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).
I NEED A BLACK KID
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.
“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.