 50 people in all, starting at Union Square and then marching down through NYU into the West Village, chanting, hooting, and hollering. It was a real freak out, and I think we blew some people’s minds with our ardent pro-moustache stance. Good stuff.

To those of you who read this site who came to the March, thank you and I apologize. Thank you for showing up and saying hello, but I apologize for being so awkward. Although it’s not like I didn’t warn you; I said when I announced the March that you could show up to have an awkward five minute conversation with me, and I was true to my word.

As a side note, the most popular question asked (and one about which I’ve received some emails), is whatever happened to Cara, the girl from my Eight Levels of Dating post. Alas, though I shan’t get into too much detail, Cara and I are no longer on a shared adventure through the Eight Levels. Because of the recentness (not a word) of everything, I won’t say anything more. However, give me a few months and I’ll recount everything. So don’t worry.


Celebrity sighting of the week: I saw none other than Jessie Spano herself, Elizabeth Berkley, at Prince and Broadway on Tuesday night (I think). But I’m kind of embarrassed about how I recognized her.

I was walking along rocking out to my iPod when I say an attractive couple. Being mostly straight, I looked at the girl first. She seemed good-looking, but not great. Then I looked at the guy and, though I have a nearly unblemished record of heterosexuality, I thought he was a pretty good-looking guy, and much too good-looking for the girl he was with. So I looked at the girl again to give her a second chance and there she was: Jessie Spano. That’s why she’s dating a guy out of her league.

Jason Mulgrew: Semi-Gay Celebrity Spotter. Stay tuned for next week’s episode when Jason runs into Lindsay Lohan at Dean & DeLuca but is distracted by the beauty of Jared Leto’s steel blue eyes!


I put up this post on Craigslist this week but it was removed for inappropriate content. So no fucking holiday cards this year
(unless one of you can help).


Here’s the deal.

My name is Jason Mulgrew. I am a comedy writer. I am currently [secret information that can not currently be discussed redacted].

Also, I was in People this summer as one of its “50 Hottest Bachelors” and have been written up in Variety, The New York Daily News, The Philadelphia Inquirer, and the Metro in NYC, Boston, and Philly.

Here’s my idea.

My roommate Brian and I would like to send out joke holiday cards. We would like to get a picture of us at Rockefeller Centre with an African-American child, between the ages of 4 and 6. The premise of the card is that Brian and I are a gay couple who have adopted an African-American child. We will then send this card to our family, friends, and professional contacts. Trust me, this is funny.

Here’s what I need.

I need a African-American boy, between the ages of 4-6, for a “photo shoot.” I say “photo shoot” because it will take less than ten minutes and involve a friend snapping a few pictures of the three of us. For your time, we are prepared to pay $100. $100 for ten minutes ain’t that bad. We can work around your schedule to make it work. I am a writer and so have a flexible schedule and my roommate works nearby Rockefeller Center and so can meet for a picture at any time.

Here’s what you do if you’re interested.

Send me an email with a picture of the child attached (god that sounds so creepy). I’ll then get back to you and we can work out a time that works best for you.

Here’s how I close this pitch.

I know this may sound sketchy, but it all for the sake of art (specifically humor). You can view my website at www.jasonmulgrew.com. I can provide references if necessary, and will send final proofs of the holiday card. My roommate and I are basically two guys with good senses of humor, looking to make our friends and families laugh.

So if you’re interested, drop us a line. Or if you know anyone with an African-American kid who’d like to make an easy $100, please pass this on to them (god, that sounds so creepy again).

Thanks for reading and happy holidays.


Speaking of not getting laid, is any sentence more damning to the prospect of getting some off a girl than when she says, “I’m getting my master’s in Women’s Studies.”

I mean, ouch baby. And I don’t mean that this means that said girl (I mean, woman) is a lesbian. It just shows that she has a lot of self-esteem, is intelligent, and has an agenda, an agenda which does most likely not include letting some fat guy buy her too many shots of Jaeger, take her home, and convince her to give him a handjob in her elevator. It’s a shame really.

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


Six Songs

“Love You More Than Life” Neutral Milk Hotel
This song sounds like it was recorded in a closet in room near a highway (probably because it was). But it makes me want to crawl into a closet with a lover and smoke pot and tug at each other. But I’m just a romantic.

“I’m Sticking With You” Velvet Underground
1) Get this song. 2) Forward to :59 into it. 3) Listen to it through the end. 4) Thank me.

“Knock Three Times” Tony Orlando and Dawn
If I were trying out for “American Idol”, this is the song I would sing. And believe me, I’ve given way too much thought to this. Also, it works well because for a brief period in 1989 while trying to launch my lounge entertainment career, I called myself “the white Tony Orlando.” Six months later, I was broke and leaving in an abandoned mine. Live and learn.

“The Luckiest” Ben Folds
I don’t mean to get all soft on you, but this sure is a pretty song. This was on a buddy’s wedding soundtrack and is very touching. I’ll stop now.

“Slaveship” Josh Rouse
I know I’ve pimped this out before, but if this song doesn’t get you out of your seat and dancing by the two minute mark, we just can’t be friends.

“Uptown Girl” Billy Joel
I used to hook up with a girl in college who had a lot of money (or rather, whose parents had a lot of money). She never really flaunted it, but she was still the type of girl who could on a whim go to Newbury Street and go shopping or go out to a nice dinner, and she was the first person I knew to get a cell phone. Meanwhile, I was working two jobs, eating my roommates’ leftovers, and chewing on empty cans of Natty Light to absorb all the remaining alcohol. I was also the guy who ran of out money on his meal card two months into the semester (damn you Edy’s Ice Cream machine!) while she had essentially no limit on her spending.

We eventually split because, long story short, I got in a fight with her brother (kind of). This really deserves its own post, but I’m pretty sure that she (or at least her friends) read this, so I can’t get into it. Perhaps I’ll have to save it for my unauthorized memoirs. But I digress…

We only hooked up for a brief period of time, but I always told her that “our” song was “Uptown Girl”: she being the rich girl from an upper class background with a dog that cost more than my mom’s house, me being the “downtown” guy who didn’t eat shrimp until he was 20 and when he first saw a horse thought it was a really big dog.

And so every time this song randomly comes on my iPod, I can’t help but think of the Billy Joel video with Christie Brinkley. You know the one: Billy’s a mechanic with three mechanic buddies, and they’re all greasy and singing away, while Christie pulls up in a nice car and starts dancing in line with them (you can view it here by scrolling down and clicking on it).

And of course I think of myself as Billy and this girl as Christie and my old college roommates as my background singers/fellow mechanics and I nearly double over in laughter. Many times this has happened on the streets of New York and people like at me like I’m crazy. I don’t know if this is really coming across, but the thought of me and my buddies in our little mechanic outfits singing to this girl in her pretty dress, well, it’s nearly too much for me to handle (I dare you not to laugh if you watch that video – the singing into the wrenches is just 100% awesome).

Now hear me out: I promise, now that I am a professional comedy writer, to spoof this in whatever project I am working on. Billy Joel is both a genius and a goldmine, and I owe to myself to take advantage of this. So look for this parody soon, coming to a small or big screen near you in the future.

Powered by Blogger