Everything is wrong with me
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
deadline = deadbeat
No blog posts this week, though I might be able to churn one out for you on Friday. I am sorry about this, but I have a major, major deadline that I’m working toward tomorrow, which may extend into Thursday (though I hope not). Then I’m off to Seattle on Thursday night, returning to NYC on the following Tuesday. So it’s possible that you may not hear from me until Wednesday, February 8.

But hear me out! We have some big things in the works here, so I ask for your patience. The blog will be back in full swing on February 13, when I return to work. This is not because I write the blog at work (Hi, Mr. Employer!), but because I will once again have some sort of regularity and routine to my life (and my big deadline will have passed). This laying around all day, masturbating to the same fucking porn clips, and not seeing any other people for days at a time stuff is stifling my creativity (at least blog-wise).

So give me some freedom on the last few days of unemployment. If it’s any consolation, I promise that I’m gathering a store of, um, stories to share when I do start blogging regularly, and in no time you’ll be reading again about how much I suck. And, let me tell you something, if I’m learning anything from this whole “deadline” thing, it’s that I truly do suck.

Actually, and maybe this is the masochist in me, but I’ve forgotten how exhilarating working under a deadline can be. Sure, I have deadlines at work and stuff, but c’mon – who takes their job seriously? I learned in college that I can work under pressure, but even then I didn’t care so much about the Popish Plot or how the health(s) of Woodrow Wilson and FDR affected their policy decisions in WWI and WWII, respectively. No, my focus was more on, “Nicole’s friend is coming up to visit this weekend and I am totally going to get her shirt off.”

And in college, papers had a page requirement that I was obsessed with: under any circumstances, even if I had to write the same sentence two or three times in a row, I was getting that fucking paper to seven pages. You can take that to the bank, Professor Bitch! Now give me my B, B-, or B+ already so I can go to take some Stackers and get fucked up at MaryAnn’s!

But this writing a) I actually care about; and b) I can not force. Sure, I have certain requirements as to length, but that’s not an issue (I’m never at a loss for words when it comes to writing about jerking off in the shower). The major issue is making it as “good” as I can. And you can’t force that; you’re either feeling it or you ain’t. And this bothers me. I guess this is what “responsibility” is. I figured I would have to learn about this someday, but I was hoping I’d do so after death. Oh well. Still, there’s something to be said for sitting in front of a computer from 10pm until 5am, debating with yourself, “So, should I use ‘poo’ or ‘poop’ here? I like the brevity of ‘poo’, but I like the extra umph that ‘poop’ gives you. God, my parents must be proud.”

Anyway, I’m rambling here. Again, I apologize for my lack of posting. But I won’t apologize too much, because pretty soon I’m going to rock your fucking world. So for now, send me your disdain, and I will accept it. But also send me some good vibrations, because I need those also. (And know that I’m thinking of you quite often – this hasn’t been easy for me either.) Until then, godspeed, and we will speak soon.

[Wish me luck on my flight to Seattle. Six and a half hours! This better be worth it. But I feel like my old roommate Ben and I are just going to spend 96 straight hours drinking cheap beer and ordering diner food for delivery in his apartment.]

[Actually, that sounds kinda good and would be worth it. God, I am so easy to please. Except for all the weird sexual stuff I’m into, what with the blood and biting and feces and all. Moving on…]

[And if I die in a plane crash, know that I will be satisfied that one of the last sentences I wrote on here ended with “blood and biting and feces.” If it’s my time, I’m ready.]

Thursday, January 26, 2006
a falsity, a stupid award, an awkward wedding moment, a trip, a shout-out, the Aussies, a vote, music
It has come to my attention that based on Tuesday’s post, many of you believe that I had sex with a man on Friday night. I assure you this is not true.

I relayed a story that I shouldn’t have and immediately after posting it, took it down. In place of this story, I wrote “[Confidential Material Redacted].” One of the major fucking problems with this blog is that too many people read it. Because of this, there is a lot of shit that happens that I can’t really write about, as it would be too detrimental to my friends, family, and relationships. In this case, I wrote something detrimental and had to quickly take it down, much to my chagrin. However, I left the quote up because I thought it was funny – not because I said it and did it – without realizing the implications it might have (my first clue came from an email from a gay friend entitled, “So you ARE gay!”). I promise that now more than ever I am a semi-normal heterosexual male. Tomorrow, later tonight, when I check out this ookie cookie clip I’m downloading when it finishes – who knows? – but right now I am 100% heterosexual.

Thank you for your understanding. I promise that eventually I will alienate every person close to me (probably sooner rather than later) and at that point I will release a book titled, “Jason Mulgrew: Shit I Couldn’t Write About Because I Was Trying To Be A Good Friend Or Just Trying To Get Laid – But Seriously, Do You Want To Fool Around Or What?” I’ll keep you posted.


As I predicted, I didn’t get a nomination for any Bloggie. I am ok with this. All the blogs nominated for “Most Humorous” are very funny and also have development deals with major networks to create a television show based on their blogs and lives. Oh wait – NO other blogger has that, just me. Sorry. I forgot about that.

But seriously folks, vote for Michelle Collins’ blog, which is actually funny. Not that it really matters. It’s just a stupid award.

(Did I mention that the director of “E.T.” signs my checks? Yeah. Just thought I’d throw that out there.)

(And yeah, I should have warned you to back away from the computer screen before reading this, lest you get hit with any venom. Sorry about that.)


Great email from Alan in Milwaukee about an, um, uncomfortable wedding moment.

Your post about inappropriate wedding songs reminded me of some that I had to play when I was a wedding DJ in the 90s.

The first couple, I'm guessing Top Gun fans, requested, as their bridal dance "You've Lost That Lovin' Feeling" by the Righteous Brothers.

When I suggested the incongruity of the lyrics to them, they shot me a look like I had offered to date their 6 year old page boy, so I let it slide.

The second couple asked for "Just The Way You Are" by Barry White. So far, so good you might think. Unfortunately, the bride had been in a car crash that had left her a little brain damaged. Was I being oversensitive in thinking this was the musical equivalent of a huge neon sign that said "look at my spaz wife"?
I’m assuming that Alan had a brainfart, because Billy Joel sings “Just The Way You Are.” Aside from that, I don’t really know what to say about this. But I’m letting you all know that I’m totally stealing this scene and putting into whatever the hell I’m writing. And for this I’m definitely going to hell.

(Among other things, of course.)


No trip to DC this weekend, but it appears that I will be in Seattle from February 1 (or February 2) through February 7. I am doing this because I would like to be in a city that wins a championship at least once in my life. When I moved to NYC in 2001, the Yankees were a dynasty. They haven’t won since I’ve been here. When I left Boston that same year, their teams were perennial losers. How does three Pats Super Bowls and an improbable Red Sox championship sound? Mulgrew-less. And of course, any Philly team hasn’t won in forever (1983).

(Translation: bet big on the Steelers.)

So since I have friends in Seattle, I’m heading there for the Super Bowl. And since I will be reunited with my old roommate Ben, I have alerted all the bars and all-night diners in the greater Seattle area. Because it is going to get downright ugly.


By request and out of admiration for some real men, a big shout-out to Wade and the Cherry Hill N.J. Firefighters. I know you sick fucks are reading and I’d like to thank you for doing something every day that I could never, ever do. I had to help my dad change his car battery last night and he almost had a fucking heart attack when I couldn’t even open the hood of his truck, and you guys are slaying fire on a daily basis. Props, props, and more props.


The Aussies really got up in arms over my inclusion of Pearl Jam’s “Throw Your Arms Around Me” in last week’s “Six Songs.” Stilt in Sydney puts it best:

Pearl Jam's version is a cover - if you want to hear the original (and better) version, it's by a band called Hunters and Collectors. This song is burned into the collective memory of all Australians of a certain age (say, 25 - 40) as something of a mating call / top-notch rooting* song. It can be heard sung globally wherever the sweet combination of Australians + beer + lust can be found.

Whatever you do, don't download the Paul McDermott cover version - it's four kinds of ghey.

* I'm not talking about cheering for a sports team.
And I have to agree with him – the Hunters and Collectors version is indeed better. And I’m totally going to using the word “rooting” for “fucking” (i.e. “Wanna go back to my place and do some serious rooting on the stairwell?” or “So I was rooting this chick and she fucking died – right there in the passenger seat of the garbage truck!”).


Vote for Hey Tiger. Don’t ask questions, just do it. Thank you.


Six Songs

“I Got You” Stone Temple Pilots
Probably the best song about drug addiction by Stone Temple Pilots. I know that’s a strong statement, but I’m sticking to it.

“I’m Waiting For The Day” The Beach Boys
Look, if you don’t own Pet Sounds, send me an email and I will buy it for you. Douchebags who like music will go on and on about ten or twenty or thirty albums that any music fan absolutely must own, but to me there are only six such albums: Pet Sounds, The White Album, Led Zeppelin II, Thriller, Appetite for Destruction, Nevermind. If you have these six, you have a pretty good idea of what all other popular music sounds like from the past forty years (any my apologies for my white rock bias; I am white and I doth rock).

It’s hard to explain my affinity for this track. I like it because I think it sounds more quintessentially “Beach Boys” than any other song they’ve done, but it’s not a hit. And it’s not about surfing or cars or other shit (though nothing on Pet Sounds is, save for maybe “Sloop John B”) – it’s about loving a girl who’s still in love with her ex. Just a solid A+ song.

(Now to make up for my white rock bias…)

“Dip-Set Forever” Cam’ron
Oh, Cam’ron – feuding with Jay-Z? Really? You realize that Jay-Z is a great rapper and you stink, right? What’s so particularly frustrating about Cam’ron is that Kanye and Co. give him some incredible beats that he squanders with the dumbest rhymes in rap (possibly even the worst rhymes in rap history – I’m in no way qualified to make this statement, but I can’t imagine much worse). It’s to the point that I’ll listen to his songs and just shake my head, thinking, “What the fuck is he talking about? I mean, I’m white and all, but I think I usually have some idea of what rappers are talking about. Is he retarded or just really, really dumb?”

This song is no exception and possibly the most egregious example of the awesome beats + shitty rhymes. I am a 200+ pound white Irish Catholic guy with a beard who has never held a gun, has no sense of style, and even less of an idea how to please a woman, but if you gave me this beat I am about 95% sure I could come up with some better rhymes than Cam’ron has. Let’s listen in, shall we?

Top a top on top of the top
But yo - nothing definite
I chop up the rocks
And I stop up the drop
Blocka Blocka the block
Hello mate, yellow tape, helicopter your spot
What you wanted is not what you got
And I pop up them cops
Cause dogg, it ain't about Cam (It ain't about me)
I got a son homeboy, it's about Cam (For that?)
It's about being ‘bout It
If you're not, you're ass backwards
Um, come again? Again, I realize that one shouldn’t look to rap lyrics for divine inspiration, but “Top a top on top of the top?” Can anyone explain this to me?

Anyway, it’s a good beat, so I’ll keep listening to it and just freestyling my own lyrics. I’m actually quite a good rapper. Add that to my resume, bitch.

“Stay With Me” Rod Stewart and the Small Faces
My roommate Brian and I recently had a discussion: what musician do you think had the most sex in the 70’s and the 80’s? My original answer was Ted Nugent. The logic was that though he wasn’t an A-list rock star, any rock star can pretty much get all the sex they want (the quality may differ, but the quantity will be there). So then it comes down to who wants the sex the most. For example, I have very little interest in the physical act of love. This is probably because I’m addicted to porn and also (not-so) secretly deeply misogynistic, but it works out since I don’t get laid much. But Ted Nugent, on the other hand, was addicted to sex. So I went with Ted Nugent.

But then I remembered Sir Rod Stewart. NOBODY gets more p-ssy (I don’t use that word outside of the bedroom) than Sir Rod, and this song is the perfect example why. From the man who said of marriage, “Instead of getting married again, I’m just going to go up to a woman I hate and give her a house,” we have “Stay With Me” and this lyrical gem:

So in the morning
Please don’t say you love me
’Cause you know I’ll only kick you out the door
Yeah, I’ll pay your cab fare home
You can even use my best cologne
Just don’t be here in the morning when I wake up
Fuck yeah, Rod. Fuck yeah. That doesn’t even really rhyme and it’s still totally fucking awesome.

[Remember, the song is called “Stay With Me”, which basically means Rod’s pleading with a chick to come home/stay with him, but then after he gets his nut off, to get the fuck out. Geez – even I want to fuck him now. Not that that’s saying much, but still.]

If you can put this song on and not strut around your living room like you’re the cock of the walk, you are a better man than I. Kudos to you, Sir Rod, you magnificent son of a bitch.

“There Is An End” The Greenhornes (with Holly Golightly)
Some reader whose name nor email I can find introduced me to the Greenhornes, like the Black Keys, an Ohio band. They are spectacular and I am very grateful to this person. This sound like they are from 1967 (listen also to ten seconds of “Don’t Come Running To Me” and you’ll see why). That’s the only way I can explain their sound really, and if you listen to their stuff, you’ll agree. “There Is An End” has a dark, spacey sound to it – the ideal song to have a drug flashback to. After hearing it, I immediately moved it to my “The Soundtrack” playlist, which is a list of songs I listen to while changing TV/movie/literary history forever and creating some of the finest humor the world has ever (or rather, will ever) see(n). Then I usually get high and listen to this and feel warm. Check it out for yourself.

“Elizabeth, You Were Born To Play That Part” Ryan Adams
Jesus fucking Christ. This guy’s music should come with a warning label:

“If you are heartbroken, have recently been dumped, divorced or separated; if are lonely because you are overweight and/or ugly; if you are confused because you are in love with someone’s else lover; or if you are sad because you are gaining more and more weight and are worried that you might actually expire the next time you have sex (if you have sex ever again); do NOT listen to this album. Seriously. It will fuck you up.”

This song is not for the faint of heart. After listening to it, I have only one thought: who is this woman doing this to you, Ryan? What kind of harpie must she be to cause you such pain? Please tell me her name and I will find her and hurt her physically for the pain she has caused you emotionally. I haven’t hit a woman in over six weeks now, but I’m willing to put aside that streak to make you feel better. Drop me a line at jason@jasonmulgrew.com.

(Translation: an incredible piece of music. This guy is a stone cold genius. I want to be his friend.)

Tuesday, January 24, 2006
three weekend vignettes (not really)
It is obvious that I am trying to do as much damage as possible to myself and my body before I go back to work.

As many of y’all know, I have been off from my regular job working on my projects (namely this and something else). I go back to work full-time on February 13. This will be a sad, sad day for me.

As February 13 approaches, I have been really stepping it up in the “bender” department. I have become nocturnal, regularly going to sleep each night around 5am, and only with the help of at least a half dozen PBRs and at least one Xanax. But my opportunities for mischief are limited during the week because my friends actually work and so can’t go out on a Tuesday night until 3am (suckers).

So it is the weekend when I really fly off the handle. And each weekend seems to get worse and worse. Let’s break this past one down:

- Thursday night I was in Philly. The night ended with me smoking a joint in my buddy’s car at 5am in the parking lot of a Toys R Us, after consuming (conservatively) two dozen broccoli cheese puffs at an all-night diner. We went to a local bar that night with the original intention of “taking it easy.” Oops.

- Friday night back in NYC I almost got into a fight with some drunk-ass hipster who was harassing a woman that I had told the entire bar was my ex-wife (and so I was obligated to stand up for her). I won when he got up from the table, almost fell, and so was kicked out of the bar. Good for him and me both – I would have murdered him and you would be reading the tales of “Jason Mulgrew: Prison Beat Rag” if he hadn’t gotten kicked out.

- Saturday night my roommate Brian and I had a push-up contest outside a bar on the Lower East Side (Final Score: Me 1.5, Brian 30+). It was just as embarrassing as it sounds.

And it doesn’t look like it’ll end anytime soon, with a tentative trip to DC this weekend and a trip to either Seattle or London for Super Bowl weekend (thank you, Mastercard – I will see you in hell where I will continue to F you in the heinie).

But there are three things worth noting from this weekend.

Love Fumbles
Whenever one of our friends starts talking to a girl at a bar – and she actually talks back to him – instead of being happy for him, the others are jealous. Not only are we single, but we are terrible friends.

My buddy Matt was talking to a cute girl on Friday night. Matt probably does the best of all of us when it comes to women (although that isn’t saying much among my friends; if you’re using a condom for its intended purpose rather than to masturbate into it in the shower because the warmth and the latex really gets you randy, then you’re doing best among us).

Matt left his girl momentarily to go to the bathroom and the best way that I can describe the ensuing scene was that it was akin to a running back fumbling the ball and a scrum breaking out. Immediately after he left, I could almost hear Joe Buck in the corner announcing, “Handoff to Matt up the middle and HE LOSES THE BALL! Matt has fumbled! The Drunks are diving all over it as the refs try to see who’s got possession!” Immediately after he left, the rest of us descended upon her like a loose ball, figuring “Hey, Matt left, so she’s totally up for grabs!”, about six of us talking to her at once, trying to wrest her away from the others with witty lines and charm as opposed to strength and eye-gouging.

I was pretty messed up at that point, but I managed to get my golden exchange in there:

Jason: “What do you do?”
Girl: [Says something, but I’m not listening because I can’t wait to see how she creams her pants when I tell her I’m a writer.]
Jason: “That’s cool. Do you like it?”
Girl: [More talk, but it goes right through me. Getting slightly aroused as time for the “I’m a writer” line approaches.]
Jason: “That’s cool.”
Girl: “What do you do?”
Jason: “Oh, me? Well, I’m a writer.”
Girl: [Sees through my attempt; doesn’t take bait because hey – I’m still not good looking and I’ve spent the last four minutes looking directly at her cleavage a she spoke] “Oh, nice. [turning away] So Mike, how do you know Lisa?”

[Jason is picked off pile by referees.]

Eventually, Matt was able to get the ball back and talk to her after he returned from the bathroom. I suppose it wasn’t a fumble at all; that his knee was actually down before the ball came out. I’d like to say the night ended with something exciting, perhaps shower sex, but he only get her number (thanks not at all to us, of course).

The Sunday 50
On Sunday, I was feeling pretty horrible. The hangover + the push-up from the night before left me feeling sore, tired, and emotionally troubled. Or something.

But inspiration came to me, as it often does, whilst I was taking a whiz. I had a plan for the day, a goal that, should I accomplish it, would take me out of any psychological funk I was in: I would consume any combination of 50 beers and buffalo wings that day. To clarify, that’s any combination, i.e. 30 beers and 20 wings, 45 wings and 5 beers, etc. All I had to do was get to 50 total.

The best break-down, I thought, was 17 beers and 33 wings. I felt confident that I could do both in the allotted time. There was no time limit, aside from accomplishing this during the eight hours of football games on Sunday. So, um, I guess there was a time limit. But it’s a long time.

I asked my roommate Brian to take part in this but he refused, citing that whole “work” thing as the reason he couldn’t drink 15 beers. So I was flying solo.

And let me tell you something – I didn’t even come close. I had grossly overestimated myself. After a dozen wings and four beers, I started feeling dizzy. Around wing 20 and beer 9, I started going into anaphylactic shock. I had to quit shortly thereafter, because I stopped responding loud noises or bright lights, lying on the couch with my eyes wide open, drool and wing sauce dripping down my chin.

But despite such a resounding defeat, I bet I can do this. And I will do this, even if I have to train all off-season and do it next football season. It will be done.

“You think that’s bad – I was so drunk on Friday I fucked a guy!”

[You guys may not get much this week. I have a big deadline coming up and I blew off every plan I had in NYC this week to return to Philly, where I get a lot of work done. So don’t expect much. And if you hate me, remember that I return to normality on 2/13, so then regular posts will come flying at you. Thank you for your support.]

[And I’m still having a lot of problems with emails, getting some, but getting blank emails from others. No idea why. Also, it turns out that a few days of emails from last week were randomly deleted. So I’m sorry if I don’t respond. I wouldn’t send emails until this is worked out. Or send at your own peril. Thanks again.]

Monday, January 23, 2006
technical problems
If you sent me an email today, I did not get it. Well, I got it, but I couldn’t read it. The email system is all sorts of messed up right now, though I do not know why nor will I explain how, since it’s too long and boring. I’m also not really going to do anything to fix it, aside from hoping it gets better. Bottom line: send your emails later if you are so inclined and would like me to read them.

Thank you for your understanding.

Thursday, January 19, 2006
email exchange, cars, playoffs, dhs, kid from brooklyn, music
My buddy Chris, who I went to high school with and who lives in Philly, sent me this email. I have decided to post the whole thing rather than edit it, lest it lose its flair. And my response is my email reply to him, also unedited. This isn’t because I’m lazy, but because – ok, well it’s because I’m lazy.


You're a nice guy... to a fault. "Cliff and the Lemmings" has got to be the worst name for a band i've ever heard and you know this. C'mon now, Mulgrew, you're better than that. You invented the f'n stage cape for crying out loud and now you're going to humor the idea of a band called "Cliff and the Lemmings"? If so, then strike my name from the Prep Student Council records because I just don't know you anymore. it's a poop name and you know it.

[Editor’s Note: Chris and I were on student council together. I was vice president, he was secretary. Or maybe treasurer. Also I wore a big fur cape in high school. And I was still one of the coolest guys in the school. And I am sadly 100% serious.]

Moving on... my brother and i were discussing the most awkward song to open up with as a new band. Scenario is: you just started a band. you're playing for the first time live and your family, friends, and a few people that just happen to be there all know that this is your first concert and what's about to be your first song. What song would you play to make people the most uncomfortable and awkward...? You have to rule out rap and all and slow songs (ie "lady in red" or some such shit) and you have to sing it DEAD seriously.

We came up with "Bangladesh" by George Harrison from the Concert for Bangladesh. I think you've heard it before and people would just be really, really uncomfortable and would just awkwardly sip their beers.

If your not feeling that scenario, what's the most inappropriate wedding song for the bride and groom to dance to that just has everyone giving the "What the f$%k?" look to each other. Once again, i have to go with "Bangladesh" even more so on this one. Either that or "Be Not Afraid" from the Catholic Church Hymns. Anyway if you're looking for something to write about on a day when you got nothing, use it.

I love you. when are you coming to Philly?

PS: Houlihan was always funnier than you... always.
And now my response:

Dude, first of all, it’s not that bad of a band name. If I thought it sucked, I would have said so. Let’s just agree to disagree.

Second, I take umbrage with your exclusion of all rap or slow songs. I understand by mandating this you are trying to prevent gimmes – easy songs like “Lady in Red” or “Making Love (Out Of Nothing At All).” But I’ve seen bands open up with slow rock songs. If a band opens up with U2’s “One”, that’s not a bad song. So for me to properly answer your first question, we have to remove this restriction.

My first thought was the song “Layla.” I don’t know why, but maybe because this is a very complicated song across the board – to play, sing, time, etc – and so if you butcher that song, you can really, really butcher it. Imagine a bunch of third-rate musicians trying to get through “Layla”, only one of the greatest rock songs ever? THAT would be awkward.

But then I realized something: that isn’t that funny. And that’s what we’re trying to do here. So I will see your “Bangladesh” (which is good, but too unknown to the average music fan), and I will raise you Ben Fold Five’s “Brick.” Nothing – and I mean nothing – will bring a room to a halt or otherwise fill it with awkwardness than a song about abortion. I ask you to again imagine, but this time to see a room full of friends and familiar faces with you as the lead singer, saying, “Let’s rock!” and breaking into that piano riff and starting off, “6am…Day after Christmas…” Awkward, mutha. Awkward.

As for the wedding song, again I’m inclined to go with “Brick” (it’s pretty much good for anything), but I’ll go to my back up: Liz Phair’s “Hot White Cum.” Another standby that can be used in any circumstance, if I were to see any bride and groom dancing to “My skin’s getting clear/My hair’s so bright/All you do is fuck me/Every day and night”, I would immediately stand up on a table, whip out my bird (or, in my case, cajole it out of the inside of my stomach where it has retreated like a frightened turtle) and start loving myself.

This also stems from a fantasy of mine. When I first started playing guitar, at any family function family members would try to get me to play something. I’d reluctantly give in and always played “Plush”, the easiest and most recognizable song I knew. Years later, when I heard “HWC”, I dreamed about breaking into it next Christmas when my Uncle Joe says, “Come on Jase! Play something for us!” The sound of my father’s heart exploding when he heard me singing “Give me your hot white cum” would probably cause a magnitude 4.2 earthquake in the greater Philadelphia area.

So thems my thoughts. If you are serious about the band opening with a non-slow song, reverse them: the band opens with “HWC” and the wedding couple dances to “Brick.” But that’s all I got.

I’m coming to Philly tomorrow [Thursday] but will only be there for Thursday night. Kyle is actually coming up to New York with me this weekend. I should be back in the area over the next few weeks – I don’t go back to work until Feb 13. But you should seriously get up to NYC. We have fun here. And by “we” I mean “other people”; I sit in my living room and wish I was somewhere or someone else.

And Kyle is not funnier than me. You said this only to hurt me, and mission accomplished you sonuvabitch.

Love always,
Jason Mulgrew
SJP ‘97
Student Council Vice President
Member of: Spanish Club, SADD
Once saw Joe Dugan (bless his soul) naked when changing at the pool


I have learned something about myself recently: I like driving fast. I first learned this when I went down the shore for a week in December and spent some time speeding around the deserted streets, blaring the surprisingly good radio stations in South Jersey in the car. It made me feel both powerful and attractive.

Yesterday, I drove from Philly to NYC. I did this in my mom’s car. I needed to bring a car to NYC because I’ve realized something: I don’t use about 30% of my stuff, yet have moved it to four different NYC apartments in five years. So I’ve loaded the car up with this junk and today I’m driving back down to Philly, where I will put this stuff in my mom’s basement where it will stay until I die and she sells it on eBay.

But the point: usually it’s about a 2 hour 15 minute trip from Philly to NYC. This takes into account average traffic; if it’s worse, it could be much longer. But yesterday, I made it from my house in Philly through the Holland Tunnel in ONE HOUR and TWENTY-FIVE MINUTES.

I just realized that you all probably don’t give a fuck about the excellent time I made on my drive, but I shit you not when I say that this was easily – easily – the highlight of my week. It’s nice to know that I’m a man in some ways. For example, I’m not a real man in that I am terrified of bugs, the dark, and lightening and I am so mechanically deficient that I can barely work a microwave. On the other hand, I can eat up to 30 buffalo wings in a sitting and making good time on a trip is my life’s mission.

What sucked about the drive was what happened when I finally got back to NYC. I can park on the street outside my apartment from 6pm to 8am. I arrived at my place at 5:30pm. I parked on the street, figuring I wasn’t going to get a ticket only 30 minutes before the parking restriction was enforced. Wrong. $65 worth of wrong. Which is great, really great. I’m not sure if my rent check (paid on the 15th) will clear, so I might have to do my landlord – again. And this time, not for fun. So thank you, New York City Parking People, I have plenty of money to throw around. Cocksuckers.


My quest for perfection in the playoffs this season took a major hit last week with the defeat of the Chokes – I mean, the Colts (zing!). My thoughts this week:

SEATTLE over Carolina
DENVER over Pittsburgh

I could be totally wrong here, but winning three times on the road in the playoffs is a tall order. And since I just said that, completely reverse my predictions.


Though I have not figured out how to harness my “fame” into strange and exotic sexual encounters, I have learned to use it to my advantage in other ways. Last week, I asked you guys for suggestions to add to my “Dirty Hipster Stripper” playlist. And you mother fuckers brought it.

I don’t know for sure how many emails I got, but it’s definitely in the hundreds. This is both great and not-so-great. Great because by the time I’m finished, I’m going to have the greatest “Dirty Hipster Stripper” mix ever known to man. Not-so-great because it’s going to literally take me months to download, listen to, and properly process all the suggestions. Good thing I have a lot of time on my hands.

Some early thoughts:

- The first time I heard “Mood Swing” by Luscious Jackson, I creamed in my pants. Very dirty. Hipster enough. Stripper-licious.

- “Dirty Hot Sex” by Pepper was recommended by – I don’t know – 50 people. This is not a hipster song, it is not dirty, and it is not a stripper song. Not only that, this kind of music is the worst kind of music in America right now (or in the past few years). While I value the opinions of those who recommended it to me, and we still cool, I don’t know if we could ever hang out if you seriously like this song.

- PJ Harvey is one of the few people in the world who could write an entire album called “Dirty Hipster Stripper”. “The Letter” is fantastic.

- The Donnas are not capable of creating this album. If you are stripping to The Donnas, you are not old enough to be stripping.

- I don’t know if the person who suggested Rammstein’s “Stripped” was joking or not, but if he wasn’t, I think I should get his email address to the Sex Crimes Unit asap.

That’s all for now, but I will let you know of the full playlist when it is created. But please – no more suggestions. I have more than enough now. Why don’t you do some work instead?


Do yourself a favor and check this out. Go to “Videos” and click on “Bat Day.” Not safe for work, but nothing like a giant, middle-aged Brooklynite yelling at the top of his lungs for your enjoyment. To think, the internet is such a magical place that it has made stars out of both this guy and I. What hath God wrought, indeed.


Six Songs

“Episode of Blonde” Elvis Costello
Elvis Costello is my favorite artist of all time. This is in large part because he does both things very well: lyrics and music. Though he’s not the best at either, I think no one puts them together as well as he does. It’s kinda like when an NFL defense is 3rd against the run and 5th against the pass, but combined is 1st in the league in total defense. That’s what Elvis Costello is to me.

This song is not one of my favorites of his, but I have been struck by it lately. He almost, dare I say, raps through the verses, but the chorus, both music and lyrically, is damn near perfect (especially the last time around about 3:25 into the song when he really belts it out):

Did her green eyes seduce you
Or make you get so weak?
Was that fire engine red
That she left upon your cheek?
It’s such a shame you had to break the heart
You could have counted on
But the last thing you need
Is another episode of blonde
I mean, isn’t that just so darn pretty? Is this gay, that I’m saying this right now? Is it sad that I’m a 26 year old man and still use the word “gay” like I did when I was ten? I’m going to stop now.

“Throw Your Arms Around Me” Pearl Jam
If I sang this, I would be arrested (probably rightly so).

I will come to you at nighttime
I will climb into your bed
I will kiss you in a hundred fifty-five places
As I go swimming around in your hair

I will squeeze the life right out of you
I will make you laugh and make you cry
And we may never forget it
As I make you call my name
As you shout it to the blue summer sky

And we may never met again
So shed your skin, let’s get started
And you will throw your arms around me
And you will throw your arms around me
But somehow, it’s much safer when Eddie Vedder sings it. Another pretty song, one that makes me want to make out.

(OK, I’ll ease up on the softness. My apologies.)

“Walt Whitman Bridge” Marah
Marah – my god. Not only are they an awesome band, but they’re from Philly! And then they went and wrote a song about the Walt Whitman Bridge on their new album (which is spectacular). This song is pretty special to me, seeing as I practically grew up under the Walt Whitman Bridge. As a kid, my friends and I would take adventures to the bases of the bridge, where there’d be nothing but weeds. We’d drink Little Hugs juices, (try to) roast hot dogs and marshmallows, and generally just walk around in the weeds (this is how city kids feel outdoorsy). And in typical Marah style, the song is just downright haunting (“Your memory blows away” is some pretty powerful stuff).

I’m not really accurately getting into how I feel about this song and am doing it an injustice, but we’re over 2500 words for the post and I have to get the fuck out of NYC before traffic picks up. And yes, I know I’m selfish. But just check out the song.

“Stuck on You” Josh Ritter
It’s funny. I don’t want to spoil it for you, but it’s funny.

“Lost In Time” Stellastar
I seriously don’t like this band. I don’t know why, but I’m just turned off by them. But of course then they go and release a heartbreaking song like this and I just want to crawl into the closet with a bottle of cough syrup and go to town. Yes, it’s that good. I’m not sure if it’s about a loss (as in a break-up) or death, but I heard it for the first time about ten days ago and since I’ve listened to it 31 times according to my iTunes.

“Does He Love You” Rilo Kiley
It sure doesn’t sound it at first, but this song is pretty darn intense. The singer (a woman) seems to be the friend of a married woman friend (who is pregnant) and also the mistress to her husband. What strikes me is how specific it is – I feel like by the end of the song the singer is going to start shouting, “Yes! This is about you, John and Linda Smart, of 103 E. 78th Street, Apt 2, NY, NY 10011! And the downtown antique shop is at 419 Broome Street! How does that taste, you assholes! Good luck with everything!”

Wednesday, January 18, 2006
boston sports, boston irish, boston weather
I went to Boston from Thursday until Monday. If I write another “NYC vs. Boston” post, I think you all might finally turn on me and start waiting outside my apartment for me to come home. Not in the way you usually do (to seduce me), but in a new dangerous way (to verbally abuse me – your original intention at first would be to physically attack me but upon seeing me you’d be surprised at how big and strong I look and would instead stick to insults).

So I won’t compare New York to Boston like I normally do. The differences between the two and my feelings for these cities have all been well-documented on this site, especially here. But there is one thing that I get in Boston that I do not get in New York City: an insane and possibly unhealthy amount of sports talk.

More than I let on (because when I do talk about it I get harassed by non-sports fans), sports are a very big part of my life. If I had to list the things I love most, my top five might go something like:

1) Me

2) Sports

3) Boobies

4) When Elvis Costello sings “She”

5) Getting fucked up on red wine and singing “She”

But of my friends in New York, none are very big sports fan. Don’t get me wrong –most will watch sports, understand them, and would consider themselves casual fans. But nearly all of my friends in Boston – from Joe and Bill of the Baldwin Brothers costumes to Site Guy Brendan – are sports lunatics. On Saturday, six of us sat in an apartment for nine straight hours watching football and I don’t think we even once said anything that wasn’t sports-related. One of my buddies broke up with his serious girlfriend only the day before and we didn’t realize it until EIGHT HOURS into hanging out with him, when one of us, finally noticing that his phone wasn’t ringing with her calls, said, “So [girlfriend] is really leaving you alone to watch the games, eh?” He gave us a quick recap and it was back to why Pittsburgh had a legit chance the next day to beat Indy (espoused by my buddy Cuse, scoffed at by the rest of us – good for him).

And my god, it was awesome. In a perfect world, I would work in sports in some capacity. Ideally, it would be fullback for the Philadelphia Eagles, point guard for the Sixers, or third base for the Phillies (I can’t skate, so forget hockey), but I realize that certain physical limitations preclude me from such activity. I don’t think you can play professional basketball if every time you get a boner you also get a headache because it’s “just too much work”, but I’m not throwing in the towel on this dream entirely.

But I don’t work in sports. I shouldn’t complain, because right now I don’t work at all. And really, the whole law firm gig didn’t work out too bad for me, either. This paragraph is quickly becoming moot. Let’s hop to the next one.

MY POINT: I love going to Boston because I love sitting around and talking sports. I am a simple man. All I want to do is drink beer and watch either a) VH1 Classic; or b) sports. My friends in NYC take care of “a”, while my friends in Boston take care of “b”. I should be and I am grateful to be able to have both options. Of course, it would be nice if at least ONE of my friends knew at least ONE attractive girl who maybe had a couple of friends, one of whom would be interested in someone kinda famous. But perhaps that’s asking too much right now.

[I really don’t know why I even go to bars anymore. Spending between $4 to $6 for a drink so I can stand with the same group of people I’ve been friends with for years so we can not talk to girls and make fun of people is starting to lose its appeal. I guess I’m getting old. Or I’m dying. Probably both.]

The saddest thing about Boston is that last call is at 1:30am, a time when my friends and I are getting ready to go out in NYC. I can see the merits of the 1:30am last call. Really, one doesn’t need to drink alcohol until 4 in the morning on the weekends, making their Mondays the most unbearable day of the week. And maybe if I stopped boozing at 1:30, I would wake up earlier on the weekends and have semi-productive days. As opposed to in NYC, when I am finally up and about at 4pm and spend the next two hours getting ready to drink again (usually this starts about 7). So yes, the early last call has some benefits.

But I see none of these benefits when I’m in Boston, drunk at midnight. On this aforementioned Saturday, we were ready to leave the apartment at 12:30, entirely acceptable in NYC but not so in Boston. We talked about options for a while, but then it was decided that we’d try this shady Irish bar that serves until 3 (!). Off we went in the pouring, freezing rain.

I’m not really sure what happened over the next few hours. Not just because I was shit-bombed, but because it was pretty surreal. First, the exterior: the bar is in a bad neighborhood and it’s unmarked. I’m from the streets (mother fucker), so this didn’t bother me. But this is not a side of Boston I’ve seen before. There are really only a handful of bars that my friends and I frequent up there, and they range from classy joints to Masshole bars to sports bars to glorified dives (bars that try to look divey but in fact charge $5 per beer). This was a real deal dive.

Second, when we went in just before 1, it was empty – just a bunch of Irish-ass bartenders and some barflies. Forty-five minutes later, it would be packed and would stay that way until after 3. Between the smoke, the accents, the yelling, and the drinking, it was like being in a Dublin after hours club. Actually, a Dublin club would be too cosmopolitan; this would be like a [insert rough Irish town here] after hours club.

Again, details are fuzzy, but my buddies and I were probably the only non-Irish people in there. The bathroom became a smokers’ lounge. Tons of Irish dudes packed in their smoking cigarettes, cursing and carrying on. I often get stage fright, so I think I peed only once the whole night. It’s not easy to make it come out when some drunk Irish guy is leaning against you, swaying back and forth, and speaking incoherently.

[Editor’s Note: It is illegal to smoke in bars in Boston, which is why they took it to the bathroom. But the irony here is that everyone was smoking in the bar anyway, completely disregarding this rule. So it was like these guys chose to smoke in the bathroom. I got this inkling when I saw one Irishman bring into the bathroom a fresh pint of beer for his buddy. Totally fucking weird.]

At one point in the night, my buddy Cuse had to go get money from an ATM at a nearby gas station. This gas station was located across the street from a homeless shelter. Regular readers know that I have a love/hate relationship with the homeless. On the one hand, I love them because I love to make jokes about them. On the other, I dislike them because I know that one day, probably sometime soon, one of them will end my life. I just know this.

The bartender warned Cuse (so nicknamed because he is from and loves all things Syracuse) to be careful, that the neighborhood was dodgy. Cuse brushed it off and went on his way. When he got to the gas station, he noticed three shady middle-aged guys milling around outside. After he had walked past them and went to the ATM inside the gas station mini-mart, the attendant informed him that they were “waiting for him” and that he should leave the store, take a sharp right, and run. Not want you want to hear when you’ve been boozing for eleven hours and it’s raining out. Fortunately, Cuse is ever fleet of foot and made it back to the bar, safe and sound.

The night for me is a blur, but I certainly remember how it ended: standing outside the bar in the sleeting rain without a jacket or an umbrella, separated from my friends in the crush of everyone running out to get a cab. When I finally did get a cab, I realized that I didn’t have enough money for the fare all the way home. I had the cabbie drop me off near my buddies’ apartment, when the meter matched the amount of money I had on me. Again, it was like 33° and sleeting, and I had neither jacket nor umbrella. I wasn’t sure exactly where the apartment was, so I kept calling my friends to get directions. Of course, they were passed out or didn’t hear their phones, so I had to go by instinct alone.

I made it home eventually, and collapsed into a steam-filled shower to try to bring my body temperature above 80°. It worked (I think) and I eventually went to bed. This was Saturday night. Today is Wednesday. I have had a migraine headache since then.

God I love going to Boston.

Wednesday, January 11, 2006
emails (death/bloggies/band), 10 things, playoffs, dirty hipster stripper, music, boston/philly
Three emails that I thought were worthy of discussing. The first comes from Todd in Philly:

[Monday’s] post in which you referenced dying in a chinese restaurant fire made me think- you seem to talk about your untimely death fairly often -you should do a compendium of all of the different ways you've mentioned that you would meet your demise, then maybe do a pool. They can pick from one of your previously mentioned methods, or use their own. That way when you do eat it, one of your friends, family, or faithful readers can collect on all the TV money that you don't snort, shoot, or spend on transgendered Asian whores. I'm holding out for 'Hanging himself w/ his own soiled pantyhose in the bathroom of the Sit On It bar.’

Excellent call, Todd. Once again, I’m going to open up the position of assistant. This is a good idea of what your duties would include, but a new role is required: back hair maintainer. I usually “shave” my back hair by attaching my beard trimmer (sans attachment) to a ruler, fastened with rubber bands. Well, I can’t find the ruler anymore, and it’s getting a little overgrown back there, like the lawn of a decomposing murder victim. And though my roommate Brian and I are friends, we ain’t that close. Please inquire within. We can get you started searching through the archives right away (after the back hair, of course).

But Todd, if you want an insider tip, it’s not going to be a hanging, unless those panty hose are very strong or I lose about 120 pounds. Vegas is giving 180:1 on “Slips on apple sauce dripping from genitals on kitchen floor while dancing naked to New Edition.” Actually, that’s “Mr. Telephone Man” that’s getting 180:1; “Cool It Now” is getting 110:1 and “Popcorn Love” is moving, but hopping around 60:1.

(Also, there will be NO money left before I die. I promise you that.)

Nick the Dentist down in DC writes:

I'm going to cut right to the chase. I'm not going to give any background or anything, just a suggestion, and one that I think could be great for you...

Suggest to the readers that rather than (or in addition to) nominating you flat out for Blog of the Year, or whatever, they nominate you for Best Asian Blog.

Push that suggestion out to the readers, you've got a couple thousand votes, easy. I can't really imagine what other Asian Blogs would receive that many - trust me, I read all of them.

I'm unsure of the criteria, i.e. what exactly it takes to qualify. One would assume that a pure democratic election of the Asian Blog of the Year would work, but then again, this is the Asian Blog, where democracy is far from king. Or emperor. Or whatever.

In sum: Do yourself, me, and above all else, God, a favor - request that we, the readers, nominate you for Asian Blog of the Year.

Nick [name withheld], D.D.S.

PS - It's my birthday tomorrow, and if you don't do this, I'll kill myself. I can't handle another birthday alone with my puzzles and figurines.
This is a hell of an idea, but there’s only one problem: the voting for the Bloggies closed only 24 hours after I posted about it. In keeping with my whole “I’m not good at taking care of shit” style, I noticed the Bloggies at least a week and a half ago, and thought, “I should post about that.” Of course, I didn’t and totally forgot. Then I randomly remembered and posted about it. After further reading, I saw that the voting closed the day after I posted. The result: y’all had only 24 hours to vote for me.

So if I had posted earlier about the Bloggies, Nick would have written me earlier, and I would probably be in the running for “Best Asian Blog.” Instead, I waited until the last minute and I’m not even sure if I’ll get the necessary votes to be a finalist for any category.

But really – who gives a fuck? I’m Jason Fucking Mulgrew, god damn it. Have you heard of People magazine? What about [companies in Variety project]? What about [company of other project]? I don’t need some damn award to tell me I’m awesome! Who wants to fist-fight??? And is “fist-fight” hyphenated???

[Sorry – got a little out of control there. My apologies.]

Kurt in Denver writes:

Happy New Year, I read your resolutions and I'm just gonna be another douchebag telling you what I'm sure a lotta people already are...you gotta get another band together. You know that's the primo way to meet the "gals" and get resolution 5 or whatever # it was taken care of without having to do the sittin' on the barstool getting drunk-waitin-to-go-talk to them thing. They'll be coming up to you (even if it is to request Bright Eyes or something). This time you could play the stuff you want to and not have to do someone else's idea of fun material.

I read your song ideas and you obviously know your music. It would also be something cool to write about in your blog, the pain in the ass travails of getting a band together.

Anyway, you should think about it. I know it's a huge pain getting 3 or 4 flakes together in the same room and trying to make it work (as someone who's been in lame bands for 25 years), but just go into it with real low expectations. Maybe that could even be your focus. If it's not that important, it would be less strain on the head, just go into it with fun in mind. You could parlay your angelic voice and near-scandalous current fame level into a nonstop bath in groin gravy by the summertime.

You have a great and entertaining blog, now get out there and get your carrot waxed in the time-honored way: be in a shitty band. They won't be able to get enough of you.

I'll even let you use the band name I've been saving up -are you ready?

"Cliff & the Lemmings". I know, it's totally awesome, that's OK, you can thank me when you're even more famous (and hopefully STD ridden) than you are now.
Kurt, you’ve figured me out. After 23 months of writing this blog and (I’d guess) between 20,000 and 30,000 emails, you’re the first to see right through me with your suggestion (kinda): this blog, this attempt at fame, is only to get a band together.

Of course, I’ve written that I hate most musicians. While half is because they are douchey, half is also out of jealousy. I’ve mentioned before that I was in a band in college, a shit-show collection of musicians called Royce. I played bass, but most of the time I was just scared. I liked Elvis Costello, Squeeze, and Wham – we played Tool, Helmet, and Rage (along with originals that were like these guys).

Even though we sucked, it was shitload of fun. Also, I did get a blowjob out of it in the woods of Vermont after a show at Middlebury College. Needless to say, fucking sweet.

After college, about three years ago, in a moment of self-induced and delusional genius, I went down to DC to record a demo of four original songs with a buddy. I thought they were tremendous at the time, but I know now that this is not the case. And I also know that these four songs will haunt me until I fall totally into obscurity. I’m waiting for a reader to get a hold of them to blackmail me. Because, well, I don’t even want to talk about this anymore.

But the time is not yet right for me to get back into music. Though I have parlayed this blog into “now-scandalous current fame”, I still feel I’m not famous enough to take that next step into music. I think I need some more notoriety before I start to spectacularly make an ass out of myself in front of other people by singing songs like, “What The Fuck – You’re Not Even Good Looking”, “My Dick Is Like A Crayon Of Love”, “I Will Throw You Down The Stairs”, and my #1 hit, “I Ate A Whole Pizza So Let’s Make A Baby”. But musicians: keep reading and I’ll let you know when auditions will be held.

And though I like Cliff and the Lemmings, I have some others I prefer:

- Green
- Jason Mulgrew and the Pillheads
- The Pillheads
- Oh My God
- Worcester

And still my all-time favorite, Muslim Ron and the Juggernauts.


Often bloggers write “100 Things About Me” lists. I, like pretty much everyone else, hate these. On the one hand, it’s very egotistical to believe that a reader would spend 15 minutes reading about the minutiae of your life (“I like cheeseburgers!”, “I have green eyes!”). No one cares, jagoff.

On the other hand, these things are really hard to write. Not that they’re hard per se, but they take a very long time.

I have solved both these dilemmas. In response to the first, I am not your average blogger and also my “100 things” will actually be interesting. In response to the second, instead of listing all 100 at once and boring you to tears, I will list them 10 at a time. This is also not hard for me to write, since I’m giving you them as the come to me, not sitting and trying to hammer out 100 things at once.

So may I present to you, “100 Things About Me, Numbers 1 through 10”:

1) I have never ridden in a convertible.
2) I am punctual to the point of compulsion and will seriously fuck you up if you are late or keep me waiting.
3) The first concert I ever saw was Paula Abdul, with Color Me Badd opening.
4) The second concert I saw was The Grateful Dead.
5) I read all magazines starting from the back.
6) I wear Issey Miyake cologne.
7) I have Raynaud’s Phenomenon.
8) I have never given blood.
9) I only watch about 20 NBA games a year and I don’t watch college basketball until around Valentine’s Day, but I can tell you where 85% of NBA players went to college.
10) I can’t shuffle a deck of cards.

Is your mind blown or what?


Don’t look now, but somebody went four-for-four in his playoff picks (I’m speaking of course about myself).

I’m certain that I blew my load in the wild card round, but I still stand by my picks for the divisional round, which are:

(1) SEATTLE over (6)Washington
(5) Carolina over (2) CHICAGO

(1) INDIANAPOLIS over (6) Pittsburgh
(2) DENVER over (4) New England

Wish me luck. Or something. Not that I’m betting. I think you need cash to make bets, and I have none of that right now.

(Though I can’t really see how the Broncos beat the Pats, but I’ll just leave it at that.)


Friends, I need your help.

I have been listening a lot lately to an incredible band called the Eagles of Death Metal. They’re not actually death metal at all – more like garage rock. But I would call them “sex rock.”

Almost everyone of their songs makes me want to have sex. Not in the Barry White/Luther Vandross/“Price Is Right” theme way, but in a different way. A dirty hipster way.

So I’m working on a new iPod playlist, called “Dirty Hipster Stripper.” The name pretty much sums it up, but it’s a collection of hipster rock ‘n’ roll songs that would also be great for a woman to strip to.

But after only three songs, I’ve reached the end of my knowledge and I need your help. If you know of any songs that would match the Dirty Hipster Stripper description, please let me know. To guide you, the three songs I have currently right now are:

“Whorehoppin’ (Shit Goddamn, I’m A Man?)” Eagles of Death Metal
This may be the best song I’ve heard in the past six months. Incredible. If you want to marry me, show up at my apartment with a six pack of beer, a boombox playing this song, and dance, dance, dance.

“Paper Doll” Louis XIV
Pimped before. I wrote on June 23, 2005:

This song is cool, but it is so sexual in nature that it makes me blush. A female reader suggested it to me and I played it for my roommate Brian. After listening to it, he said, jokingly, "Any girl who likes that song is a slut." I wouldn't go that far, but I certainly wouldn't want my 17 year-old daughter singing it. Of course, I haven't spoken to or seen my daughter in about twelve years, so I don't think I'll hear her singing this. Unless she like, shows up or something, because Lord knows I'm not looking for her.

“Midnight In Her Eyes” Black Keys
Also pimped before. On October 21, 2005, I wrote:

This is dirty, dirty rock. So filthy I want to take a shower after listening to this song. Distorted guitars and a singer who sounds like he could easily drink you under the table, not that he would ever make such a claim, because shit like that is for losers and drinking is for getting drunk and getting drunk only. On a side note, if I ever went to a strip club and saw a stripper dancing to this song, I would do everything in my power to make her my wife. And I’ve been working out lately, so I have a lot of power.

So let me know your suggestions. SERIOUS REPLIES ONLY. Don’t write me saying, “You know what would be great for your Dirty Hipster Stripper mix? Oasis. They are great.” I know that at least some dirty-ass hipsters read this site, so help me out guys.


Six Songs

“Hey Jude” Wilson Pickett
Now this is a cover. When I write my Oscar-winning semi-autobiographical movie, “I’m The One Who Stole Your Fucking Wallet: The Jason Mulgrew Story”, this song will close the movie, playing over the credits after a fade-out shot of me standing on the side of a dirt road, masturbating into a can of Pepsi while the sun sets behind me.

“How Far Is Heaven” Los Lonely Boys
Am I an unattractive person because this song immediately makes me 100 times happier when I hear it? And have I mentioned that I really want to have sex with a Mexican girl? Have we covered this?

“A New England” Billy Bragg
My buddy Griff and I in college were always searching for any song sung with a British accent. His contention was that Brits sing with an accent very rarely. I agree. But Billy, well, he fucking sings with a British accent. I’m recommending this song because a) it is actually quite sad and I prefer to be quite sad; b) I’m going to New England this weekend (see below).

“My Friends” Jimi Hendrix
This is a rarity – or rather, it isn’t on any of Hendrix three releases from when he was alive – but it’s a heck of a song. Saying that any Hendrix song is “a heck of a song” makes me sound like a middle-aged Southerner trying to relate to this wayward hippie son. But that’s what I’m trying to do here, so shut the fuck up.

“Hello Resolven” Beulah
If the question is: “What, in your opinion, is the single best song to get high to?”, this is the answer. I’ve pimped it before, but I don’t care. I’m high right now and loving it.

“Playground Love” Air
If the question is: “What, in your opinion, is the single best song to make out to?”, this is the answer. I have probably pimped this before, but I’m not sure. And no, I’m not making out right now. Sadly.


Most likely no more posts for the rest of the week as I’m going to Boston, where I will be until next Monday (then off to Philly for a few days). I can think of no better way to celebrate the legacy of the great Dr. Martin Luther King than getting cut off at 1:30am, trying to avoid fights with Massholes, and eating Anna’s burritos every day. So I’ll try to post but I can’t promise anything.

[Maybe that could be the name for my band: Eating Anna’s Burritos. I think I like it.]

[Have a good weekend.]

Tuesday, January 10, 2006
what the fuck I’m doing
I haven’t written about it as much as I should, probably because I don’t want to rub it in your faces. But it’s time to face facts: not working totally fucking rules.

From October through December, I worked one day a week at my normal job. I did this to work on my still-can’t-fucking-be-talked-about projects. But now I’m off entirely until the middle of February, when I go back full time, as one of my deadlines approaches (I can barely even write that without breaking into sobs and convulsions).

I go back to work on February 13 and in some ways it won’t be a moment too soon. Not that I exactly live a “healthy” lifestyle otherwise, but I have essentially become preoccupied with destroying both my body and mind during this time off. And it’s pretty awesome (most of the time).

I write mostly at night (as I write this, it’s 3:11am on Monday night, though I’ll finish and post it tomorrow afternoon). I find it nearly impossible to get work done during the day, what with emails and fantasy sports and phone calls and the like. Also, I’m lusty during the day, so I pretty much compulsively masturbate from the time I wake up until the evening. When I’m finally finished making love to myself, I start working on my stuff, usually about midnight. This will continue to around 5am.

Of course, what kind of writer doesn’t drink when he writes? I learned early on to find the delicate balance between “Drunk enough to write well” and “Too drunk to hit the proper keys and OH MY GOD I JUST KNOCKED OVER MY BEER ON THE FUCKING COMPUTER!” Alcohol should be handled with care. Think about it: just the right amount of booze makes you better at everything – playing pool, having sex, writing, etc. But too much and you’re scraping the pool stick against the table, trying to stick your bird in your girl’s heinie, and writing things that read like:
I don’t know what the wolrd is coming too. I mean, serioulssy. You knew? HOW THE DUCK WONT IT SOPT? I know.
My greatest difficulty with this whole process, aside from not getting too drunk, is that I have had more trouble writing blog entries than I ever have before. Before these projects, the blog was my hobby. I had my normal job and this was my release. But now, it’s the other way around. Writing funny (or trying to write funny) is my job. So even though I write posts when I need a break from working on the projects, it’s like picking up another term paper or taking on another client or – I don’t know – adding more work to whatever the hell it is you already do for a living. And I think (as some of you have noticed and gone to great lengths to point out) the blog occasionally suffers because of this.

But aside from that, life is pretty peachy keen. I wake up anywhere between noon and 2pm and eat some much cereal that I feel sick for the next few hours (currently we’re enjoying Frosted Flakes, but last week I ate a whole box of Cookie Crisp IN ONE DAY). Once I’ve showered, I’ve pretty much met all of my goals for the day. If the mood strikes me, I can continue writing and try to do some work in the day, or I can go lay on the couch with my hand down my pants to watch “The Cosby Show.”

Sunday night was a good example of the freedom that I now have. I met up with my friend Lauren who was in town from DC for dinner. Lauren has the distinction of being one of the only girls that I am friends with who I have not tried to make out with. This is not because she is unattractive or anything (she is actually purdy, though I admit that I’ve never like something like “unattractiveness” or “penis-having” stop me from trying to force myself upon women before), but because when we first met at work I was already secretly dating two girls at work and it was a very stressful situation. I look back at the time in my life now and think that sounds like a pretty good problem to have, as today my “women problems” mostly consist of “How much trouble would I get if I ‘accidentally’ walked into the women’s bathroom?” or “This craigslist’s personal ad is very hard to write. Should I use ‘healthy’, ‘robust’, or ‘a little extra’ to describe my weight problem?”

But anyway, Lauren and I met up for dinner. I have problem eating in front of women, even if they’re my friend, because I don’t know how to properly eat. There are blind horses with better table manners than me, as each meal is a contest to eat as quickly as possible. Also, I have a beard, so that means the occasionally slab of goat cheese gets stuck in the moustache or a nice streak of vodka sauce runs from the corner of my lip, down my chin, and through my neck beard.

(Is anyone else really turned on right now?)

Lauren was still full from a late lunch and only got a famous dessert. I got a salad, when I could have eaten a terrier. But we got wine. Boy did we get wine.

Three hours and three bottles later, we stumbled out of the restaurant. Lauren was staying with a friend nearby, so after saying goodbye I decided to make the walk from Alphabet City down to my place in Little Italy. So I took off, my purple-stained mouth scaring away any dangerous people that approached me.

When I got home around midnight, I was feeling pretty good and so had myself a Guinness. Then I had another. When we ran out, I tapped into the PBR that is now a fixture in our fridge. The next thing I knew, it was 2:45 in the morning and I was on the couch crying while watching the show “Intervention” (and it wasn’t even a good episode – a bulimic and a homosexual meth/sex addict). After drying my eyes at the end of “Intervention”, I was flipping through the channels but couldn’t find anything, so I went to HBO on Demand. I decided on a lovely lil’ documentary called, “Gladiator Days: Anatomy of a Prison Murder”. It’s a documentary about a racially-motivated prison murder in which two white inmates stabbed a black inmate 67 times. And, oh yeah, this attack was caught on videotape. Because really, when it’s 3am on a Sunday night, you’re drunk, alone, and sad, is there anything better than watching a man stab another man?

That was sarcasm. If you take one thing from me or this site, let it be this: do not watch this documentary late at night when you’re really fucked up and depressed. Trust me on this. The subject matter itself is disturbing, the video of the attack is worse (especially stabs 60-67, which focused primarily on the head and neck), and I will carry the memory of the autopsy photos with me to my grave (though the photos are not from this attack, but from the original crime the defendant was in for – another murder). I felt physically ill several times during the show and it made me very sad, even though I can’t remember much aside from the graphic stuff (thank you, PBR). Anyway way you cut it (pun intended), it was not the perfect end to the night.

My time off has been like last night. For the most part, very nice. Going out to dinner, getting drunk, walking through the streets of Manhattan around midnight with a smile on my wine-stained mouth, taking it all in. I get to sleep in, do what I’ve always wanted to do, and have fun.

But then, there are times. Not good times. I don’t know what’s worse: watching that horrible documentary or sitting in front of a blank Word document, watching that cursor blink, and thinking, “What the fuck is wrong with you? Just write, you fat bastard! You can churn the shit out for the blog in no time, so what’s the problem here?”

So when I go back to work on February 13, I think I will have mixed feelings. I’ll miss some freedoms, but I’ll be glad to have some routine to my life. And I’ll be content.

(That is, until about 10:10am on the first day back at work, when I’ll think to myself, “This fucking sucks. I wish I was at home downloading porn and writing. I guess I’ll go poop or something. Only eight hours to go!”)

Monday, January 09, 2006
compare/contrast, retirement
On Friday night, at about 10pm, I got a message from my buddy “Jerry”. I should note that Jerry is one of my best friends here in NYC, a big time boozer that I have spent many a 4am with, bombed at a pizza place, yelling at women. Jerry’s message went:

“Hey buddy, it’s me. [Girlfriend] and I are out to dinner right now at [nice restaurant], but after that we’re going out for a drink if you want to join us. But just one drink, because it’s the new year and I’m trying to watch my drinking. Anyway, give me a call if you’re interested.”

Now I’m not going to do down the “girlfriends are stupid” road. Once, and I can’t remember when, I wrote something on here disparaging a buddy for hanging out with his girlfriend and I got a crapload of emails from female readers saying, “Um, that’s what guys do, jerk. They fall in love and settle down. You should try it sometime.” (My guess is that these women are the targets of insults from their boyfriends’ guy friends and so spat their harpie venom at me for hitting a nerve)

Add to that, Jerry’s girlfriend is a fun girl and way too attractive for Jerry. So if I were Jerry, I would do what I had to do to keep her. She’s cool, and I’m not just saying this because she will read this.

But that’s what maybe makes it so difficult for me. I know that Jerry’s girlfriend (we’ll call her Brittany) was not the impetus behind Jerry’s message or “new year’s resolution.” It is Jerry himself that is making these changes. A man that I once watched (from the front set of a cab) get a handjob from his coke dealer is cutting down on his drinking in the New Year. Sad.

Let’s compare and contrast this to what I was doing when I got this message from Jerry. I got said message on Friday night, a little after 10pm. At the time, my roommate Brian and I were ripping cans of PBR, stopping for the occasional vodka red bull. We have been drinking PBR like professionals lately. The Chinese grocery store a few blocks away from me sells twelve-packs for $6.88. That is extremely cheap in NYC, the equivalent of getting a sirloin for $3. For example, also a few blocks away from me is a bodega at which I recently bought twelve bottles of Rolling Rock for $24. Twelve Rolling Rocks for $24 or Twelve cans of PBR for $7? Not a tough choice.

In addition to getting shit-bombed, Brian and I were also on our second hour of watching Journey videos on VH1 Classic. This first hour was a special Journey in concert, which was, as you might expect, the most entertaining experience of my life. Special props go to Brian, who probably knows more about “rock” from 1977-1989 than anyone aside from Chuck Klosterman, for guessing the year in which the concert was less than one song into the show (1981). The second hour was just Journey videos, which were incredible in and of themselves but couldn’t match the intensity of the live show.

Finally, after Journey was done (I think Metal Mania came on after), Brian and I spent a good two hours discussing my future post, “Ten Guys I’d Do”. I mentioned I had an idea for this post before on the site here, but then it was “Ten Guys I’d Do For $10,000”. Now it’s just “Ten Guys I’d Do.” I guess I’m getting lonely. Brian and I were able to come up with six guys, but stalled there. And seriously, I promise you we’re not gay. For the most part.

So while my friend Jerry was at a nice dinner with his beautiful girlfriend drinking in moderation, Brian and I drank a case of PBR, watched two hours of Journey, then talked about ten guys I’d fuck. I don’t even know what to say here.

But you know what? I’m happy with my choice. I had an awesome time on Friday night. Brian and I left the apartment at just before 1, met up with some friends, then got home at almost 5, though I don’t remember how I got home and have no recollection of anything at 2am. Such is life.

About a week ago, I made a decision. I am going to retire at 30. Not from my job of course, since by the time I’m 30 I should have about $54,000 in credit card debt if I keep going at this rate. God I wish that was a joke.

But I’m going to retire from my life as I now know it at 30. Assuming that my projects fail (which, to be honest, the odds are against them) and nothing else has come of it, I will stop writing this blog. I will get serious about my job and dedicate myself to being a (Senior) Practice Development Analyst. I will stop drinking 50 cans of beer per weekend. I will instead have a dozen vodka tonics only. I will get involved in a serious relationship, finding a nice 22 year-old girl on Match.com to marry. She’ll be perfect: bright, busty, freaky, but she will have one minor flaw: no legs. I can deal with this. I am not, never was, and never will be a leg man. And I will settle into adulthood and ride off into the sunset of my life, which will end at age 37 in a Chinese restaurant fire.

But until then, I am going to try to destroy myself (in a good way). I will continue drinking my shit beer, going out and talking to girls even though the expiration date on the People thing has long since passed, and I will still come home at night, lay in bed, and listen to Motley Crue on my iPod while the room spins (I’m going to try to lighten up on the whole “talking about guys I’d do” thing though).

I’m telling you this both because I love you and I want you to prepare. You will only have me until July 17, 2009. After that, I’m done. Consider this fair warning. So until then, let’s just enjoy it while it lasts.

And if you’re not watching VH1 Classic while drinking, the disservice you’re doing to yourself is too great for words.

[Follow up: Because my friends and I made such fun of Jerry for his behavior on Friday night, he showed up at my door on Saturday night with three bottles of wine. Many drinks and many hours later, I was watching him play pool at a bar when he literally keeled over and fell first against the table and then onto the ground. It was incredible. So Jerry, despite his faults, still “has it.” And there are no hard feelings between us. That is, until after his girlfriend reads this post and asks him about the handjob in the cab. Oh well.]

oh oh! nominate me!
It’s all about ego, so please go nominate me for a Bloggie. “Most humorous blog” is toward the bottom on the left, but I would totally cream my pants if I were even nominated for “Weblog of the year.”

(And I promise if I’m not nominated or if I lose I will never mention this again.)

Friday, January 06, 2006
nfl playoff predictions
Quick and dirty playoff predictions, because I had some serious internet problems today. I should note that you if you are a gambling man/woman, you should bet against everything I say. I have been so completely off in football this year, it’s downright sad. My Eagles are terrible, and in my two fantasy football leagues I finished 10 out of 12 and 8 out of 10 (thank you to Daunte Culpepper, Ahman Green, Aaron Brooks, and Carnell Williams for going MIA in the middle of the season).

Anyway, here goes.


(6) Washington over (3) TAMPA BAY
(5) Carolina over (4) NEW YORK

I have no faith in the Giants with the way they’ve been playing over the last few games and I have a lot of faith in Washington. Assuming Carolina shows up (which they occasionally fail to do), I see both road teams advancing.

(4) NEW ENGLAND over (5) Jacksonville
(6) Pittsburgh over (3) CINCINNATI

Tom Brady at home vs. Byron Leftwich on the road? Hmmm…let me think about that. Cincy was a playoff darling just a few weeks ago but have serious issues. I go with the Steelers.

So if you’re keeping score, that’s three road winners and the six seed advancing in both conferences. I don’t know why I don’t work for ESPN.


(1) SEATTLE over (6)Washington
(5) Carolina over (2) CHICAGO

Seattle is tough and will end a nice year for Joe Gibbs and Co. Again, I’m going to assume that Carolina brings it. If they do, I see them beating the Bears. But again, nice run by Chicago this year. Nothing to be ashamed about.

(1) INDIANAPOLIS over (6) Pittsburgh
(2) DENVER over (4) New England

Nobody beats Indy. Denver/NE is a great game, but I have to go with Denver at home.


SEATTLE over Carolina

Seattle and Indy are and have been the cream of the crop in their divisions all season long, and that doesn’t change in the playoffs.

Indy over Seattle

It’s gotta be the year for Indy, right? This is the best shot they’ve ever had, with the best team they’ve ever had, and their fucking coach’s son killed himself. I don’t see how they could lose.

(Translation: Chicago over Cincy in the Super Bowl)

[Have a good weekend]

Thursday, January 05, 2006
2005 year in review
2005 was banner year in my life. A really big one. But before we talk about it any further, I think we need to review 2005’s resolutions and see how well we (as in, I) did with them.

2005 Resolution #1: Save $15,000 by the end of the year

I have been working only one day a week since the beginning of October. I did this because I was presented with two “projects” in the entertainment industry to work on. I needed time off from work to complete them. And since they paid (and paid well), I didn’t think this would be a problem. This was my logic back in September when asking to take my leave of absence from work.

Fast forward to January 5, 2006: I still have not been paid for either project. Not because I’m failing in these endeavors (even though I am failing in these endeavors), but because, as I have been repeatedly assured, it takes time for these things. I can say without a hint of exaggeration that right now I am the poorest I have been since college. Since leaving work, I have depleted my savings (gone sometime in November) and have been living off credit. So not only am I poor, but I have straddled myself with literally thousands of dollars in debt while I await these payments. Sure, I eventually will get paid for my projects, but it’s getting to the point that when I do so, I will have to apply that money directly to credit card bills.

So this one was a big loss. Save $15,000? I feel like pulling a Jim Mora and saying, “15,000? $15,000? We can’t be thinking about saving $15,000! We have to start making money first!”

Verdict: Failure. Big time.

2005 Resolution #2: Find an awesome place to live.

One year ago, I was living in the Upper East Side. The apartment itself was nice (I had my own bathroom!), but the location was TERRIBLE. So I wrote:
I'm a simple man. I don't need a lot of room. I don't need things like a doorman, an elevator, or a gym. All I want is something that's close to where I work (way downtown) and close to where I go out (all kinds of places below Union Square). God I hope I can find it. Because otherwise, well, I don't even want to get into it.
In May, I moved to Little Italy/Chinatown (ChiLiTa). And the place is close to where I work and where I go out. And even though I bitch about it, I am reasonably happy with it. Perhaps I’m saying this now because it’s winter and the tourists and (some of) the Chinese have been forced indoors by the cold temperatures. But overall, I can’t complain too much. Of course, I will absolutely be moving again when my lease is up in May, but that’s just because I am a nomad at heart.

Verdict: Eh.

2005 Resolution #3: Have sex.
[no comment]

2005 Resolution #4: Rejoin the gym.

If by “rejoin the gym” we mean “pay for the gym”, well, I certainly have done that. I’ve had $70 a month taken out of my check since June and have gone to the gym a grand total of ZERO times. So that’s $420 for ZERO visits. I am not good at money.

When I made the resolution last year, I wrote:
But I am in terrible shape. As of right now, I can't even think about a gym without getting tired. Dialing a phone number can put me out of commission for three days. Chewing is exhausting, so I've been putting my food in a blender so that all I have to do is swallow it. I'm a few Reubens and carrot cakes away from having to install a pulley system in my bedroom to get me out of bed. I know I have a penis somewhere, but all I've seen for the past few years is a yellow stream of urine shooting from under my belly.
But then, something miraculous happened. After spending the first half of the year worrying about dying of a heart attack, I got a stress test. I’m not a doctor (and neither are you), but the results of the test were basically, “Look, nothing is wrong with your heart. You’re just fat. Now get the fuck out of my office and stop wasting my time.”

So I didn’t need to join the gym in 2005. And the fact that I’m “healthy” and I’m paying for it frees me of any guilt for failing to follow through with this resolution.

Verdict: disqualified

2005 Resolution #5: Get super fucking famous.
Last year I wrote about this desire to get famous:
However, I'm not getting my hopes up [about getting famous], only because I don't think I could stand such a crushing let-down. In the meantime, I'm just going to keep on keepin' on and hope to god that someday soon I get to have sex with Lindsay Lohan. And there's NO WAY I'm going to wear a condom, even thought she's gotta have at least HPV. It's just not gonna happen.
Little did I know that five months after I wrote this, I would be at a fancy Hollywood party at a big time club here in NYC (that would normally never get into) WATCHING LINDSAY LOHAN DANCE ON TOP OF A SPEAKER.


That’s the kind of year 2005 has been; easily the most exciting and arguably the best of my life. A year ago, I was just a normal (albeit a little deviant) dude with a semi-popular blog. But over the course of the year, traffic to the site exploded, I was named “hot” by People, and I was presented not one but two life-altering opportunities. I mean, damn.

So I have no resolutions for 2006. I don’t think it can get any better than 2005 (to be honest, I kinda have a bad feeling about 2006, but I’m trying to keep it positive here), so I am just going to let it happen and take it one step at a time. Also, as you can see, for the most part I suck with resolutions, so forget the whole thing.


Some thank you's are in order to those who made 2005 such a great year for me. This may read like the speech of an Oscar-winner, but fuck it – it’s my blog. I will try to keep it brief, because those to whom I am grateful already know it.

Thank you to Site Guy Brendan. All I do is verbally abuse him and pay him in change and beer and he continues to answer all my emails (though it’d be nice if he’d look at some of the trades I’ve offered him in our fantasy basketball league). The site would not exist without him, and we’re going to make it even better in 2006 (and yes, I know that makes me sound like a politician).

Thank you to Joel. Joel contacted me last December out of the blue and made me cream in my pants. Everything that has happened to me in the entertainment industry I owe to Joel, and I love him (in a half-heterosexual/half-homosexual way). Thank you also to Larry, Farsh, and everyone else at UTA who has been totally awesome to me.

Thank you to Holly, publicist extraordinaire at Pilot Publicity. Her diligence after the People thing was remarkable, and helped get my ass known to some more people. I look forward to having more Stellas and talking more strategy in the future.

Thank you also to: Derek at the NY Daily News for my first piece of press; Joyce, Jessica and Laura at People, Joyce for emailing me out of the blue and asking me to participate and Jessica and Laura for answering all my emails that asked, “So, um, for this photo shoot, you guys know I’m not good-looking right?”; Ben, Chris, Naima, and Naomi for helping me through the shoot; the guys at DreamWorks for being funny muthas; Gregg and Alex for being great lawyers and calming me down when I call them at 3 in the afternoon, hopped up on goofballs, asking where my money is; and everyone else who I can’t mention right now (you know who you are).

Thank you also to Ace Cowboy, Dan, D, the Bouncer, the Waiter, and the Lawyer, for daily entertainment and sending new readers over.

Finally, the most important thanks of all go to you guys. If you hadn’t passed this site on to your friends, linked it from your blogs, and linked it in your message boards, none of the events of the past year would have happened for me. Your support is my everything and I am eternally grateful to you. I hope that this past year was only the beginning of something very exciting and I’m glad that you were all there with me to experience it. And I promise that I will keep getting drunk and making dick jokes. I swear.

Godspeed, Happy New Year and thank you.

(I just read this post over and I’m now going to drink wine in the tub and cry. Very emotional right now.)

Wednesday, January 04, 2006
extremely random thoughts on the past two weeks or so
[This post should have been up sooner, but just as I was about to finish it, the hot water was miraculously turned back on in my apartment. So naturally I had to stop working on the post to take the longest, steamiest shower ever. It was glorious and I have no regrets. But sorry for the late post.]

1. Christmas Schmristmas
Christmas was nice and all, but really, it’s the same shit every year. Well, there was one giant exception: my cousin Lindsay and her husband John gave birth to a son, Ryan, in September (well, John didn’t give birth, but you know what I mean). So this Christmas, for the first time in years, there was a newborn in the family. And I shit you not when I say that HE IS THE MOST PERFECT CREATURE EVER CREATED. We all know that I don’t like kids – hell, I haven’t spoken to my own children in over six years now – but Ryan is truly an angel from heaven. Even when he cries, which is about 70% of the time, he is adorable. He’ll take these long pauses when he gets all red and holds his breath and then WHAMMO! He’ll let out a wail that you were once sure could not come from a fifteen pound baby. God bless him (and his parents). So that made Christmas pretty awesome this year.

Best Gift, Overall: Cash
Look, I’m 26 years old. I have student loans and credit card debt to pay off. I also pay $1200 a month in rent and having a small drinking problem. Don’t buy me a sweater. Don’t get me a DVD. Just give me cash. Also acceptable is a Barnes & Noble gift card or some lottery tickets. But let’s keep it simple, ok?

Best Gift, Non-Cash Category: Electric Toothbrush
I had been wanting one for years and finally got one this Christmas – and hated it. Putting this fucking thing in your mouth is like going to the dentist’s – it’s hissing and spinning and there’s spit and toothpaste flying everywhere. But when I stopped being a pussy (about a week after getting it), I learned to enjoy the electric toothbrush. And it really does clean your teeth like a mother fucker, which is nice, considering that I need very clean teeth since I promised myself a long time ago that I’d never go to the dentist again.

2. “The Producers”
Every year, some friends and I get together in an effort to prove that we’re not cretins and we see a Broadway show (just let me get through this, ok?). I’m not very into Broadway shows. If you’ve read even one other post here, I don’t think I have to explain why.

But I do like comedy. And allow me to join the chorus when I say that “The Producers” is pretty fucking funny. I’m not about to go see the movie (I only see about three movies a year anyway), but it was very enjoyable. It started a little slow, possibly because I had such high expectations (see #3 below), but then it got hot. Totally fucking hot.

And I’m slowly learning one thing: in order to make it in Hollywood as a comedy writer, I’m either going to have to a) convert to Judaism; or b) learn how to use my Irish Catholicism to my advantage. On the one hand, if I convert, I’m immediately part of a large fraternity. I’m “in”. Also, in the past I’ve dated a ton of Jewish girls, and have twice been confused as Jewish; once when a former co-worker said to me, “Well, us Jews have to stick together” and once when my agent, who is half-Jewish, asked me if “as a Jew” I would be offended to receive a cd of Christmas music as a gift. So I’m down with the Tribe and the conversion wouldn’t be that big of a deal (although I’m not sure if “Tribe” should be capitalized or not, nor do I know why Jews are members of this Tribe/tribe).

But on the other hand, if I can properly milk my Irish Catholicism, I can be viewed as a freak in Hollywood – in a good way. It’s kinda like when Jimi Hendrix burst on the scene, and all the white Brit rockers and rock fans were shocked with his exotic appearance, his wild antics, and his sexual chocolateness. Maybe if I walked into my entertainment meetings with a shamrock and a big Celtic cross, chanting Hail Mary’s and drinking Guinness, I could shock the establishment just like Hendrix did, become a legend, and then die by choking on my own puke. Keep your fingers crossed.

(And yes, I did just compare myself with Jimi Hendrix. Leave me alone – I haven’t had a decent shower in three days and am starting to lose my mind, hallucinating on the fumes of my own body odor.)

3. “The Forty Year-Old Virgin”
I saw “The Forty Year-Old Virgin” over the weekend. I think I liked it better the first time around when it was called “Anchorman” (zing!). Part of the problem was that I had heard such great things about the movie, so I couldn’t help but be disappointed. And I admit, I was more than a little drunk when I saw it. But it seemed like a collection of tasteless (but funny) jokes enmeshed in an overly forced love story. Good, but not great.

(Speaking of, I don’t know which movie I’d rather see less: “Grandma’s Boy” or “The Ringer.” Really, Hollywood? This is what is passing for comedies now? I’ll make a deal with you guys: give me $100,000, a camera, four buddies, and one week and I’ll make you a blockbuster. Trust me on this. And if possible, I’d like that $100,000 in cash.)

4. Dick Clark
Something must be said straight away, no matter how terrible it is: Dick Clark was downright sad on his New Year’s Rocking Eve special. I’m not going to poke fun at the guy – he had a stroke for Christ’s sake – but it was not too “rocking” to watch him stumble and rasp his way through the New Year’s special. Goodness gracious. Dick, you’ve done a lot, you’re a hell of an entertainer, and it was great that you made it back this year, but I think it’s time to hang it up. Thank you.

(Admittedly, I didn’t watch the whole show. I was in a hotel room doing drugs on New Year’s Eve, which was really the perfect way to end 2005. Great.)

5. Farris Hassan, the dickhead teenager who went to Iraq
Buddy, you did it because you have a big ego, not because you have any real interest in democracy. You’re just some rich little prick who was bored and wants to be famous. Good luck on your book, cocksucker.

6. The Mummers Parade
The Mummers Parade was very fun this year. My club, Froggy Carr, finished in second place, but it doesn’t matter – we could have finished in last place and it still would have been a lot of fun.

Three minor complaints (for those unfamiliar with the Mummers, please stop reading now and come back in a couple of paragraphs):

1) I’m not a fan of Froggy Carr’s band playing from the top of a bus down Broad Street. One of the best parts of the New Year’s experience is being able to get right up close to the band and just get nasty. This year, those guys were fifteen feet in the air, and it wasn’t the same. Not good.

2) Another thing about the band: what’s the deal with stopping mid-song at 3rd and Ritner? I heard that they did this because they didn’t have a ride back to the club, were pissed that they had to walk back, and so shut it down. Fuck you guys – keep playing. I was so angry about this I wound up getting into a fistfight with some youths shortly thereafter.

3) Speaking of youths, if you don’t have a suit, STAY THE FUCK OUT THE WAY ON SECOND STREET. This is especially true if you’re a sixteen year old dude and you wear XXXXXL long t-shirts or you’re a fifteen year old girl with bangs. I’m dancing, I’m in Froggy Carr, stay the fuck out of my way.

In happier news (this is when those not familiar with the Mummers can continue reading), I got on TV. The Mummers Parade is televised, and one of the goals of going out is to somehow get on TV. Usually, this involves dancing in front of a camera and screaming. However, I was a lot smoother.

I’m not sure exactly how this went down, so I’ll do my best. I went up to a guy I recognized from the movie “Strut!”, introduced myself, and told him that I was famous. He was helping out with the news coverage of the parade, so he told me to hold on, and went over and conferred with the female reporter covering the event. He came back to me and said, “Promise me one thing: just protect her” (as I mentioned, when you have 740 drunk guys in costume who’ve been drinking for six hours and only want to get on TV, the pushing and shoving can get a little crazy in front of the camera). The female reporter came over to me, I introduced myself, and told her I was famous. She asked me again what my name was and if I knew the story behind Froggy Carr, and when I said “Yes”, she said, “And we’re live here with Jason Mulgrew…” and it was on.

I was pretty drunk, but hid it well, I think (I don’t have a clip of the interview). I talked a little about the story behind the club and then rambled on a for a bit, but not bad for someone who had drank a 1.75 liter bottle of Long Island Iced Tea and a crapload of beers. But what was best was the reaction of friends and family who saw the interview, who all asked, “What the hell were you being interviewed for?” My response was usually something along the lines of “Do you know who the fuck I am?” before grabbing my crotch and storming off. Because, really, don’t they know who the fuck I am?

Overall grade for the parade: B+ (probably the best one in the last four years for me)

[If you want to see some photos from New Year’s Day, you can do so here. And no, I am not in any of them.]

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