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.]