Everything is wrong with me

2006-12-31T11:52:00.000-05:00

For the current stuff, please go to www.jasonmulgrew.com.

This blog was started on February 13, 2004 and was the primary outlet for my garbage until December 13, 2004, when jasonmulgrew.com was opened for bidness. I continued to update this blog as a mirror site all the way until February 22, 2006, when a newer version of jasonmulgrew.com was debuted. So please go there for the latest junk.

[If you are having problems viewing the flash intro, you can click here, or just fucking get flash. Any other problems viewing the site should be directed to Site Guy Brendan at brendan@jasonmulgrew.com]

diary of the world’s worst vacation, volume three: los angeles

2006-02-21T15:05:00.000-05:00

I love Los Angeles. The first time I visited LA was in the summer of 2001, when I went to an ex’s sister’s wedding. I liked it well enough, but was only there a short time and had to do wedding-type stuff (though I managed to get in a few trips to the In-And-Out Burger).

The second time I visited I spent a week in Marina Del Ray with a friend who had recently moved out there and the city blew me away. The vibe, the people, the scene, the weather – I ate it up. That, and a lot of cocaine. But that was a long time ago. And I didn’t actually eat the cocaine, but you get it.

(I’m clean now, Mom and Dad. Swear.)

(And readers, say no to drugs. Seriously. We here at jasonmulgrew.com are anti-drugs. I’m just going to stop talking about this now because I’m pretty sure that at least one person I work with is reading, so enough.)

But recently, my relationship with LA has changed. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before on the site or not, but I’m kinda famous. This past August I went out to LA to pitch my show (which, because of the confidential nature of the project, I can’t get into). And my view of Los Angeles changed dramatically.

The whole experience of pitching gave me a 24 hour, 7 day a week boner. I’m not typically a star struck person and don’t really care about the entertainment industry, but that was before I was in the entertainment industry. While out in LA for that week in August, I had something like 23 meetings in five days, meeting with people who were responsible for creating some of the best television shows ever. I spent the week driving around town with my buddy Joe in my rental car, talking on the phone to my agent having conversations like:

Agent: "So your next meeting is with [person] over in [location] at 1:30."
Me: "Ok, what can you tell me about this person?"
Agent: [trying to make me feel like a dick] "Oh, I don’t know...he only created [my favorite show of all time]."
Me: "Oh, um, yeah. I’ve heard of that. Thanks."

[hangs up cellphone, looks over at friend Joe driving car]

Me: "I think I just pooed in my pants a little bit."
Joe: "I thought something smelled like those nachos we ate last night."

I’m not saying this to brag, but rather to express how there was a major shift in my perception of LA. It wasn’t actually a shift per se, but an amplification. While I may have been infatuated with the city before, all this Hollywood-type shit made me fall head over heels in love with it. Not to get "Aw shucks!" on you, but there I was – a fat dude with a beard and a blog – having all these serious conversations with some serious (and awesome) people, and I was happy. Very, very happy.

And so with stars in my eyes I arrived in LA on the afternoon on Thursday, February 9. My plan was to fly back to NYC on Saturday, February 11, with just enough time to go out and get blasted once more before returning to work. All was right with the world. For the next two days at least.

***

I met up with my agent Joel and some friends for dinner and drinks on Thursday night. Since contacting me in December of 2004, Joel has become my boy. Not just because I would kill for him because he's presented me with many incredible opportunities, most of which may someday lead to a real-live actual threesome. And not because he buys me lots of drinks and spiced meats. But because we have the same sense of humor and genuinely love each other.

Joel and I met up with some friends, Laura and Johnny, and ate something called "Korean barbeque." I didn't know that Koreans barbeque, but apparently they do, and they do it very well. I enjoyed the meal, but it's definitely one of those things where you need to go with someone who knows what they're doing. While Joel was deftly ordering for the group, I was busy drinking something called Hite and sticking my hand on the open grill in the middle of the table while making jokes like, "You know, I hear the terrier is delicious here" and "Seriously, the lhasa apso is the juiciest I've ever had." I can’t wait to go back.

The shenanigans continued the next night when I met some of the assistants from the agency for drinks. I have to give it to them – the sons (and daughters) of bitches can drink, although some of them (Allan, I’m looking in your direction) are terrible at Beirut/beer pong. But I don’t want to air any dirty laundry here, especially when that dirty laundry involves people who have the power to hold up any payment to me. So let's just move on.

I was able to enjoy myself on Friday because I didn’t have to worry about flying. By that time, news of a major pending snowstorm in the Northeast was widespread. My flight was scheduled to leave LA at noon on Saturday, arriving in NYC at 8pm. But because this storm had some serious potential and was supposed to hit NYC at precisely the same time I was to land, my flight was preemptively canceled. So instead of spending all of Friday night worrying about flying through a blizzard, I was able to go out and order a drink and two shots as soon as I got to the bar. Wonderful.

Worrying about the blizzard was reserved for Saturday morning, afternoon, and night. I woke up with a terrible hangover and after having brunch spent all day in bed, worrying about the flight. I watched the news as the snow approached the Northeast and continually checked my flight status, hoping it would be canceled. No dice. It appeared that by hell or high water, blizzard or no blizzard, I was flying to NYC on Sunday. And it freaked me the fuck out.

I know that I'm going to die young. I'm not saying this for pity or to be weird or anything - I just know this. This thought has so pervaded my consciousness that I don't think about things in the future. For example, I don't think about getting married or having kids or buying a house or anything like that. This is not because I'm lazy (which I am) or because I live in the moment (which I do), but because I know that I'm not going to make it to these things.

But don't be sad - I'm ok with this. If anything, it's almost good. It allows me to live the life I do, which, as you know, is totally fucking awesome. My entire worldview is rooted in this awareness of my own mortality and so I follow a strict regiment of the "If you're going to regret something, regret it because you did it, not because you didn't do it" mentality. So far, so good.

But I didn't want to hear that on Saturday. I knew that this was it. I knew that I was going to fly in that blizzard and I was going to die. Over. Done. I even went so far as to rationalize it by saying to myself, "Well, the good news is that at my funeral, they'll say that I had a lot of potential. I have all this stuff going on, but none of it has actually happened yet. So it's better that I check out now, while in the process of trying my hand at fame or whatever, rather than in a year or so, after I've tried, failed, and am living in my dad's basement, making out with local 16 year olds. Yeah. That sounds good."

So I coped in the only way I knew how: abusing substances. I really don't like to talk about drug use too much (really?), but I can not express how wonderful the drug Xanax is. I actually don't even abuse it, since I don't take it recreationally (I can't drink on it - makes me sleepy) but only when I really need it (when feeling anxious). Saturday qualified as feeling anxious. I went to a nearby store, picked up some ice cream, took two of those magic little pills, and spent about ten hours in bed. The highlight was probably watched back-to-back episodes of "Law and Order: Special Victims Unit" and being so moved that I wept. It just really helped me get through the night.

Sunday morning I woke up, checked out of the hotel, and headed to the airport as the snowstorm raged in the Northeast. I had popped another Xanax when I woke up - just to ease the tension - and was basically a zombie as I moved through security. It was when I got to my boarding gate that I got the announcement: Newark, JFK, and Laguardia airports were all closed. I wasn't going anywhere. Thank god.

***

I passed the next few days in a haze, riding a roller coaster of emotions. I waited in line for a few hours to figure out that on Monday, I'd be traveling from LA to Atlanta, then from Atlanta to Philly, and then from Philly via Amtrak to NYC. Sweet. I checked into the airport Holiday Inn and holed myself up like a true degenerate. I went out and got a twelve-pack, bought the 24 hour porn pass on the hotel pay-per-view for $35, and ordered a chicken alfredo pizza (which was probably the best pizza I've ever had: chicken, alfredo sauce, ricotta cheese, a little onions, and a little garlic). The thing about the 24 hour porn pass was that it gave me a day's worth of access to all twelve pornographic features that the hotel was offering. And I have to say, some of that shit was nasty. There was the obligatory gay porn thrown in, which I thought was tasteful but a little too long, but there were also two types of bondage movies and one movie bordering on violence. As you can imagine, I was in heaven. That is, when I wasn't feeling terribly lonely and alienated.

The next day I flew just about everywhere. Again, many props to Xanax, since I was pretty much in a haze from the moment I woke up until I woke on Tuesday in Philly. I noticed that my tolerance for traveling had been built up by my west coast drive. I didn't bat an eyelash about the four hour flight from LA to Atlanta, and the two hour flight from Atlanta to Philly seemed like nothing more than a quick trip to the supermarket. So that was nice.

When I finally got back to NYC on Tuesday afternoon, I didn't have time to enjoy myself. Site Guy Brendan set about working on our little surprise (which should be up any day now) and on the following day, I returned to work. Which has been - how do you say? - entirely fucking horrible. Just horrible. But that is a topic for another day.

Tomorrow (hopefully and thank god), the conclusion: diary of the world's worst vacation, volume four: how fucking enterprise extorted me out of $1000 (and why it's a terrible idea to write a four-part series of anything).

diary of the world's worst vacation, volume one: seattle

2006-02-15T16:17:00.000-05:00

A few weeks ago, I randomly decided to head to Seattle for the Super Bowl. Faced with the prospect of returning to work, I decided to do something fun and spontaneous (read: exorbitantly more expensive than I ever imagined and intensely laborious). I booked a flight and was planned on being in Seattle from Thursday February 2 until Tuesday February 7.

I have three main friends out in Seattle: my old roommate Ben, my buddy Griff, and my friend Annie.

Long-time readers know about Ben, as he was a featured player on this site from its inception until June of 2005 when he moved back to Seattle, his hometown. I miss him, because he can drink like few other people I have ever known. Also he's always happy, which is a nice contrast to my crippling bouts of depression.

Griff and I met freshman year of college at BC. When we first met, I told him I was on a baseball scholarship, a line he bought hook, line, and sinker. Since then we've been friends, mostly because he's one of the few people who can truly tolerate my egomania. And he is Greek and I like having Greek friends. Also he knows a lot about music, though he once famously claimed that Hanson would be the best band in the world in five years. I understood his logic (if they could write catchy songs as 14 year-olds, they'd get better with age), but I will never let him live this down because it is a most retarded thing to say.

Annie and I also met freshman year of college and she's been one of my best female friends since. And to answer your question, yes, we did make out, but it was out of pity. I went to BC with four friends from high school and she made out with three of them at various points of college (only making out - all PG stuff). I lorded this over her for about four years until one day a few years ago on my birthday when I was going on and on about "what's wrong with me?" and "why am I not good enough for you?" and "it's because I touched your roommate's boob when she was passed out in that guy's van, isn't it?", she suddenly kissed me. Then I shut up. I am a very simple man.

The point: I had some friends in Seattle I wanted to see and that made the trip worthwhile. Instead of going on and on about "We did this on Thursday..." and "Then on Friday we...", I'll just give the highlights.

Natural beauty
I've never seen a city as naturally beautiful as Seattle. It's incredible. Keep in mind though that I am a city boy and my appreciation of natural beauty isn't very sophisticated: the first time I saw a horse I thought it was a really big dog, I'm extremely excited when I get in a cab and there's no feces and/or semen on the seat, and the closest I come to nature on a daily basis is the dying plant I have in my office (apparently plants need sunlight - who knew?). But Seattle has all sorts of water and mountains on either side and shit, it's really pretty.

Of course, the weather is terrible, but I got a little lucky. It rained for the first two days, but the last two were gorgeous. Besides, I like the rain. One of my favorite things to do is to wake up hungover, look at the cold rain, and lay around in bed, doubting some of the choices I've made in my life. And you can do that pretty much every day in Seattle.

One thing that I wasn't prepared for and was not sufficiently warned about was the presence of hills throughout the city. I stayed at Ben's place and he lives on top of a very steep hill. We're talking really steep here - the kind you have to stop halfway up because you're out of breath and feel dizzy. And while I realize I'm not exactly a physical specimen, who the fuck builds a city on a bunch of hills? I mean, really? That just doesn't seem like sound urban planning to me. And maybe I'm just bitter because while walking up the hill to Ben's apartment I fell and two high school kids walking behind me made no attempt to hide their laughter. Asshole kids. Stupid hills.

Pretty ladies
The women of Seattle are attractive. Some of them are almost unconscionably attractive. They have a certain quality to them that women in LA and New York don't have. They are genuine. They aren't affected actresses or hipsters or power-broker career types, they just come as they are (and sometimes not at all - thank you, thank you very much). And I find this genuineness at once completely endearing and utterly disarming.

Real women scare me. I don't know how to talk to them. Usually, when talking to women, I can work an angle based on what I perceive to be their pretension and I can manipulate this to my advantage (or, as Arrius would say, "hadvantage"). For example, I can talk to the actress/waitress types in LA because I can riff about my development deal with a major network. I can approach hipsters in NYC because I know a lot about bands that no one has ever heard of too. And I'm comfortable with the girls who work on Wall Street because, hey, I work three blocks away from Wall Street.

(Please note that I said I "can" talk to these girls. This does not mean I do talk to them. Usually I don't talk to women at bars because I have too many things going on. You know, like buying shots and going to the bathroom and staring off into space wishing I looked like Nick Lachey.)

(And if you got that "hadvantage" reference without googling it, we truly are soulmates.)

But it is their very genuineness that makes these Seattle women unapproachable. I mean, what the hell am I supposed to talk to them about, real stuff? Like what I like to do and what I want from life? Who the hell does that when they're trying to get laid? I'm not looking for a friend here - I'm looking for someone to wake up next to in the morning and to say to me, "I have never seen so much semen come from such small testes. When was the last time you were with a woman?" My approach, like many guys, is all about shock and awe: shock them with a couple of shots of Jager and awe them with your strength - whether it be the size of your biceps or how cool your band is or in my case how I have the colon of an eighty year-old man. Gotta play to your strengths in "da game." I could not do this in Seattle, because the women there wouldn't buy it. So instead I left it up to Ben.

Ben is one of my staunchest supporters when it comes to talking about my "fame" in front of new women. In NYC, he was constantly telling women about my blog, something that never failed to repel them. This particular weekend was no exception, as he told every girl within earshot, whether he knew her or not, that I was in People as one of the 50 hottest bachelors. I feel like I've beaten this over the head, but for one last time: I am not good-looking in real life. You might think I'm being coy or fishing for compliments, but I'm not. Seriously, if you want to meet up right now, let's do so. I don't care. I'm nuts.

Anyway, Ben's persistence on letting everyone know about the People thing led to this exchange with one girl (who neither he nor I knew):

Ben: "My buddy Jason was in People magazine this summer as one of the 50 hottest bachelors - he's kind of famous."
Girl: [to me] "Really?"
Me: [trying to be bashful but imaging what she'd look like in my attic, covered in hot sauce and wearing a toolbelt] "Yeah, it was this past summer."
Girl: [a beat] "Geez...what happened since then?"

Let's all say it together: "OH SNAP!" Surprisingly, I didn't go home with that girl. I think she was like gay or something anyway.

So though beautiful, I was intimidated by the women of Seattle. All I can say is: good for them. If I'm intimidated by you, that probably means that I'm not going to be able to harm you in any way. So congratulations - you figured me out.

The Homeless
I wrote about this before, but I never got an explanation: are the poor-looking people that fill the streets of Seattle homeless, meth (or other drug) addicts, or just hippies? Because I really couldn't tell if they were going to ask me for change or ask me to buy their new cd. Help me out here, people.

Super Bowl
By now, the Super Bowl is old news, so I don't want to get too into it. It was a boring, poorly-played game. I still think Pittsburgh would have won, but they won in the worst way: horrible officiating and even worse clock management. Two things that should never interfere with professional football.

I was wrong about my prediction, but prior to the game, I did write:

...one of these quarterbacks is going to have a very bad day. We’re talking a Jim Kelly/John Elway vintage 80’s/early 90’s game: 13/28, 140 yards, 1 TD, 3 INT day.

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I submit as Exhibit A Ben Roethlisberger's stats for Super Bowl XL: 9/21, 123 yards, 0 TD, 2 INT (1 rushing TD). Sure, my football picks have been crap all year long, and both my fantasy football teams finished out of the playoffs for the first time ever, but I can take solace in at least predicting that one QB would have a bad day. Can you give me at least that comfort?

The Super Bowl party was an enjoyable experience. Ben has a sixteen-seat movie theater in his apartment building (I know - must be nice) and he had about two dozen friends over to watch the game, which was catered like no other Super Bowl party I've seen before: multiple kinds of dip, pulled pork sandwiches, and some delicious stuff that I can't even tell you what it's called because I've never seen it before.

Sadly, my enjoyment of the game was limited. I was so hungover from Saturday night that I watched the third quarter from Ben's apartment, away from the crowd. When I deemed myself fit to return, I ate, ate, and ate.

I obviously extended my championship jinx to Seattle and I apologize for this. The only thing that I can say is, well, get over it. Losing sucks. Welcome to the club.

EMP
Seattle has a museum called the Experience Music Project. It's basically a hideous building with all sorts of music crap in it, from memorabilia to historical exhibits to interactive booths with instruments where you can jam with other people.

Back in my day, I was a nasty guitar player. I've written before how I was in 1.5 bands in college and how it was a great time, in no small part because after one show I got a blowjob in the woods. Which was great. But I've given up guitar because I don't really have the time for it anymore, what with all the things I have going on. But I still love music, as you all know from my recommendations on here. So the EMP was a chance to reconnect with that part of myself, the same one that has died after years of neglect and sexual abuse.

This "reconnection" involved me playing guitar as loudly and as awesomely as I possibly could, especially when females entered my vicinity. I am ashamed of how blatant this was. For example, I'd be playing by myself, just jamming away, with a volume level of seven. When I saw that some girls would soon walk by, I'd push that volume up to eleven (this one went to eleven) and do my best Hendrix impression ("Villanova Junction" is my go-to song and has historically always gotten into the ladies' pants). You won't believe it, but this didn't work. No matter how loudly or awesomely I played, I was not fellated. Which was why, I think, I gave up playing guitar in the first place.

And after I felt terrible about the whole thing. Showboating and carrying on whilst playing guitar in order to attract women - is this what I have come to? I really have nothing left, or so little left, that I have to rely on some mediocre guitar playing to impress a gaggle of sixteen year-old girls on a class trip? Sadly, the answer is yes. A major fucking yes. And I am ashamed. Majorly fucking ashamed.

(But in my defense, they were pretty hot sixteen year-olds. They just didn't make them like that back in my day.)

***************************

Seattle was the best part of my trip. I enjoyed the city, I enjoyed the company, and I enjoyed looking at the women. I woke up at 7am on Tuesday morning for my 8am flight, hungover and exhausted, and I made an impetuous decision. And it was all downhill from there.

(Tomorrow, tune in for "diary of the world's worst vacation, volume two: seattle to la".)

deadline = deadbeat

2006-01-31T15:40:00.000-05:00

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.]

a falsity, a stupid award, an awkward wedding moment, a trip, a shout-out, the Aussies, a vote, music

2006-01-26T17:08:00.000-05:00

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.)

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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.

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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.

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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!”).

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

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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.)

three weekend vignettes (not really)

2006-01-24T17:02:00.000-05:00

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!”
[CONFIDENTIAL MATERIAL REDACTED]

[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.]

technical problems

2006-01-23T17:01:00.000-05:00

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.

email exchange, cars, playoffs, dhs, kid from brooklyn, music

2006-01-19T16:53:00.000-05:00

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.

Mulgrew,

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

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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.

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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.

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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?

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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.

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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!”

boston sports, boston irish, boston weather

2006-01-18T16:51:00.000-05:00

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.

emails (death/bloggies/band), 10 things, playoffs, dirty hipster stripper, music, boston/philly

2006-01-11T16:44:00.000-05:00

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.

Love,
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:

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

AFC
(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.]

what the fuck I’m doing

2006-01-10T16:40:00.000-05:00

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!”)

compare/contrast, retirement

2006-01-09T23:58:00.000-05:00

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!

2006-01-09T00:00:00.000-05:00

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.)

nfl playoff predictions

2006-01-06T23:56:00.000-05:00

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.

WILD CARD ROUND

NFC
(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.

AFC
(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.

SEMI-FINAL ROUND

NFC
(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.

AFC
(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.

CONFERENCE FINALS

SEATTLE over Carolina
INDIANAPOLIS over Denver

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.

SUPER BOWL
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]

2005 year in review

2006-01-05T23:47:00.000-05:00

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.

(Seriously.)

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.)

extremely random thoughts on the past two weeks or so

2006-01-04T23:40:00.000-05:00

[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.]

nothing much like...

2006-01-04T23:39:00.000-05:00

...watching four hours of A&E/Discovery/National Geographic, drinking two bottles of wine, then realizing it’s 12:53am, and then galloping like an overweight, tranquilized gazelle through the deserted streets of Chinatown to get to the McDonald’s before it closes at 1 to get a Big Mac and a vanilla shake.

God I love myself.

At least until I start getting the runs and stomach cramps.

cold, cold, cold

2006-01-03T23:38:00.000-05:00

I just got back to my apartment here in NYC about an hour ago. For the past week, I’ve been traveling around and staying with different family and friends on the Northeast, for no real reason other than restlessness. Today I woke up in Philly, got a ride to a train, which took me to another train, with took me here, to my apartment. The whole process took almost four hours, and all the while I was lugging a giant suitcase and the heaviest laptop computer ever created, a monstrosity that could easily be the bastard son of ENIAC (thanks again Site Guy Brendan for designing this “laptop” for me). In addition to the moving around, the heavy bags, and the long train rides, it is currently 37° and raining here in New York City, meaning that during the last leg of my trip I had to walk in the freezing rain, pulling all my crap with me as I navigated through a sea of Chinese people. Sweet.

When I finally got home, I had one thought: I just want to take a fucking shower. A nice, long hot shower in my home bathroom, with a possible but not necessary masturbation session thrown in. Nothing like a good shower on a cold rainy day to ease the tension. And the beating off helps too.

One problem: no hot water in the apartment. Instead, ice cold water pouring out of the showerhead. I didn’t shower this morning prior to my travels and was just nasty. So in I hopped under the cold water and let me tell you something my friends – you have not lived until you have taken a cold shower on a cold day. Good lord. I had to stop washing my hair halfway through because I thought I was starting to have a seizure. It’s been a half hour since I got out of the shower and I’m still shivering, despite the fact that the heat in my bedroom is kicking at full steam and I’m wrapped up in blankets.

The point? I’m back. And I’m (mostly) safe. And I’ll have more tomorrow. The holidays are over, and it’s finally back to normal. Joy.

fun with the homeless, wishes

2005-12-30T23:55:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

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

*************************************

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

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

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

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

See you next week and wish me luck on Sunday.

explanation, chuck, jake is gay, memo emails, totally weird, drunk santa, music

2005-12-29T23:48:00.000-05:00

I’ve been bouncing around the Northeast very much the past few days, trying to make it through this awkward week between Christmas and New Year’s.

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

God I love you all.

****************************************

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

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

Chuck Norris raised his IQ by eating gifted children.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

****************************************

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

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

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

****************************************

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Help me.

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

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

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

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

Let's see Bush spy on your phone calls and emails. That should make good blog reading.

No thanks. Not unless the Bush people want hours of videotaped footage of me masturbating on the bathroom floor and laying in bed eating Tostitos and a lot of phone conversations between Brian and I that go:

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

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

****************************************

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

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

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

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

…

…

[This is me, being speechless.]

…

…

[So Sarah, where are we going?]

****************************************

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

God I hate Christmas.

****************************************

Six Songs

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

lie

2005-12-28T23:46:00.000-05:00

Unexpectedly traveling today, so no post. Will get you tomorrow.

Hugs and kisses,
Jason

mnf

2005-12-27T23:43:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

[Thus concludes out Pity Party.]

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

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

merry christmas

2005-12-23T23:10:00.000-05:00

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

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

Posting will resume on Wednesday, 12/28.

things that I do that everyone else should do, volume one

2005-12-22T23:05:00.000-05:00

The “memo” area on your average check is a comedy goldmine begging to be spelunked, yet people fail to recognize this. More often than not, people use this space to describe what the check is being written for: “May 2004 rent”, “John’s birthday”, “Account Number 193883984297”, etc.

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

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

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

Here are some examples to get you started:

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

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

a long boring post about my terrible fucking hangover

2005-12-21T12:38:00.000-05:00

I had the worst hangover of my life on Saturday.

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

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

None of those hangovers compared to Saturday.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

(And you thought I was kidding about the title)

strike (love)

2005-12-20T13:11:00.000-05:00

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

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

Wrong.

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

Wrong.

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

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

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

[twelve minutes later]

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

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

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

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

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

[Jason and Homeless Woman begrudgingly shake hands.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*******

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

cartoon, colagero, destiny, ipod, pandora, music, philly

2005-12-16T17:33:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I mean, Justin *hearts* NYC.

The end.

********************************

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

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

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

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

********************************

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

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

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

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

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

And Merry Fucking Christmas.

********************************

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

********************************

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

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

Two complaints:

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

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

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

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

********************************

Six Songs

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

********************************

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

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

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

[Have a good weekend.]

tonight

2005-12-15T17:31:00.000-05:00

The web page says it all. Be there.

RSVP at info@GloriusMustache.com.

return, recap

2005-12-14T16:35:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[God I miss Los Angeles.]

back and press

2005-12-13T17:30:00.000-05:00

God I missed you sons of bitches.

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

Now let’s never be apart again.

hiatus until 12/14

2005-12-07T17:29:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

hack, ray, tech problems, eagles, quoteable, music

2005-12-06T17:26:00.000-05:00

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

Four things about this:

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

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

But I look around the room and I’m happy with what we’ve become: good men, upstanding women, and whatever the hell Wick is. And I feel nothing but respect for you all, nothing but respect. Not pride. Not happiness. Not friendship. Just respect.

The "I look around the room and feel nothing but respect; not pride, etc" joke is not mine. Steve Martin said it in a speech about Lorne Michaels in some honorary ceremony. And I stole it. So there.

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

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

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

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

...

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

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

****************************************

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

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

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

God I love him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...

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

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

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

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

the teacher-student relationship

2005-12-05T17:24:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

laundry incident, mustache march, jessie spano, CL, women's studies, music

2005-12-02T11:26:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I NEED A BLACK KID

Here’s the deal.

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

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

Here’s my idea.

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

Here’s what I need.

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

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

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

Here’s how I close this pitch.

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

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

Thanks for reading and happy holidays.

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

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

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

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Six Songs

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

mustache march tonight

2005-11-30T11:24:00.000-05:00

Don’t forget: tonight is the Mustache March. We’re meeting at the south end of Union Square (across from the Whole Foods) at 7:45/8 and then marching down Broadway to The Bitter End (147 Bleecker) were Della Valle will perform at 10pm.

I hope many of you can make it. It’s a good cause and it should be an interesting scene, especially if you are high, which I certainly will be. Provided that we still have some stuff left. Let me go check on that now.

…

Ok, we still have some left, but not much. Still, it will have to do.

But anyway, come on down if you can.

[For more information, see Monday’s post or the Official Glorius Mustache Challenge website.]

six things I learned about myself, my family, and life over Thanksgiving break

2005-11-29T11:19:00.000-05:00

1) Spontaneity is great.
Last Tuesday, I got a call from my buddy David while I was at work: "Dude, tomorrow night, I have a great idea. We're getting a bus."

For those of you not in the know, the Wednesday night before Thanksgiving is widely considered the biggest drinking night of the year. This makes sense; everyone has off the next day and their only obligation (unless they're cooking) is to lie around and overeat, something that is entirely not a problem for me.

I didn't think that I had any big plans for Wednesday night. I assumed me and my buddies from home would hit up the neighborhood bars, I'd get drunk and try to seem important, then I'd go home, take my dad's truck, and go looking at the hookers (both the higher-end ones around 12th & Race and the nasty junkies at 7th & Ritner). Then I'd go to the diner, get a bowl on French Onion Soup and a sandwich, drive back to my dad's and do an awful job parking the car, so that when he wakes up the next day he asks, "Did you take the truck last night?", and I say, "No", and he says, "Well, it's not parked where I left it. It's parked in front of a fire plug with half of it hanging off the curb and a $40 ticket on the windshield." Then I'll mumble something about "joyriding teens" and duck into the bathroom.

But my buddy David had a better idea. For legal and personal security reasons, I can't get into too much detail, but suffice it to say that David is a "successful gambler." This means that he has more disposable income than me and most of my friends. So when he called me on Tuesday afternoon to tell me that he was getting a bus for the following night, I was only marginally surprised, though still very pumped.

But I don't want to give the impression that this was a glamorous party bus, with leather seats and a disco ball and a high-quality sound system. The bus was more like a glorified school bus, complete with tattered leather seats and a smell vaguely reminiscent of high school boys' urine. Translation: the perfect environment to get drunk in. Also, I was turned on. But let’s not go there.

Not only that, but we set the bus up so that our buddy Doc could DJ while we drove around. This required quite a bit of technical know-how, but fortunately we were allpretty high so this wasn't a problem. We had our two turntables and a microphone set up in the back of the bus, and before long the cooler was stacked and we were rolling around the streets of Philly.

(Even better is that there were only six of us on this bus. Six guys in a giant bus getting bombed. Awesome. And I mean that in the most heterosexual way possible.)

And it was everything we hoped it would be and more. We hit the road at 8pm. By 10pm, two girls who we had randomly picked up were making out in the bus while I took pictures and we all cheered and high-fived. Awesome.

Seriously, awesome.

But sadly, most of the night is a blur (actually, that's a good sign). We hopped from bar to bar, all the while pounding beers, rocking out, and picking up strangers along the way. I don't remember much after midnight, although I do remember keeping up a now-familiar tradition: puking all over my dad's bathroom every time I return home to Philly. Sweet.

So if it wasn't for David's last-minute idea, my Wednesday night wouldn't have been nearly as much fun. And yes, I know it doesn't sound like a lot of fun, but that's only because I can't really remember anything. Besides, any night you can watch two strange girls make out for a solid twenty minutes while you take pictures, well, I don't know what more you can ask for.

2) I am never having a daughter. Seriously.
This is sort of moot, since I know that God is going to punish me for a lifetime of scumbaggery with four gorgeous daughters. My only hope is that I'm dead before they start menstruating, but let's not get into that.

[I can't believe I just wrote something about my daughters menstruating. I think I might throw up.]

One of the girls from Wednesday night was a perfect example as to why I do NOT want to have a daughter. It wasn't the making out with another girl that bothered me; that was ok. Nor were her ill-fated attempts at doing strip teases for us on the bus troublesome, which were interrupted by bumps and sudden stops and starts from our party mobile. Hey, at least she tried.

To me, this was the epitome of class: we met her and her friend at the first bar we were at, which was a nice, wood-paneled bar that is also a restaurant. Our group was standing off to the side, but some of us were on bar stools, bellied up at the bar. I was not among those on the stools, standing instead a few feet away watching my friends play darts and wondering why anyone would want to play such a dumb game. But this girl was one of our group that was sitting on the bar stools. I watched her, checking her out (she had one of those lower back tattoos that have become the female equivalent of barbed-wire around bicep), but then I watched her get off the bar stool and crouch under the stool to go into her bag. She then pulled out a bag of pills, reached up to the bar for her beer (still crouching), popped a pill or two and washed it down with her Miller Lite. This was at 8:15pm in a nice bar on a Wednesday night. Class.

Now I'm not one to judge others for drug use. I love pills as much as the next guy. But to take some pills by crouching under a bar? I mean, what the hell is that? I felt like going over and saying, "That's what bathrooms are for, sister." But instead I just gave her a $1 when fifteen minutes later she was on the bus grinding her heinie on my crotch, asking "Is that your dick or your thumb?" The first step is to help them help themselves. After that, it's all up to God.

3) My family is made up of degenerate gamblers and entrepreneurs.
Somewhere along the line - I'm not sure when - it became common practice on holidays for my extended family to play poker. This is a fairly recent development, beginning maybe sometime in the past three or four years. And it started innocently enough: after Thanksgiving or Christmas dinner, my family would gather along a long table and have a simple little game. I'd sit back and watch for a few hands and then buy in. Then over the next few hours I would absolutely destroy them in poker, permanently changing their lives for the worse. It would be kinda sad, as I bullied them, took their money, and laughed, laughed, laughed. That's what family is for, after all.

But each year, the games kept getting bigger and my aunts, uncles, and cousins kept getting better. I still won my fair share, but it wasn't like it was before, where all I had to do was show up, pretend like I really, really knew what I was doing, and take their money. The games would last longer - well into the morning - and it would be seriously tense at times.

This past Thanksgiving, the games reached a new level. Not only did I wind up losing $10 (only a $20 buy in), but a full-service economy developed around the game. My cousin Brigid took it upon herself to act as waitress for the players. She wrote up a detailed menu, wherein sandwiches cost $2, sides (mashed potatoes, stuffing, etc) were $1, and beers and other drinks were 50¢. She even wrote up specials: a turkey sandwich with one side and a beer was $3, whereas a turkey platter (that's turkey plus three sides) and a beer was $4.50.

And it worked. She got so busy getting food and beers for my family and me that she hired my younger cousin Conor to help her, at a share of 25% of the profits. I think she walked away with something like $40, all for getting her drunk and hungry family food.

And I am damn proud of her. It was a tremendous idea and it showed a legitimate capitalistic spark. And even though I lost, I'm proud of my other family members for committing themselves to a vice and really getting serious about poker. They say poker can be a gateway vice, so maybe next year at Thanksgiving my cousin Kyle and I will be holding up the Amoco on Cottman Ave. Let's keep our fingers crossed.

4) My mom hates my wardrobe.
I'm not a big clothes guy, and I'm fine with that. I don't trust and most likely cannot befriend any guy who's really into clothes, but that's because of my own insecurities and low self-esteem. It's because of my poor fashion sense and relative low maintenance that I'm personally not into clothes. Nice clothes cost a lot of money and require a lot of effort, two things I'm not very interested in. I keeps it real, son.

Simply put, my mom hates my clothes. I don't necessarily blame her for this, since I do dress like a homeless person. My standard winter outfit is based around a fleece I've had for two years but have never washed and a winter coats that's on year five and has been left at and trampled on at bars all over NYC, Philly, and Boston. Add the fact that I have a moustache and haven't had a haircut in well over a month, and, well, I think she's getting concerned that she's never going to see any grandchildren.

To this end, I know that my mom is going to get me some clothes for Christmas, and I'm pretty sure they're going to come from Old Navy. And then I'll have to pretend that I like this sweater and whatever the hell this is while the rest of my family snickers.

So Mom, if you're reading this, just stick to the cash. I'm having a really rough gambling season and would really prefer the $40 to any sweater. Thank you.

5) Heaven is just one long pub crawl.
On Friday, I joined some highly-esteemed drinkers for the 2nd Annual Blackout Friday pub crawl through Center City Philadelphia. Much like Wednesday's night drinking tour, it was a major success. Also much like Wednesday's tour, I don't remember much, thanks two joints provided by some friends who have chosen to remain nameless on this space for professional reasons (cowards).

This one started at 2pm on Friday afternoon, but fortunately, because of Wednesday night's hangover, I didn't drink on Thanksgiving. So when I woke up Friday morning, I was ready to go.

And really, though I don’t mean to cop out here, but I don’t remember much. When you’re start drinking in the early afternoon and hit up eight bars, everything has a tendency to blend together. I had a blast, but I couldn’t tell you much about what actually happened. And again, this is not a bad thing.

But I got sobered up when we left the drinking tour to head to a strip club where I learned…

6) It's one thing to go to a strip club after you've been drinking for ten hours. It's another thing to go to a strip club after you've been drinking for ten hours and you have a moustache.
I’ve been rocking the moustache for almost a month now and though I realize I look like a moron, I don’t really mind it. Even more, I’ve found that the more it’s grown in and the nastier people think it is, the more proud I grow of it. After all, it’s only upper lip hair. Not a big deal.

But this Friday night at the strip club was the first time I was acutely aware of how strange I look with a moustache – AND I had been drinking for about ten hours before we even entered the building. I prefer to go to strip clubs in Philly, because a) it’s at least 1/3 less expensive than in NYC; and b) girls are not as classy and therefore more prone to parking lot rendezvous for a small price (i.e. fifteen .50 milligram tabs of Xanax, some fancy fake jewelry, the promise of not punching her in the face, etc). So whenever I’m home in Philly and out drunk and I feel like I’ve accomplished everything I can accomplish at the bar, I raise the strip club battle cry. Fortunately (or unfortunately), it is not often resisted.

So my two friends and I sauntered on down to a lovely lil’ club on Delaware Ave in Philly where I reached a new low: trying to convince the stripper that had just given me three consecutive lap dances that I was (seriously) in People as one of the "Hottest 50 Bachelors."

Now remember, I’m not hot to begin with. I’m not fishing for compliments here, but let’s just say that there’s no way I should have even been in the issue to begin with. Also, at this point in the night, I was very drunk. Also, I have a fucking moustache. And here I am:

Me: [as stripper puts clothes back on] "You know, I was in People magazine as one of the 50 Hottest Bachelors."
Stripper: [completely uninterested] "Really? That’s great."
Me: [handing her $10 tip] "No, I’m sure guys say crazy stuff like that all the time to you, but I really was."
Stripper: [taking $10 tip, looking right past me] "No, I believe you."
Me: "No, I know you’re just saying that, but seriously, I was. I can show you a copy – I have a bunch at home right next to my desk. I got a full page too, one of only eight of the 50 to get one."
Stripper: [getting uncomfortable] "Well, it was nice to meet you, honey."

Unsatisfied, I rejoined my friends and relayed the story to them. Of course, they took great delight in my awkwardness and broke my stones something fierce, so that I had the same conversation with the next stripper who gave me a lap dance, with the same results.

After that second series of lappers, I retreated to my friends to wolf down the Doritos on the strip club bar. I could imagine the two strippers who had just given me lap dances looking at me from across the room:

Stripper #1: "Hey, see that fat guy over there? The one with the moustache putting back all the Cool Ranch Doritos? Would you believe he told me he was in People?"
Stripper #2: "I know! He told me that too! What a pathetic, obese, lonely man!"
Stripper #1: "I’ve heard some doozies in my day, but that’s one for the ages!"
Stripper #2: "Ooh ooh – look at him! He just bit off the tip of his finger and he’s bleeding all over the place! I feel so bad for him. I don’t know if I should go over and give him his money back or buy him a decent meal, because he looks hungry."
Stripper #1: "If you do anything for him, you should get him some cologne for his undercarriage. Christ, I could smell his balls through his jeans! It was kinda like a cross between lunchmeat and wet dog."
Stripper #2: "Really? I thought it was more like old man and garbage fire."
Stripper #1: "Well, to each her own, I guess. Hey, do you wanna do some coke and then dyke it out?"
Stripper #2: "You know it!"

********************************

And that was my holiday weekend. I returned to NYC on Saturday to beat the traffic and have been wasting away in my room ever since. My only consolation is the Christmas is only a few weeks away, so I’ll be back in Philly soon enough, being a total fucking disgrace. I can’t wait. And I’m sure my family and friends can’t either.

No wait, they definitely can wait. Oh well. Whatever.

a cordial moustache-related invitation

2005-11-28T11:15:00.000-05:00

As I have mentioned before, I am growing a moustache for art. The incomparable Jay Della Valle has asked me to take part in an interesting social experiment, namely growing a ‘stache and taking pictures of it for his documentary. Since I don’t have much else to do and am always willing to embarrass myself and/or make myself less attractive to women, I agreed.

The results have been spectacular. I had a moustache once before, for a few days in the beginning of 2005. But when I had that ‘stache, I was rocking the beard. So I shaved off my beard, leaving the ‘stache, and voila – I looked like a molester (I later used my moustache picture in the Metro and Gelf Magazine articles).

But this time, the moustache had to be grown sans any other facial hair for 28 days. I am currently on Day 26 and it has been an odyssey to say the least. Below is a brief chart that delineates the progress of my moustache:

* Days 1 though 3: Nothing. Smooth as a baby’s behind.
* Days 4 though 7: Light dirt appears on upper lip; friends start to notice and are creeped out, but go back to smoking bowls and forget about it.
* Days 8 though 13: Co-workers and acquaintances do double takes upon seeing the shady ‘stache, but are too afraid to ask what the hell I’m doing. I start to feel strangely proud of the ‘stache.
* Days 14 through 17: The “16 Year-Old Puerto Rican” Phase – strangers give double takes, friends say things like “Dude, you still have that moustache? Nasty.” and women refuse to make contact for fear of being assaulted.
* Days 18 through 23: Family members and small children are frightened. Strangers feel uncomfortable in my presence (i.e. in elevators, standing next to me at bars, when I appear from the subway tracks and follow them home, etc).
* Days 24 though 28: Full-fledged ‘stache. I look like a criminal, and I’m totally ok with that.

The film, The Glorius Mustache Challenge, will premiere December 15. But this Wednesday, there is a Mustache March in New York City. And I want you all to come. Here is an excerpt from the email that Jay sent to his moustache compadres:

Here is the MUSTACHE MARCH GAME PLAN: On Wednesday night--we will congregate (that means assemble) at Union Square (across from Whole Foods)- at 7:45/8:00 PM. I will be giving out "Glorius Mustache T-Shirts" and we will have all sorts of "Rally Signs" to make this look good. We will march (proudly and courageously) down Broadway to 147 Bleecker Street, otherwise known to Rock N' Roll history, as the Bitter End. There, at precisely 10pm, the March will end. All those interested in more fun can come inside, where we will celebrate December, drink to the mustache, and sing and dance to the songs of "Della Valle," If that doesn't sound like a good night....

Please encourage all men to NOT shave their upper lips. Bring just your mustaches!! At this point--I don't care if it's real or fake--or if you draw it on with a sharpie. Even dirt staches are welcome. Just help us make the news!!! We will reward your efforts!!! :)

Please forward this email to anyone you think may be interested in coming. We look forward to seeing you soon.

Mustache March
Wednesday November 30-
Time: 7:45/8pm at UNION SQUARE (South End)

To clear a few things up:

1) I support this because I like the idea of dozens (maybe even hundreds) of people with moustaches coming together. Also, this has already gotten considerable media attention. So my motivation is actually selfish as I’m going to try to get on the news. More specifically, I’m going to try to get one of my testicles on the news. I’m pretty confident that I can do this.

2) Women are more than welcome to attend. Any sort of support for the ‘stache is appreciated by both Jay and I, even though he spells it “mustache” and I prefer “moustache”. If you can throw on a fake moustache or already have one, bring it and wear it with pride.

3) I’ll be there. I don’t usually like to tell y’all where I’m going to be when I go out, because I am very disappointing in real life and don’t want to hurt you. But if you want to have a few minutes of awkward and regrettable conversation, then come on down. I promise you will leave completely unsatisfied. And if you can’t find me, I’m the guy crying in the bathroom.

So this Wednesday, be at the south end of Union Square. Bring your moustache and/or moustache pride and walk with us down to the Bitter End. And yes, I’m being paid per head as to how many people I can bring. And no, you can’t have a cut.

(Holiday weekend recap coming tomorrow)

slack, Cash, diamonds, help, cards, music, Ray, thanksgiving

2005-11-22T16:57:00.000-05:00

It's really funny how hard it is to write these things after I take only a few days off. Good lord. You'd think that it's like riding a bike or swimming or something, but it's not. And you'd think that I'm all doing is stringing together a bunch of run-on sentences with the same fat/drinking/get no ass jokes like I've always done, and, well, that part is true. But still, I take a few days off and it takes me three times as long to write a stupid post. I know, I know - you don't care.

I've been slacking lately and I know this. I have many deadlines approaching with my other projects: the Variety Project (which can not be discussed further) and The Project That Can Not Be Named (which can not be discussed further at this time). However, you'll be happy to know that I'm essentially squandering the opportunity of a lifetime because I'm unable to deal with pressure and completely addicted to the Tetris that I've downloaded to my cell phone. Oh well. So much for everything I've ever wanted and realizing my only lifelong dream.

In the future when I'm slacking, I'll tell you and perhaps take a few days off, rather than leave you hanging. I know that it is frustrating to keep refreshing this page for updates and to not find any. I know this because many of you have no problem telling me this. There's nothing quite like spending all day trying to write something funny (for the other projects and for the blog) but being unable to because of tremendous writer's block and then checking your inbox to find an anonymous email saying:

Dude,

Your posts this week SUCKED!!!! Do something!!!! I am bored over here!!! BE FUNNY!!!!

God you suck anymore! What happened??? And enough with the sports! Just stick to the funny!!!

I don't like to harp on this (though I seemingly always do), but remember, this is a free service. And really, I'm trying very hard for y'all, but I gots a lot of other stuff going on right now. I apologize for slacking, but in the future, please keep it to yourself. It comes in ebbs and flows, so if you give me some time, I promise it will be good again.

(But not today. Today's post stinks. Just warning you.)

**************************************************

I saw "Walk the Line" yesterday. You should too.

Now hear me out: I am no great Johnny Cash fan. I could probably pretend to be, as I am adept at lying (remember, this whole thing is fake anyway; my wife just gave birth to our 3rd child, a girl named Sarah Michelle, after the Vampire Slayer), but I don't have the energy.

In sooth, I only own three Johnny Cash albums: Folsom, San Quentin, and America, and I only like the prison albums. I bought these a few years back with a gift certificate at Amazon.com (they came as a three-pack). I have since tried to get into some of this other stuff, since everyone knows its cool to like Johnny Cash, but aside from a random track here and there ("I Hardly Ever Sing Beer Drinking Songs", "You're The Nearest Thing To Heaven", etc), I haven’t been able to.

But I certainly do like the prison albums. And to prove that I liked them way before both Johnny Cash died and this movie came out, a quick story: they used to be my make-out music. I was hooking up with this girl rather steadily and when it came time to do the dance of love, I would put on Folsom or San Quentin. And for awhile, she didn't say anything. Eventually it dawned on her that we were listening to a concert in a prison during our intimate moments and she made me put on David Gray or something instead. I think it's because she didn't feel sexy with "Dirty Old Egg-Sucking Dog" playing in the background. Not surprisingly, our relationship didn't last long. And now I'm kinda famous. And I'm sure she couldn't care less. Edge: draw.

Back to the movie...I would recommend it. My roommate Brian and I joked when we first saw previews for it that you really have it "bring it" when you play a role like Johnny Cash, and Joaquin Phoenix certainly brought it. Reese Witherspoon more than held her own with Phoenix as June Carter, and looked downright sexy in a wholesome-but-I-wonder-what-happens-after-enough-booze-when-the-lights-go-off kinda way.

But while it was an entertaining way to spend an afternoon, it was exactly what I expected. Not that this is a bad thing, but it's just kinda eh. I thought it was going to be a good movie, and it was. I thought it was going to portray Johnny's difficult life, and it did. I thought it was going to focus on the love story between Johnny and June, and it did. So while highly enjoyable and watchable, I wasn't blown away.

Final rating: 7.5 out of 10

**************************************************

Friday night I was checking out this chick across the bar - putting out the vibe, telling her "I'm available and I'm down for anything (including assplay)" with my eyes - for a solid hour before I noticed that she was wearing an engagement ring.

That a guy checking out a girl now has to look for an engagement ring is a sad fact of mid-twenties life. I just don't understand how people my age are getting married. Wait a minute - maybe it's because they're happy and in love. But since the only things that make me feel happy or in love are butter-based or made from barley, I guess I won't be able to understand marriage for a long, long time.

But when I saw her ring, I actually felt bad for her. Not because she's getting married and thus missing out on the opportunity to spend a night with me in my bedroom watching me eat goat cheese and read extremely violent pornographic magazines, but because the diamond on the ring was tiny. Like, very small. Barely noticeable even. Poor chick (literally).

And so I had a crisis of conscience: is this what I have become? Someone so obsessed with material things that I pass judgment on those around me and their possessions? Now that I am a professional writer and supposedly fabulously wealthy, is this what my life is now? Looking down on the poor and less fortunate, the very class that I was born into and raised in (hear those violins)?

I have always thought that there are few things in life that you should really splurge on, and an engagement ring is number one on that list. This is precisely because people look at rings as if the size of the diamond is directly proportional to the couple's love and happiness. I know that when the time comes, I'm going to have take a second mortgage and sell most of my possessions on eBay because I'm set on buying a ridiculous ring for my lover. I'll do this not only because any girl/guy who puts up with me deserves it but also because I don't want her/him to develop a complex about the ring. But though I'm pro "breaking the bank" when it comes to engagement rings, never before have I looked at one with such disdain and thought, "Well, sucks for your sister. Maybe I can loan your man a couple of bucks so he can buy the rest of that diamond for you."

But as I thought more about it, I wasn't having this reaction because of my materialism. I didn't really care about her tiny diamond or how much her ring cost or what her man does for a living. I cared that she was engaged and thus unattainable to/for/by me. Frustrated by this, I needed a) an excuse as to why a girl who I'm obviously interested in and sending vibes to isn't sending them back; and b) to lash out. I was just pissed off because I wasn't going to get her! See?

So I'm not materialistic. I'm just emotionally shallow, bitter, and jealous. Whew! Thank god. That was a close one.

[But seriously ladies, I'll buy you a big engagement ring. This mini-post was all a front just to get that message across. Don't be like that girl with the tiny ring. I can go to the bank and take out a loan and in no time you'll have your big ring, and I'll spend the rest of my life working two jobs until my untimely death at the age of 31, when while delivering a Steak Fanatic pizza I'm gunned down for eating a slice one a customer's stoop. It'll be just like the life you dreamed about when you were a little girl.]

**************************************************

Speaking of Friday night, I want to get this down on paper because my friends seem to have so much trouble with it.

On the surface, I don't have much to offer. I'm not especially handsome, not in good shape, I don't dress well, and I don't have a lot of money. I also have a terrible speaking voice, spit when I talk, have poor posture and bad hair, and currently have a moustache. So when I'm out at the bars, needless to say, it's an uphill battle.

But I do have some things going for me, mostly involving this blog. I was one of People's "50 Hottest Bachelors" for 2005, which may sound like a joke, but is not. I am an actual writer now, in that a third party is paying me to, well, write something. A few thousand people come to see what I have to say every day (because it is because they have run out of ways to kill time at work is not important). I am surprisingly strong. I have long, tentacle-like fingers that are good for grabbing and holding things. And I can drink a lot of fucking beer. I'm not stroking my ego here, but rather laying all my cards out on the table to give both sides of the story.

So when I go out, I "ask" my friends to help me get across some of my good points (the first half of that previous paragraph only). Yeah, I know it's lame, but let's face it: I have to use what I can here since I can't rely on my abs or my fancy watch to attract the women. Women like artsy guys, so the writer thing could work. The People thing, though they won't believe it, will give me an opportunity to make a joke out of it. And the blog angle, well, blogs are hot right now. I think. The problem is that I can't just come out and say these things. My friends need to do that.

And this would not take much for my friends to do. A simple, "This is my friend Jason" is fine. Then later, while not in front of me, maybe my friend could say to his friend (the girl or girls), "You know, Jason's actually a writer. He's got this blog that got him [Variety project] and [The Project That Can Not Be Named] and he was actually in People as one of the hottest 50 bachelors. He's actually like a little bit famous." And that's it. That's all I ask. If they're not interested, that's fine. But if it facilitates a conversation between a woman and I, then I am happy. Even if that conversation ends with me pulling out clumps of my own hair and screaming, "This is how much I love you! This is how much I fucking love you! Love me back! YOU HAVE NO HEART!" that's ok, because that part's on me. And her, because she won't love me back.

I'm not sure if my friends are "simpletons" or "assholes" or most likely a mixture of both, but they can NOT pull this off. It usually winds up that when meeting or being introduced to a group of girls, one of my friends will say something like, "This is Jason. He thinks he's famous because he has an internet diary" or "This is my friend Jason. He asked me before we came out to tell you that he's a writer because he thinks that'll impress you" while I force a grin and fake a pleasant greeting like when Lloyd Christmas finally meets Mary Swanson's fiancée in "Dumb & Dumber." That leaves me frustrated (sexually and generally) so the night usually deteriorates into me standing by the bathroom of the bar so that I can say "I'm a writer" in an obnoxiously loud voice when women walk by. Because I think this will attract them. Because I am a moron.

So anyway, thanks again to my friends for really helping me out on this. I appreciate it. I have no hope that they'll actually start helping me now that I've written this, but rather I just wanted to excoriate them in public.

Assholes.

**************************************************

My roommate Brian and I are thinking about sending out Christmas cards. No, we are not a couple. But the Christmas card is an easy medium for humor. We were thinking about doing this last year but were too lazy too. But I recently came up with an excellent idea for a card and, since I'm not working/writing, I'm ready, willing, and able to dedicate a lot of time and effort to this idea.

One thing I'm not prepared to offer? Money. I haven't gotten a real work check since the end of September. And I still haven't been paid for either of my projects. So I've been living off credit cards and pocket change (I really wish I was joking here). Right now, I'm the poorest I've been since my junior year abroad in London, when I ran out of money in April (I was there through the end of May), and so had to stop eating and lost 40 pounds.

So my question: would you pay a small sum - a few dollars - to get a humorous holiday card from me and Brian? Please, don't email me with your answer though. I'm thinking about getting Site Guy Brendan (who I haven't bothered in quite some time) to put some sort of multiple choice quiz on here or something that would record answers, but I think it could be a good idea. And I really want to get the cards, but they're way more expensive than I thought. So I guess right now you should just think about it and expect something soon.

And this is some delusional moment of self-aggrandizing, well, then, I'm ok with that.

**************************************************

Six Songs

"I Only Want You" Eagles of Death Metal
A catchy little ditty by a band not nearly as scary as their name implies. I don't really know what else to say about it, except I often sing this song at random times throughout the day and it's a great song to drink beers to.

"Kiss Me" Sixpence None The Richer
Is it weird that I like this song? That sometimes when I'm walking around town and it comes on my iPod I just want to spread my arms wide and spin around in the middle of Soho, as I think about Elisha Cuthbert and I holding hands, giggling, and kissing? And then we go back to her place where I tie her up, keep her locked up in a room for eight days, and feed her nothing but peaches and Snapple ice tea as I have my way with her? Is that sentence enough to warrant a restraining order?

Maybe I should stop reading all those extremely violent pornographic magazines.

"Ain’t Nobody Home" B.B. King
Good old blues. Actually, it's blues with a bit of a pop sensibility. And yes, I'm pretending to be a music critic. And no, I don't get that joke either. I'm not even sure that it's a joke, so let's just move on...

"In Your Room" The Bangles
Sexy, sexy, sexy. This song gets me all hot and bothered and I'm not ashamed to admit it.

"By The Light Of The Cash Machine" Glenn Tilbrook
A sickeningly sweet love song. So of course I love it and listen to it constantly. I would say more, but we're over 3000 words for this post and I'm running out of gas fast.

"Dinner Bells" Wolf Parade
At the end of the night on Friday night (Friday night getting a lot of press today), my friends Jeremy and Lauren and I cut out of the bar a little early to beat the rush for pizza and go to my place to get high. Some pot, named "The Crippler", has recently been introduced into my life and I can think of no better name for this marijuana. I can't express this enough. It's like getting a temporary labotomy. And it's awesome.

So Jeremy, Lauren and I ate and got very, very high. When they got up to leave after awhile, I was surprised, since at that point I couldn't feel my body and certainly couldn't get my legs to work properly.

After they left this song came on my iPod, which we were listening to through speakers during our session. I was very, very messed up. I put this song on repeat and listened to it an indetermine number of times as I sat there, dying. I could feel myself slowly expiring and am convinced that sitting on that couch, high as fuck, I got my heartrate down to about 15 beats per minute, listening to this song over and over again. "There will be no dinner bells/Dinner bells to ring" - I have no idea what the fuck this means, but I was convinced that it would be the last thing I ever heard. And I was totally fine with this.

Fortunately, I lived. I passed out on the couch, woke up when it was daylight, went to bed, and slept some more. But this song and I really had a moment there, and I will treasure that forever. Or until I get high and listen to the next song that comes on my iPod.

**************************************************

Go vote for Ray. I like Ryan Adams, but there's no way Ray should lose to the surf rock/college girl rock of Jack Johnson. Vote several times if you want. Because he's totally fucking awesome, and we all know it.

[When I first had the idea to include this on the post, Ray was down to Jack Johnson 39% to 38%. But by the time this post was published, Ray took the lead 46% to 34%. So you can see how long it took me to write this post.]

**************************************************

This will be the last post until after the Thanksgiving holiday. I’m off to Philly tonight where I will be through the weekend. Wednesday night I'll be drinking my face off in the local bars, Thursday I'll be stuffing my face and answering my family's questions about my moustache, and Friday I have a glorious pub crawl starting at 2pm with some highly-regarded drinkers. Should be a fun time.

So have a Happy (and safe) Thanksgiving and see you next week.

if your ho only know...

2005-11-17T23:23:00.000-05:00

First, read this article.

Next, listen to this song (NOT SAFE FOR WORK, unless you have your own office or headphones).

Last, get up out of your chair and dance around your mutha fuckin’ office to the greatest rap song since “The Humpty Dance.”

My second favorite line:

I done fucked her from the back
And I done fucked her from the front
I even fucked her outside on my T-Bird trunk

But at about six minutes into the song, someone called G-Reg (at least I think that’s his name) takes it to another level:

What’s your name?
G-Reg
What you do?
Get head
How you do it?
Drop my draws and let her see my third leg
Chillin’ on the 7th floor I gotta let these chicas know
G-Reg is in the house and I’m fitting to make these ho’s choke
On my balls, on my dick, then I bust a nut quick
On her face, on her chest, stick my dick between her breasts
C’mon fellas let’s get weird
Stick your dick up in her ear
While I’m laughing at these guys
I’ll second nut all in her eyes

I'm speechless. Just without speech.

It’s official: the Miami Hurricanes is now my favorite college football team.

(Sent to me by Kyle in Philly)

god warrior

2005-11-16T23:22:00.000-05:00

I love you, but please stop sending me clips of the "God Warrior" from "Trading Spouses."

If you haven't seen it yet, you can view it here.

various sales pitches and links

2005-11-16T23:16:00.000-05:00

Like many fat guys, I have been frustrated in the past with hipster-type t-shirts. Urban outfitters started with fad with those state t-shirts (“Idaho – No, You Da Ho!” and “New Jersey: Only The Strong Survive”). Though I thought that some were funny, I was disappointed when I bought them, since a XL at Urban Outfitters is like a medium Hanes t-shirt, made for someone who’s 6’0” and 170 pounds.

But then, a buddy sent along a link to this site. Not only does the model on the home page have the most gigantic and wonderful mambas I’ve ever seen, but the shirt are actually funny. When I saw the “Sex Panther” one (as in the “Sex Panther” cologne from “Anchorman”), I knew it had to be mine. So I took a risk and ordered an XXL.

And – goodness gracious – it fits. Typically, I fall somewhere between XXL and XL, but I usually get XL because that second “X” can really do damage to the self-esteem. But with these types of shirts you have to get a little bigger, because they run small. I am ok with that in this case. Especially because now I have a “Sex Panther” t-shirt that many of my friends have complimented me (because we all know that I need lots of encouragement).

I also like the “Magnum”, “Ramirez”, and “Freshmen” shirts. So go buy some stuff and tell ‘em Jason sent you and maybe they’ll send me the whole collection.

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New Year’s Eve parties always suck. There’s too much pressure involved as people scramble around trying to pick a lame bar at which to ring in the New Year. It’s usually a lot of stress, a lot of hype, and very little fun.

Well, some friends of mine have sorted out this dilemma and really up’ed the ante for New Year’s Eve, renting a 210 foot yacht with four levels, three dance floors, and ten bars for a New Year’s Eve booze cruise (and a staff of 60).

I’m putting this link up for you guys because:

1) NYC New Year’s Eve usually sucks. I know these guys and they are not cheesedicks and do NOT fuck around when it comes to partying.

2) Many of you have emailed both this year and in the past about what to do in NYC for New Year’s Eve (both out-of-towners and NYCers alikes).

3) My friend Terry has his number on here. Feel free to call him and ask him about me and my genitals.

I don’t know how many tickets are left, but I know it sold out very quickly last year. So if you’re looking for something to do in NYC on New Year’s Eve, in my professional (boozehound) opinion, you’re not going to get any better than $150 for 4.5 free hours of booze and appetizers on a giant yacht cruising around Manhattan.

(And to answer your question, no, I will not be there. I spend every New Year’s Eve in Philly because of the Mummer’s Parade on New Year’s Day. But if I were here, this is what I’d do.)

(And really, call Terry. I’m sure he’d love to hear from you with any questions about the booze cruise or otherwise.)

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Two moustache-related items (one for charity, one for art).

The first is “Moustaches for Kids.” Basically, you get a sponsor, you grow a moustache, and all proceeds go to charities for kids. Every week they get together at a bar to check on progress, get drunk, and talk about what a good idea this is (and I mean that in a sincere way – it’s a very good idea). If you’re in NYC and interested, Shaving Day is tomorrow (Thursday). Check the website for details.

I would be all about this, but I’m already growing a moustache for the sake of art. A friend is making a documentary about guys under 30 growing moustaches called “The Glorius Mustache Challenge.” If you dig around the website, you’ll see what it’s about: trying to make the moustache cool once again for people our age (or my age, depending how old you are). Currently, I am on Day 15 (of 28) of my moustache and I’d say the length right now could be best described as “Black High School Kid Who Hasn’t Shaved in Five Days.” Needless to say, I look ridiculous. As it continues to grow, I will keep you abreast of its progress. Which will hopefully be quick. Because I really look very silly. But, as I said before, we all suffer for our art, don’t we?

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I promise this is all the pimping I’ll do for a while (for this week at least). Although if the right product comes along, I’m willing to align myself with it. Pretty soon you’re going to see me on television at 3:30am doing an information for “The BEST Pet Euthanizer on the Market: Doggie Die 3000.” But hey, those things pay like $60 an hour and have free catering. A man’s gotta eat, you know?

eagles make me sad

2005-11-15T18:07:00.000-05:00

I was all set to write about my weekend in Boston today, but I think I need to take some time to talk about the Eagles' devastating loss to the Cowboys last night. I know many of you don't like when I write about sports, but since I'm no longer going to therapy, I need to talk this out someway, and here we are. Besides, this post is for the few dozen or so people in Philly who read this, so if you're not interested, come back tomorrow. I will be in much better mood then (I hope).

First, I'd like to thank my dad for calling me with about four minutes left in the fourth quarter when the Eagles were up 20-7 to say, "Not bad, right?" I don't know what kind of mental lapse would allow a man to call another man to congratulate him on a victory that HADN'T BEEN SEALED, but I can only surmise that since my dad turned 50 this year he is beginning to lose his [expletive deleted] mind. And I hinted as much when he called, asking, "Are you on drugs right now?" But still, even I admit that it seemed over. The Eagles would go to 5-4, one game behind the division leading Giants, who they would play in a huge game next week. Onward and upward.

But boy, it sure wasn't over. After my dad called, the Cowboys scored 14 points in 72 seconds to win the game 21-20, effectively ending the Eagles' season, as they now sit at 4-5 in the (statistically) the second toughest division in football. And now I have pretty much nothing to look forward to (save for Christmas, which stinks ever since my sister started dating that Muslim guy - what a holiday party pooper).

I don't think the Eagles suddenly collapsed entirely because of my dad's preemptory congratulatory call, but it certainly had something to do with it. When I brought this up to a female coworker this morning, she snorted in disgust and said, "Yeah, like your dad calling you affected the outcome of the game." My response? Absolutely (bitch). I, like a lot of guys, am extremely superstitious when it comes to sporting events. Last year during the Eagles' playoff run, I wore the same boxers for every game. Last year during the regular season, the Eagles started 7-0 and I never shaved on a gameday to keep that streak alive. And when on Sunday, November 7 of last year, the Eagles lost to the Steelers to fall to 7-1, I shaved off all my body hair, collected it into a pile, masturbated to a picture of Terrell Owens onto the hair, then lit the hair/semen pile on fire - all in order to cleanse the team of bad energy. They then won six in a row.

But last year seems like a very, very long time ago. Before we focus on the negatives, let's talk about the positives from last night's game. One, the ground game looked pretty good. The 181 yards gained on the ground (5.0 yards per carry) was the best performance of the season - by far. Something positive for this post-T.O. team. Two, the Eagles were able to stifle the Cowboys running game, giving up only 58 yards on 24 carries (2.4 yards per rush). Nice. Three, Donovan McNabb's beard looked pretty well-groomed. So that's always good.

Now, some of the negatives about the game. In no particular order:
The season is over
No one can tackle anymore
The three all-pros in our secondary have been replaced by much slower and less talented players
The team (offensively) displayed no killer instinct, getting lazy with a lead
Terrell Owens is vindicated, as he certainly would have made the catch that Reggie Brown dropped
Opposing offenses are on to the whole "we're going to blitz a lot" thing
The playcalling was atrocious
The clock management was atrocious
The season is over
I hate myself
Something smells like shit in my office, and I'm pretty sure it's me
Boston College Offensive Coordinator Dana Bible says that there are six GAP's per game. "GAP" stands for "Game Altering Play". These six plays essentially determine who wins the game. I think this is an interesting lens through which to view and analyze football games, which leads me to one conclusion: Dana Bible did not think this up himself. He either stole it from someone else or envisioned this in a moment of psychosis. Because he ain't that smart.

So since Dana stole the "Six GAP's" analysis from someone, I've stolen it back (note: I'm saying this in an Irish accent with funny sunglasses on). I suppose I could list the six GAP's from the Eagles-Cowboys game if I really tried, but I don't want to rely too much on memory (because I know if I messed up I'd get some, um, angry emails from Iggles fans) and don't have a copy of the game handy. So instead I'll focus on three.

1) 9:57 4th Quarter: David Akers kicks a 20 yard field goal to give the Eagles a 20-7 lead.

This is not GAP per se because it's not a single play that changed the game. It's the fact that the Eagles could not get a touchdown on three plays from the Dallas 9. If they score there, it's now 24-7, but more importantly, it's a three possession game. Instead, Akers comes in for the chip shot to make it 20-7.

This is something that I have long bemoaned about the Eagles this season and the Eagles from 2000-2003: no killer instinct. Last year, the Eagles beat every NFC opponent by at least ten points (in meaningful games). They displayed a "ram it right down their fucking throats" mentality that had been lacking in years past. And it was awesome. This year, there are too lazy offensively. They're not taking shots downfield, they're not building leads (because they haven't had many), and they're not being inventive offensively. Last night, they were: they ran a lot, and it worked. But when they built that lead, they didn't push harder.

And who's fault is that? The coach. Who else is to blame? The team leader (McNabb). You'd think a team, playing at home on a Monday night against a division rival in a must-win game after the drama that was TO would have shown a little more anger and aggression. Guess not.

2) 3:17 4th Quarter: Eagles bring 8 men to the line to blitz; Drew Bledsoe connects with Terry Glenn for a 20 yard touchdown pass, making the score 20-14.

Simply put Mr. Johnson: WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU BLITZING HERE??? You know that Dallas is in a hurry to score points, so they're going to take that shot for the end zone on first down. You know this. If I knew this, you had to know this. And if you think I'm just using hindsight, you can ask my dad, who heard me scream "Why are they fucking blitzing???" as soon as that ball was snapped. The result? Your secondary is left in man coverage and gets beat for a quick TD.

A lot of sports analysts have missed this, but I think this is the play that changed the game. You might be saying "duh" to this, but I mean that in that this play was a direct result of a poor playcall. You don't blitz a team on first down on the outskirts of the red zone when they're two scores down with 3 and change left. Did you think they were going to run (remember, 2.4 yards per carry, not to mention clock management issues)? Did you not see the three receiver set? I don't get it. Please help me. Because I'm dying.

3) 2:53 4th Quarter: Roy Williams returns a Donovan McNabb interception for a touchdown, making the score 21-20.

I think when TO said he'd rather have Brett Favre under center than Donovan McNabb, he put a jinx on old #5.

You see, Brett Favre, for as good as he is, has an uncanny ability to make at least one mind-boggling bad play/mistake per game (sometimes more). This is an oft-touted theory among NFL fans and analysts, simply because it's universally true. You'll be watching a Packers game, Favre will be moving the ball, and then he'll drop back, look off the safety on the right, and then throw the ball directly to that safety. You will put down the wing you're eating and say, "Are you fucking kidding me? I'm not even a Packers fan, but that totally sucks."

Well, McNabb is starting to show signs of Favre-ism. Look no farther than the interception by Roy Williams, a pass that Bill Parcell's partially rigor mortis-ed brother could have picked off. I have been watching football for many years and I know what a broken route looks like. I know that a lot of receiver/quarterback missed communications lead to interceptions. And in this case, that certainly was a miscommunication. But that interception - good lord. That was like a broken route and missed communication between two twelve year-old retards in the consolation game at the Special Olympics. The nearest receiver was a good seven yards away (please note I say "nearest receiver" because I'm not sure one can use the term "intended receiver" with a pass so errant). The good news is that McNabb did hit someone in the numbers, but the dude just happened to not be an Eagle. Crap. Oh well - I guess he'll just keep cashing those checks from the Campbell's Soup Company!

[As an aside, if I ever become an NFL player (don't laugh, it's possible), I will insist on writing my own lines in commercials. Can we take a moment to reflect on Brian Westbrook's comedy gem in the Chunky Chicken Fajita Soup commercial? In case you missed it, Westbrook's line: "Fajita can't be beat-a!" Now, of course, I am a professional comedy writer, but "Fajita can't be beat-a"? My only hope is that when he showed up on set for that shoot and got his lines he protested at least a little bit. Otherwise, I might have to stop returning his calls. "Fajita can't be beat-a!" Sheesh. Who are the ad wizards that came up with that one?]

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I think I have to stop writing soon because I can feel my blood pressure rising and my heart getting weaker. But suffice to say, this year's team is not very good. The season, barring a miracle, is over. In the NFC, Seattle and Carolina are both 7-2 with seven games to go. Dallas, New York, Chicago, Atlanta, and Tampa Bay are all 6-3. The Eagles are 4-5. I'm not a math person, but those numbers don't look good. Not only that, but the Eagles have essentially already lost all tiebreakers, with a record of 0-3 in the division and 1-4 in the conference (last year, the Eagles were 6-0 in the division and 11-1 in the conference - what a difference a year makes). The Eagles need to go 6-1 the rest of the way - at least - to make the playoffs. And I wouldn't bet on that.

News is that McNabb will most likely not play this weekend at the Giants, so that's all for me. I'm throwing in the towel. I will of course continue to root for the team, scream at the television, and have the first part of my week ruined with each loss, but I will do so realizing that once again, my heart is being broken. I'm searching for some Sports Guy-esque analogy about how the Eagles are a woman or an ex-girlfriend or something, but there is none. The worst part is is that I know that the window has closed. For four years, we had a legitimate shot at a Super Bowl championship. Now, at 4-5, staring down a future with steadily-growing-shakier McNabb, a running back who can't run (but is locked up for five years), a group of receivers whose talent is on par with that of a decent DI team, and a defense that has entirely lost its mojo, well, I just don't know what to do with myself. I don't know how you can be a Philly sports fan and believe in god. But we still have faith. And each loss only means that when we do finally get that championship, it will be even sweeter (I want to tell you about how when I listen to "We Are The Champions" I automatically well up, but I don't want that kind of information on the internet about me).

Until then, keep the hope alive, Philly fans. One day we will reach the promised land. I promise.

(Just not this season.)

eotw, JC and TV, pics, TO, myspace, music, BC

2005-11-11T12:36:00.000-05:00

Another Email of the Week. Susannah from Melbourne writes in:

Dear Jason,

I have been reading your site pretty much every day for a while now and today I was looking at some of your old posts (...actually I was trying to find the post which relays the story of your 'friend' who was trying to hook up with a girl from work and spectacularly failed due to an unfortunate reference to a coathanger cos a friend and I were chatting about it last night and couldn't remember the details of the story - ever considered a search this site function??)

Anyway, as I was reading the posts I was reminded that on a couple of occasions you have mentioned a long-distance girlfriend you had during college. It seems that you were still trying to pick up other girls while dating this long-distance girlfriend.

I have been a "long-distance" girlfriend in the past and my ex wasn't big on the whole monogomy thing either - it's from this perspective that I'm wondering whether you think guys have an "out of sight out of mind" gene that precludes fidelity when your girl is temporarily away. I guess I'm wondering whether this long-distance thing ever works (not that I would try it ever ever again). Any thoughts??

Sus

p.s. I'm not being all judge-y - I don't know what arrangement with this girl, I'm just curious.

Before I get into the email, I want to say that I don’t know a single person who was in a long distance relationship in the past and would be involved in one again. Of course, I know that I wouldn’t even hear someone say, “Well, what I’m really looking for is a long distance relationship,” because people just don’t say that. But it seems that those previously in long distance relationship are entirely averse to one ever happening again. I know that I felt this way after mine eventually ended, and so if faced with a girlfriend that was forced to move away, I’d rather cut ties with her and carry on than do long distance. Of course, this would never work; if I had a girlfriend who moved away, I’d most likely follow her and sleep in my car outside her place until the authorities got involved. But let’s not get sidetracked.

I’m answering this email because a few people who read this site have asked me about this in the past, saying something to the effect that, “You mentioned cheating on your long distance girlfriend in college. This is surprising, both because you seem like a nice guy but also someone not capable of getting much action. Please explain.” So I’ll explain and then I’ll answer Susannah’s question.

I had two long distance girlfriends in college. The first was during my sophomore and junior years, the second during junior/senior years (no overlap). With the first, I was faithful. I’m not sure if this was out of the goodness of my heart or because I didn’t have many other options. I like to think it was the former, but if I know myself, it’s gotta be the latter.

I’m pretty sure that the second girlfriend and I had an unspoken “Don’t ask/Don’t tell” policy when it came to hooking up. This was never expressly stated, but it’s certainly what I operated under (and I’m fairly certain she did too). We did this because we were both in our final year of college and didn’t want to be held back by the other person, 500 miles away. But again, this was never stated; just strongly implied.

We never talked about this, because we learned how destructive it could be. She asked me once if I had kissed anyone else. I said yes. The next day, she called me to brag about making out with two guys at the bar the previous night. Sweet. Not as sweet as the time I got a call from my buddy who went to the same college as her, telling me (“friend to friend”) that my girlfriend had hooked up on several occasions with his roommate. That was TOTALLY awesome. To be fair, I was hooking up with others as well. I was just better at hiding it.

I don’t want to give the impression that I’m airing dirty laundry here; our relationship ended many years ago and we haven’t spoken much since. I suppose that I’m writing all this to clear my good name and illustrate that I wasn’t “cheating” per se but rather playing the hand I was dealt (see? I’m totally a nice guy – mostly). Of course, like I said, the relationship ultimately ended. She and I dated for a few years long distance but last less than two months in the same city. I think this was because we had never actually been a “couple” and so struggled with this once we were in the same city. It’s easy to be nice and get along one weekend a month. Hell, I think I could get along with pretty much anybody for a weekend if we were having sex. But when you have to do be nice every day…well, that’s a different story.

Now onto Susannah’s query as to whether guys have an “out of sight/out of mind” mentality with girlfriends.

Here’s the general rule when it comes to guys and cheating: it is impossible to tell which guys cheat and which guys don’t. In my time I’ve come across guys who are entirely faithful and those who fuck everything that moves. You can know a guy who seems devoted to his girlfriend, commits public displays of affection and talks baby talk, and then you get five beers in him and he’s banging the 52 year-old waitress in the bar bathroom. Conversely, you can know a guy who goes to strip clubs three times a month and spends $10,000 a year on lap dances but doesn’t even consider cheating on his girlfriend.

What I’m trying to say that it’s impossible to generalize and make a sweeping statement like “All guys believe in ‘out of sight/out of mind.’” Cheating is an individual choice that takes into account a number of variables (most importantly, having the option to cheat – like Chris Rock jokes, “Man is only as faithful as his options.”)

Long distance is not an exception to this, as long as it’s still an exclusive relationship. If a guy wants to cheat (and he can), he’s going to. If he doesn’t, he’s not.

I know this may sound like a cop out and you’re probably thinking, “Thank you Captain Obvious”, but what I said is important and true: you can’t generalize with guys and cheating. It’s an individual choice. And that’s really it.

[And now I have to answer phone calls/emails from my buddies saying, “Dude, any time you write a post about cheating, don’t even HINT about me in the post. You know [girlfriend] reads your crap, and now for the next month I’m going to have to answer her questions about cheating. So thanks for that. Asshole.”]

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I don’t know if Jesus watches “Trading Spouses”, but I certainly hope He didn’t catch this week’s episode.

If you’re not familiar with “Trading Spouses”, well, it sounds like what it is. One family sends their mom to another family in exchange for that family’s mom for a week (or weekend or whatever). Hilarity ensues as the new mom tries to adjust to living with the new family. Naturally, the moms are polar opposites: sweet Chinese American Mom swapping with Punk Rock Mom, Poor Mom switching with Rich Mom, Handicapped Mom switching with Fitness Instructor Mom, etc. In this week’s episode they had an Ultra-Christian Mom trading places with a New Age Mom.

I don’t normally watch this show, but I saw the previews during the week and Tivo’ed it. These previews showed the Ultra-Christian Mom in a living room screaming at the top of her lungs about “Jesus” and “sweet name of Jesus” and telling the camera crew to get out of her house. As an added bonus, this woman was about 500 pounds. So it was a no-brainer for the Tivo.

I finally watched it last night and was not disappointed. The Ultra-Christian Mom (UCM from here on out) spent the week with her adopted family complaining about just about everything, refusing to even talk to her “husband” about his beliefs, reading the Bible, and trying to convert everyone to Christianity. I don’t know what the record was for using the word “Jesus” on primetime television, but she easily shattered it. The climax of the show occurred when she returned to her real family and essentially had a nervous breakdown in front of the cameras. She started screaming about Jesus and how she’s a warrior of god and about the “dark side” that her adopted family represented (the husband was an astrologist, the mother a hypnotherapist, and the kids didn’t believe in god). I regret that I can’t do it justice here, but trust me, it was spectacular. Nothing like seeing a gigantic Southern woman invoking the name of Jesus with a fervor that would give most people her size a heart attack.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’ve got nothing against Jesus. I was raised Irish Catholic, so I’m down with JC. Sure, we’ve had some problems in the past, but it’s been smooth sailing for the most part. But I wonder what Jesus would think about this woman using his name all over national television while carrying on like a total lunatic. I can just imagine Jesus, sitting in His chair up in heaven, eating a sandwich, watching “Trading Spouses” and screaming, “Oh – come on! Come on! [stands up] Stop it! [throwing His Pepsi can at television] Damn it!”

All I can say is that this woman set Christianity back many, many years. I wasn’t sure if she was from the 21st century or one of the participants in the Salem Witch Trials. Like many big city liberals, I’m not into the whole evangelical thing. And the way that this woman acted (or perhaps how Fox sought to portray this woman) was very damaging to her beliefs. Again, she acted like a stone cold crazy person. I really wish I had a video of her breakdown, but that would require going to Google and typing and that’s a lot of extra work (especially since I’m not at home and stealing wireless right now and my connection is crap).

Don’t really know where I’m going with this and thinking that I’m going to have to chalk it up to “I guess you had to be there”, so I think I’ll stop. But I know that at least a handful of you saw the show and are thinking, “You know what – he’s totally right. I just want to do him.” So my job is done.

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Thank you for all the pictures of the Panthers cheerleaders. I guess I should be more careful in the future what I wish for in the future because I got a LOT of emails with at least two of the following words in the title: sex, cheerleaders, Panthers, pics, bathroom. The best part is that just about every email from y’all started off with “I bet about 1000 other people sent you this…” In the future, if you think 1000 other people have sent me something, please refrain from sending it.

(Is anyone interested in being my assistant? All you’d have to do is sort through the emails/booby pictures and let me know which are good. The job pays nothing, but you and I can sit around getting high all day. Also, if you’re cute, we can have tickle fights. Please send resume and three references.)

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I don’t know what I can say about the Terrell Owens situation that hasn’t already been said. For a personal standpoint, it makes me sad. Sad because TO is a tremendous athlete and really could have helped the Eagles. It’s more of a shame though. After his performance in the Super Bowl, TO could have run for mayor in Philly. The city was devoted to him. And in less than nine months, he has completely squandered all that affection and the city is universally turned against him. I would make a TO:post-Super Bowl::George Bush:post 9-11 analogy, but I don’t have the energy to read all the emails from the conservatives reading this now.

But the Eagles were 100% right to suspend him for the season. Philly loves someone who plays hard, but Philly hates bitches. So as a Philadelphia fan, speaking for Philadelphia fans, fuck you, TO. You’re 32. You’ll get about 1/3 your current salary next year. And since we know you’re all about money, that’s gotta hurt. So again, fuck you, and don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.

But hey, at least it’s been interesting.

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Well, I asked for it, and you guys brought it. Last week, I complained that I had only a few MySpace friends. I think I had under 20 when I mentioned this, now I have around 350. So thank you. I feel loved.

And not only that (and I don’t mean to get all gay on you here), it’s weird for me to see your pictures. It’s hard to explain, especially because I am pretty messed up right now, but until last week the idea of my “readership” was abstract. Sure, I’ve talked to people in bars who I don’t know who read the site yada yada yada, but seeing all your pictures really freaked me out. For the first time, I realized that people actually read this. Like, actual, real people (some of them pretty good looking, too).

…

Ok, I just read that last paragraph over and it’s obvious that I am too messed up to articulate anything properly right now. Let’s talk about music before I start writing poetry or some shit.

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Six Songs (get them at id1g1t)

This week’s Six Songs has a theme: “Songs I Want to Fucking Shoot Myself to Because You Broke My Heart You Fucking Crazy Harpy Bitch.” Enjoy!

(Note: this is in no way related to Wednesday’s post, but rather a result of my mood swings. Seriously. I would tell you if it was. Thank you.)

“Red Red Red” Fiona Apple
I should note that it’s impossible for me to give an unbiased review of this song, since I am so desperately in love with Fiona Apple that my stomach hurts whenever I think about her. But if you listen to this song and do not feel considerably worse after listening to it than you did before listening to it, then you either a) are deaf; or b) have no soul. This is the only song I’ve listened to on the album because I’m afraid of what might happen to me if I listen to the others. Crazy, but 100% true.

(And yes, I realize that being involved with someone as crazy as Fiona Apple is an invitation to be destroyed emotionally. But c’mon – we all know there’s nothing more attractive than aloofness and self-destructiveness.)

(God I’m so turned on right now.)

(And so, so sad.)

“Love Is Just A Game” The Magic Numbers
This song (and this band) is amazing. This is now one of my top ten favorite songs of all-time. This is a remarkable achievement whose remarkableness I can not express on paper, but rather only through dancing. You must MUST MUST listen to this song. I can't explain it; sort of like this weird British funk, but a ballad of sadness. A good song to get high to in the tub when depressed. Um, not that I know from experience or anything…

(I think this is also titled “Love’s A Game”, but not 100% on that)

“Just Like Me” that dog
I think I am the only person in America who has heard of this band (and likes them). They broke up only in 1997, but I have not come across anyone else who’s ever even heard of them, aside from the guy who introduced me to them (but he’s in India now, hence the “America” reference). Two chicks, some guitars, a violin, and a cello is always a recipe for sadness, especially when you rip off a line from the Beatles’ “Something” but change it to “Something in the way you move/Distracts me like no other.” Distracting, indeed.

“Magnolia Mountain” Ryan Adams
I know, I know – you’re probably surprised that Ryan Adams wrote a sad song. I was shocked too, but believe it or not, it’s pretty good. Over the chorus, he begs “Lie to me/Like I lie to you/Hold me down until the morning comes.” Pretty, pretty heavy. I don’t really know what the song is about, but it makes me sad. So that’s all I’ll say about it.

“Goodbye My Lover” James Blunt
Part of me, when I hear this song, wants to grab this guy, shake him, slap him in the face, and say, “Dude - fucking pull it together!” It's a song about lost love, but it's way too emotional (“You touched my heart you touched my soul/You changed my life and all my goals/And love is blind and that I knew when/My heart was blinded by you” – ugh. Sounds like something a sixteen year-old scribbled to his ex-girlfriend in History class).

That being said, if I were ever heartbroken enough and high enough, I think I could sit in a hotel room and cry to this song for about a week and a half straight. But this is probably less because of the song and more because I have the emotional depth, experience, and control of a thirteen year-old fat girl. Yep. Pretty much.

“33” Smashing Pumpkins
I mean, this is a really pretty song, right? Billy Corgan extolls over dreamy flanged-up guitars, “I'll make the effort/Love can last forever” and “Graceful swans of never/Topple to the earth/Tomorrow's just an excuse/You can make it last forever.” And it makes me want to throw up.

Chuck Klosterman, in his seminal work “Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs”, espouses a theory that (roughly) states that certain elements of popular culture (movies, music, etc), by creating the myth of perfect love, are ruining countless relationships. Since I’m pretty high right now and could start crying at any moment, maybe I should defer to Dave Attell to further illustrate this point:

I think it’s hard for you ladies, you know, because you go see these movies and think these Brad Pitt’s and Will Smith’s and Leonardo DiCapricock’s are gonna come waltzing off the screen into your life, taking you out all fancy to like an Olive Garden or Pizzeria Uno or something, and make love to you with a condom without fingering your asshole, and then call you within a week – well wake up! They don’t have the time. I do.

People our age are constantly seeking perfection from a mate when it isn’t going to happen. I’m not saying that everyone should just settle for whomever, but I’m saying we need to work less on finding “The One” and more on finding “The One Pretty Close To The One Who’s Better Than The Others.” Then we can spend the rest of our lives adjusting this person to fit our ideal. I mean, relationships are work people! Love isn’t a vacation, it’s a vocation! Damn it!

Anyway, this song makes me pukey because it’s so happy/lovey/rosey because nothing lasts forever. Or something.

********************************************

Off to Boston to get drunk at a BC football game (read: get so drunk I don’t realize that there is even a football game going on). Have a good weekend.

the party bus and the eight levels of dating

2005-11-09T14:36:00.000-05:00

At 3pm on Saturday afternoon, just as I was walking back to my apartment with my take-out breakfast in hand, I got a call from my buddy Hal. Hal is the brother of my old college roommate, Bill, he of Baldwin Brothers fame. Since Bill is from an NJ town just outside of NYC, I have gotten to know many of Bill’s hometown friends, including his brother Hal, as they often venture into the city.

The situation was this: Hal was in from NJ and Bill was flying down from Boston. Every year, these guys, their dad, and their dad’s friends get together to a touristy tour of NYC, chugging beers the whole way. Hal ostensibly asked me to join him and Bill on a drinking odyssey. The best part? It would be in a party bus.

Like most young men who enjoy sitting, drinking, leather, and shiny things, I love party buses. There is no better way to travel for a night on the town, really. It’s a totally self-contained unit, a true party on wheels, complete with cooler full of beers, comfy chairs that seat over a dozen, good tunes, and up close views of the vibrant nightlife and streets of NYC. If I had the money, I would rent a party bus every time I went out in the city. I can’t think of much that would make me happier that doesn’t involve narcotics and sexy bisexual ladies. And I guess the hope is that the party bus WOULD involve narcotics and sexy bisexual ladies, but you get it.

So Hal and Bill called me to join them in this party bus. They would not be partaking in the touristy activities (The Rockette’s Christmas Show, the Empire State Building, etc), but instead would be either drinking in bars near these places or driving around the bus drinking, before finally heading back to their NJ town to drink the night away.

I can’t express how much I was for this impromptu Saturday afternoon drinking tour. But my plan was to only stay for a little while, because I had (gasp!) a date that night. I was meeting my date for dinner later on that night and figured I shouldn’t get too bombed before the date (seeing as I’m a romantic and all). However, when after eight or so beers Hal suggested that I join them the rest of the evening, going all the way back to NJ with them in the bus, I knew that the date must be postponed. I was see-sawing until Bill put it best: “Dude, you’re in NYC with this girl all the time. How often are we in town and how often are we in town with a party bus?” Done deal.

So I called the lovely and wonderful Cara to explain the situation. Cara and I met a few weeks back, so she’s familiar with me and my steez (read: getting drunk and messing up). I rang her up at 6pm, three hours before we were supposed to meet.

Me: “Cara, listen, I’m sorry but I think I have to postpone the date.”
Cara: [genuinely ok with this, but surprised] “Um, ok. That’s cool.”
Me: “Oh, great. I’m really sorry, but it’s just that something came up last minute.”
Cara: [concerned] “Is everything ok?”
Me: “Yeah, yeah. It’s just that, and I didn’t realize this when I asked you out tonight, my buddies Bill and Hal are in from out of town and they have this awesome party bus and we’ve been drinking for a while, so I think I’m gonna go back to Jersey with them tonight.”
Cara: [confused] “What? Party bus?”
Me: “Yeah, you know, like a big ass limo-type bus filled with beer and booze. I had no idea they were doing this.”
Cara: [putting it all together, growing agitated] “So you’re going to get drunk in this bus with them tonight?”
Me: “I know it sounds stupid, but it’s an awesome bus. And really, you and I are in NYC like 300 nights a year, so we can reschedule anytime. But how often do you get to ride in a party bus, you know?

Wrong answer.

Since those words left my mouth, I have regretted them. Not only because I didn’t get to spend any time with Cara that night, and instead woke up on a couch with a vicious hangover, but also because Cara and I were at a very delicate point in our relationship: about to enter the vaunted 4th Level of Dating.

Modern dating can be divided into eight levels, which cover everything from the first time you see your love interest all the way up to when she’s helping your mom serve the deviled eggs on Christmas. These Eight Levels of Dating of below, with examples for those of you who are slow.

Level 1: Pre-Dating
This isn’t really dating per se, but rather the initiation of contact. For example: you’re at a friend’s party and see an attractive girl across the room. You ask the host, a mutual friend, who the girl is and once you get the word that she isn’t crazy and hasn’t had sex with any former or current NBA players, you approach. You try to make witty conversation but are limited because you took one too many Xanax before the party and are convinced that every time you speak to this girl you’re spitting on her face and in her hair.

In the days after the party, you spend most of your energy emailing the mutual friend to ensure that sometime in the near future you seemingly coincidentally hang out with this girl in a large group and in a casual and secure environment (with alcohol). She obliges, mostly because she feels sorry for you, but also because you threatened to hurt her family if she didn’t.

When you see the girl next, you are in tip-top shape: you have put on cologne, trimmed your pubes, made sure not too drink too much or take too many pills, and have done enough cocaine to cripple most teenagers (therefore you are the most fascinating person on the planet). You see the girl and are on fire – joking, laughing, making fun of others, hiding your incredible racism – and at the end of the party, you say something like “We should hang out sometime.” Lulled into a false sense of security, she gives you her number (though you secretly would have preferred her email address, because you are eons better in print than in person/over the phone). Congratulations, you may now move on to Level 2.

Level 2: The Explicit Invite Period
Level 2 is merely an extension of Level 1. But in Level 2, everything is more explicit, deliberate, and intentional. You call the girl after a few days to invite her (and her friends) to a bar where you (and your friends) will be hanging out. She agrees to come (and to bring friends).

Prior to her arrival, you share with your friends the battle plan: divide and conquer. You will talk to your girl and you expect your friends to at least partially entertain her friends. Knowing that they are drunks and incapable of actually doing this properly, you either a) bribe them with drinks at a later date or b) threaten them, reminding them that you haven’t been with a women in a while and have a lot of pent up sexual aggression, which, coupled with your astounding fat boy strength, can be devastating to the faces and/or genitals of said friends.

The girl arrives at the party. The good news is that you’re more confident, having secured her presence at the bar without your mutual friend, and she’s more comfortable, assuming that despite what her friends have said, you will more than likely not take her into the alley and make her whip your bare ass with your belt while you sing Boy George songs. More talking, laughing, and drinking. Things are going well.

Two variables about this period: 1) you may or may not get a kiss (or more); and 2) it may take more than one Explicit Invite to advance to Level 3. But fortunately, the gods are smiling upon you. When at the end of the night you suggest meeting for dinner sometime during the week, she accepts. You spend the next few days wondering what the hell happened to her in her childhood for her to consent to spending time with you alone. Probably some terrible, terrible things.

Level 3: The Weekday Date Period
Dinner or some other date variation on a non-prime night (Sunday through Wednesday; if you can get a Thursday, it’s a good sign). Also, in Level 3, what may have been obvious before is now official: you are courting this girl.

Level 3 is the make or break period. Studies have shown that around 70% of dates do not get past Level 3. The reason for this two-fold. First, it’s very hard to hide behind alcohol at 8pm on a Tuesday evening. You’re pretty much on your own here – for the first time in the courtship. Of course, you could hit the booze, but getting drunk or drinking too quickly will only prove that you are not a man unless you are intoxicated (which is of course true, but should not be known to the girl until month three of the relationship) and will invariably lead to you sticking your hand down your pants halfway through the entrée.

Second, a dinner requires around two hours of one-on-one time (as mentioned above, with little alcohol). During these two hours, you must prove to the girl not only that you are not into strangling during sex, but also that you are intelligent, well-liked/respected by your peers, witty, and generally a great person for genital-to-genital contact. Quite a tall order.

But again, the stars are aligned. Perhaps it’s because the margaritas are just strong enough to make everything a tad easier or perhaps it’s because her hair is so astoundingly pretty that you just want to choke on it, it matters not. The date goes well. You get home and recount the date to your roommate, who, because he is high, can not appreciate the significance of the evening. So you retreat to your bedroom with a bottle of wine to feel warm and listen to Elvis Costello. In the parlance of our times, “It’s on like Donkey Kong.” Congrats, old man – it’s on to Level 4. Welcome to the big leagues.

Level 4: The Weekend Date Period
If you’ve made it to Level 4, you’re doing something right. Level 4 means that you are hanging out on a prime night: Friday or Saturday (and possibly Thursday).

Also, it means that the pressure is (mostly) off. To secure a weekend night of a woman in New York City is a substantial accomplishment which only means that she may like you in return. I know, I know – I can’t believe it either, but all signs point to yes.

This is the most formal date yet. Moderately-but-not-too romantic dinner date followed by drinks at a bar that doesn’t host English dart league matches (think less “pub” or “tavern” and more “lounge” or something with a one word name). You do reasonably well, except when during dinner the waitress gives you the wine cork to check the wine’s aroma, instead of smelling it, you put it in your mouth to suck on it, unsure of how that whole process works. However, the girl finds this endearing, which is good. You only hope that four months from now, when you come home covered in piss, blood, and gin, she will find that endearing too.

This one of the longer periods. This doesn’t mean that once you graduate to Level 4 you’re only hanging out only on weekend nights, but rather that if you get two or more Level 4 dates under your belt, intersperse those with some weekday dates and group things, and voila – you’re dating someone. She’s not technically you’re girlfriend (and won’t be until Level 6), but you’re kinda/sorta/somewhat dating her. You’re still single, but those days may be numbered.

Also, making love, if it has already not happened, becomes a realistic goal. And considering my personal circumstances, there is absolutely no way I should have written this. But, I am high. So let’s just move on…

Level 5a: The “Yeah, She’s Kinda My Girlfriend” Period
Level 5b: The Weekday Evening Sex Period
Once you successfully get past Level 4, you’re onto Level 5, which is divided into two parts.

This is arguably the best Level, because, well, you pretty much have a girlfriend. It’s still not official yet, but you both know it’s true. There is near daily contact and you’re hanging out with her three nights a week, one of which is a weekend night. You will even stay over her place during the week, which is a monumental step in any relationship. You’re introduced to her wider circle of friends, who grill you with questions about everything from your musical tastes to what you do for a living to “I read something on your site about how you jerked off with an uncooked chicken breast – is that true?”

That’s the social aspect of Level 5 (5a). Concurrently with 5a, there is 5b: you are entering a realm of sensual delights. The sex is abundant and free. You are comfortable enough to call the girl at work at 5pm on Wednesday to say, “Hey, listen – I just found out that my roommate is going to be working late. Do you wanna come over after work to have sex in the kitchen? Because I don’t think we’ve done that yet.” And she agrees. Finally, everything is right with the world.

Level 6: The Love Period
Love. Sex. Girlfriend. And at this Level, the notion of having a girlfriend is a great and wonderful thing. You will tell your mom about her, who will sigh in relief, secreting thank the Lord above that you are telling her about your love for Bruce or Tad. You will take weekend trips where you will lay in bed naked, watching pay-per-view movies, eating pizza, and drinking wine. You will laugh and wonder how this feeling could ever end, because you are stupid with love.

Sadly, it does end. Sooner than you think, too. This level is an inherent dilemma. On the one hand, it is great because you feel better than you ever have. On the other, it’s bad because it’s all downhill from here. You’re only hope is to stay in this Level for as long as possible, although you have no control over these things. And since you’re not a good person, God and Fate are going to gang up on you and usher this period out the doors as soon as possible. I guess you shouldn’t have committed all those hate crimes back in the late 80’s.

Level 7: The Cracks in the Façade Period
You’re still in love, of course. You worked hard for this relationship and things are still very good between you and the girl. But you wonder…why does she have to talk to her mother every day, even when you’re on vacation? Is that really necessary? And she really takes a very long time to order at restaurants, even though you both know what she’s going to get. And why does it matter that you spend more time talking with your buddy John about the potential assist numbers for Rafer Alston than about your relationship? I mean, what’s there to talk about about the relationship? And why does she get all huffy when she calls you and you’re so high you think you’re talking to King Arthur? I mean, a man’s gotta have his fun.

Level 7: the beginning of the end. Also, the beginning of the rest of your life.

Level 8: Malaise
Routine has taken over. Sex in the kitchen on a Wednesday evening has been replaced by ok take-out food and “The Notebook.” Spontaneous weekend trips whose sole purpose was to get it on in another state are replaced by going to weddings of extended family members and more than likely not having sex (too tired “after such a big dinner and long drive”). Blowjobs are something you see every day on your computer and but in real life only on your birthday, Christmas, and anniversary. Going out with the guys, which was once a common occurrence, is now arranged and orchestrated with a diligence usually reserved for the Rose Bowl Parade. The idea of having a girlfriend, which once made you blush with delight, has lost its luster. The idea of having a mistress, however, sounds pretty good right about now. But you know you could never do this. You are in love. Right?

And this, folks, is how you get married. She might bring marriage and though you’re averse to it initially, you start warming to the idea. You think, “Well, maybe getting married is just the change of pace we need. Maybe it’ll give us the spark that has been missing for some time.” And so you get married. And that’s all she wrote.

…

A loving relationship is like a pair of jeans. When you first see the jeans in the store, you decide you need to have them and so buy them immediately. It takes a while for you to break them in and for you to feel comfortable in them, but in a matter of time you’re strutting around town looking and feeling great. You wear them all the time, get compliments, and they slowly become a part of you.

But as time passes, the jeans slowly begin to break down. The cuffs get frayed, there may be a tear or two in them, and they start to smell funny. But you keep on the wearing them, mostly because they’re your number one jeans and you’re attached to them. But also because you remember how long it took you to break in these jeans and you’re not ready to do that again to a new pair, which will more than likely not be as good as this pair anyway. So you keep wearing them. Forever. Or until they fall to pieces. Either way, it ain’t pretty.

…

And so just as Cara and I were about to enter that oh-so-important Level 4, I informed her that spending time in a bus getting drunk was more important than spending time with her. Smooth move. She politely said, “Well call me next week” and – god bless her – has agreed to see me again. So this time, I’m going to do something special for her. I’ve been doing push-ups every morning in preparation for the date and I have prepared a short dance number which will express my regret. I stayed up until 4:30 in the morning last night banging it out, and I think it’s going to be pretty good. If I had to describe it, I would say it has the moves of Prince in the “Bat Dance” video but with George Michael’s look from the “Faith” era set to AC/DC’s “You Shook Me All Night Long”.

So wish me luck. I don’t often get past Level 3, so I am willing to go the extra mile for Level 4. Even if it means dancing. Or arson. Or murder. Whatever really. Now back to the dancing.

sex panther(s)

2005-11-07T12:02:00.000-05:00

Sex Panther(s)

It’s official: the Carolina Panthers have the best cheerleaders in the NFL. According to an ESPN.com report:

Two Carolina Panthers cheerleaders who allegedly were having sex with each other in a bathroom stall at a Tampa, Fla., nightclub were arrested and charged early Sunday following a run-in with patrons and police.

According to a police report obtained by the CBS TV affiliate in Tampa and the Charlotte Observer, Angela Ellen Keathley and Renee Thomas were arrested following an incident at Banana Joe's, in Tampa's Channelside district, at 2:10 a.m. ET.

In the police report, witnesses claimed Thomas and Keathley were having sex with each other in a stall when other patrons grew angry that the two were taking so long in the bathroom.

Another woman waiting to use the bathroom got into an argument with the two, and Thomas hit that person in the face, according to details of the report posted on TampaBay10.com, the CBS TV affiliate's Web site.

Keathley, who was escorted from the nightclub, was so drunk she could barely stand, the report said. Police described Keathley as rude and belligerent with police.

When Thomas was arrested, she gave police the name of another Panthers cheerleader -- Kristen Lanier Owen, the Observer and TampaBay10.com reported. Thomas, who was charged with one count of battery, might face additional charges for lying to police, once they confirm her identity.

Keathley was charged with disorderly conduct and obstructing or opposing an officer.

Other Panthers cheerleaders bailed Thomas and Keathley out of Hillsborough County jail later Sunday morning, TampaBay10.com reported.

The cheerleaders made the trip to Tampa on their own -- the squad performs on the sideline only at home games. Panthers officials at Sunday afternoon's game said they were aware of the report, but declined further comment when contacted by the Observer.

According to the Panthers' official team Web site on NFL.com, Keathley is a registered nurse and second-year member of the TopCats. Thomas is listed as a student at the University of North Carolina-Charlotte and first-year member of the cheerleading squad.

OK, that’s pretty much made my week. Two cheerleaders having sex in a nightclub bathroom. Good lord. Two things:

1) I really should have focused more energy on playing football in high school. Instead, I spent too much time being the Gay Best Friend to about fifteen girls, all of whom were out of my league, listening to them tell me about their problems with their boyfriends as I quietly wept and masturbated on the other end of the telephone. Had I put half as much time into a football career, I could be at least a marginal NFL player. Which means that I would at least know cheerleaders. Which means that I could then offer them drugs/cash to do stuff like this in my own bathroom (while I quietly wept and masturbated on the other side of the bathroom door).

2) I am never, ever having daughters. Of course, having written this, I’m sure I’ll have six extremely hot daughters. At least I’ll be dead by the time they’re getting breast implants and appearing on “Real World: Omaha” having orgies with visiting college basketball teams, whole precincts of police officers, middle-aged businessmen at conferences, Indian chiefs, carnies, etc.

I have been feverishly trying to get pictures of these two girls, but I’m currently away from home and stealing someone’s wireless and the site keeps getting timed out (since I imagine about 100,000 other perverts like myself are trying to do the exact same thing and are crashing the site). But if you want to see for yourself, the Panthers’ cheerleaders’ site is here. Good luck, godspeed, and yay for Panther Pride!

(Thanks to Stuart in Pittsburgh for bringing my attention to this)

eotw, Catullus, pics, Chinese, books, music

2005-11-04T13:13:00.000-05:00

We no longer have an “Email of the Week” because I am just too lazy to keep up with my email. But this week we’re going to pretend that we do as I help out Sonja from Winnipeg (that’s in Canada).

Dear Jason Mulgrew,

I know you're not Ann Landers, but I was hoping you could give me some advice as to how to "snag" a certain dude into actually taking me out on a date. I can't figure out why he keeps on playing me. I'm asking you because he seems a lot like you in that he's a big fat party animal, he works in an office and tries to hide the fact that he's a big fat party animal, he loves to eat really gross foods in quantity because he's a big fat party animal, and everyone thinks he's gay, (but he's not because he sometimes gets lucky and goes home with a girl and consistently turns dudes down). On many occasions over the past year, "Mr. Playa" has asked me to call him or give him my number so he can buy me some lunch or something. I finally dumped my girlfriend two months ago and called him, because I do have a crush on him, and now that I'm single, why not?

Wait – “girlfriend?” What?

He promised to take me out about four weeks ago. Since then, we have stuck our hands down each other's pants once (I blew him a little, too) and he has cancelled and rescheduled like three times and has not taken me out for shit, yet says he's super-interested. I am losing patience, but have suddenly become INTENSELY attracted to the bastard because he's acting so exclusive. What's the deal? Trust me, I'm pretty hot, and what I don't have in the hotness department, I make up for in nastiness (the sexy kind).

OK, I’m listening…

Also, I wanted to mention that Winnipeg is an actual city (small) and there is more than one dude and/or chick here I can hook up with. I just kind of am stuck on Mr. Playa because I rarely get played and this is new. (Admittedly, I've played a few girls, myself, and I'm recognizing the situation for what it is. What gives?!! I'm cute!!).

Anyway, I hope you will buy a bucket of chicken to eat for supper tonight.

Sonja

This is easy.

This is what I know about Sonja from only this email:

1) She is cute – and not because she tells me she is cute. I get I would say about 30 emails a week from women saying that they’re cute and/or they have nice boobs (I’m not bragging; bear with me). They usually go something like:

Jason,
I love your blog. You should know that I’m hot – and I have great breasts! You would love me. Anyway, just thought you should know.
Love,
Candy
Toledo, OH

PS – You are not that fat. And I would know, because I am hot (and have nice boobies)

These women, of course, do this to torment me, expecting me to curse the computer and say “Damn it! I wish I was in Toledo!” But of these 30 emailers, only one will actually include a picture (if that), and many times, she ain’t as cute or boobilicious as she claims to be. So I don’t really care for or get excited about these emails anymore. However, Sonja sent a picture. She is cute. Her boobiliciousness can not be determined, but she is cute.

2) Sonja is bisexual. Comment vous dites “awesome”? (Wait, I don’t think they speak French in Winnipeg, which is good because I’m not 100% sure that’s how you say “How do you say…” in French. Whatever. It’s still awesome).

3) Sonja writes: “[W]hat I don't have in the hotness department, I make up for in nastiness (the sexy kind).” Again, awesome.

My conclusion: something is seriously wrong with this guy. Unless Sonja is withholding information, like forgetting to mention the part about how after they made out she set his garage on fire or when she saw him with another girl she beat her with a camera, something isn’t right with this man, because no guy in his right mind would turn down an attractive bisexual girl who likes him.

Unless…

Sonja is coming on too strong. Remember, there is very much truth to that horrible movie quote, “We pursue that which retreats from us.” Sonja herself admits that she likes this guy because he’s playing so hard to get. Making yourself too available and too easy lowers your value in the eyes of the opposite sex. Therefore, at all times it’s important to look in demand. Because in love, as with all of life, perception is reality.

My recommendation: Give him a taste of his own medicine and cool off a bit. Appear less interested and see how that works out. Remember that courtship is a game involving both manipulation and risk AND luck and fate. “True love” is dead and has been replaced by “cold, calculated planning.” Call his bluff by lessening your own interest and see how he responds. If he gets more interested, which I think he will, then you win. If he gets less interested, to hell with it – it wasn’t meant to be (and, like I said, it sounds like this guy has major judgment problems anyway).

That’s my call. But again, asking me for relationship/sex advice is like asking a Sudanese villager for to give you a quick recap of the basic theories of Econometrics or asking Nicole Ritchie who makes the best cheesecake in LA (zing! That that, Nicole Ritchie! And who says I can’t do celebrity gossip?).

****************************************

Tammy from Wisconsin was the first to figure out the Catullus poem that I wrote about last Friday. It is Number 45 (apparently, Catullus wasn’t good at the whole “titles” thing and just went with numbers).

On top is how the text appears in its original Latin, and on the bottom is my English translation. I took four years of Latin in high school (in addition to two years of Greek AND three years of Spanish), winning silver medals each year in the National Latin Exam, and I scored a 4 on the AP Latin exam. So I assure you this translation is completely accurate, though for sake of artful poetry of the Latin text, it is an idiomatic translation, not a literal one. Enjoy, and be moved!

Acmen Septimius suos amores
tenens in gremio 'mea' inquit 'Acme,
ni te perdite amo atque amare porro
omnes sum assidue paratus annos,
quantum qui pote plurimum perire,
solus in Libya Indiaque tosta
caesio veniam obvius leoni.'
Hoc ut dixit, Amor sinistra ut ante
dextra sternuit approbationem.
At Acme leviter caput reflectens
et dulcis pueri ebrios ocellos
illo purpureo ore suaviata,
'sic' inquit 'mea vita Septimille,
huic uni domino usque serviamus,
ut multo mihi maior acriorque
ignis mollibus ardet in medullis.'
Hoc ut dixit, Amor sinistra ut ante
dextra sternuit approbationem.
Nunc ab auspicio bono profecti
mutuis animis amant amantur.
Unam Septimius misellus Acmen
mavult quam Syrias Britanniasque:
uno in Septimio fidelis Acme
facit delicias libidinisque.
quis ullos homines beatiores
vidit, quis Venerem auspicatiorem?

Septimius, holding his love Acme
In his arms, said “My Acme,
Unless I lose and love you through love
And all sums through the years,
Time that many lose potency,
Alone in Lybia and India I toast
A lion came into the obvious house.”
As he said this, Love approved
On the left before the right.
And Acme raised her head reflecting,
Gave the boy sweet kisses on drunken eyes,
Purported suavely to him,
“If, my life Septimius,
Let us serve one master,
And many major acquire,
The hot flame burns in my brain.”
As she said this, Love approved
On the left before the right.
Now from this auspicious perfect boner
We love mutual minds that love.
Miserable lonely Septimius mauls Acme
More than Syrians and Britains;
Acme has faith in one Septimius
And a delicious libido.
How many other men see beatings,
Who Venus is auspicious?

Gorgeous. Just gorgeous. Kudos to Catullus and to myself. TEAMWORK!

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If you’d like to see some pics of Halloween, you can view them on my MySpace profile. I think you have to join to view them, but it only takes a second or two. You can also see some general pictures of me, as well as some Frosting techniques.

And for those already on MySpace, be my friend. Only a handful of you all have discovered me on there, and my lack of popularity has made me sad. God, I have terrible self-esteem.

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Lindsey from Iowa City passed on this video of two Chinese kids doing their best Backstreet impression. I can’t even make a joke about it.

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If you like my Six Songs segment, you should really buy this book. It contains pages and pages of playlists collected by ubiquitous blogger, Ultragrrrl, broken neatly into four categories: Essential Artists, Essential Genres, Celebrity Playlists, and Other Playlists. My favorite is the Other Playlists section, which has such playlist gems as “Car Sex Songs”, “Entrance Music”, “Pooping Songs”, and “Sorry Your Dad Is Gay.” It’s been next to my computer since I bought it and I refer to it often whenever I’m looking for some new music to steal. So go buy it (and it’s only $10, too).

[And if you think I’m sucking up/pimping out another blogger, you are mistaken, as I’m pretty sure Sarah doesn’t even like me in real life. But we all suffer for our art, right?]

[Man, I should write a book. I wonder, if I did get a book deal, how long it would take for the paperwork to finish. Probably a long, long, long time. Just a guess though.]

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Six Songs
(Listen to these songs at id1g1t)

“Voices That Care” Various
Does anyone remember this song besides me? Every one of my friends draws a blank when I mention this song, which was recorded for the troops in the first Gulf War (or is it “The First Gulf War?”). The talent here is immense: singing lead on the track was an eclectic mix of country music stars (Garth Brooks, Randy Travis), hip-hop artists (Bobby Brown, Will Smith, Ralph Tresvant), easy listening snoozers (Kenny G, Michael Bolton, Peter Cetera, Celine Dion) and “What the fuck?” people (The Nelsons, The Pointer Sisters, Warrant).

Some celebrities/choir members were also a strange mix of personalities, including crazy people (Gary Busey, Mike Tyson), athletes who I’m guessing can’t really sing (Orel Hershiser, Wayne Gretzky, Brian Bosworth), weird actors who are no longer successful and/or alive (Alan Thicke, Dudley Moore, Fred Savage), and people with severe sexually transmitted diseases (Magic Johnson, Downtown Julie Brown, Ted Danson). Incredible!

Also, even though I’m pretty sure I’m going to hell for this, but when I entered “Voices That Care” into Google Images, this is what I got. I mean, these people are retarded, right? Or is it that they’re just Welsh? (Zing again! I am on fire today!)

“Queen Jane Approximately” Bob Dylan
“Hey, when you’re sick of everything else, then come and talk to me, baby.” Not a bad philosophy to have toward women. Also, could you be “When you’ve fucked everything else up, then come and talk to me, baby.” Either way is still better than my philosophy when it comes to courting women, which is “IF YOU SCREAM I SWEAR I WILL FUCKING KILL YOU! NOW TAKE OFF YOUR SHIRT AND LET ME WATCH YOU MAKE SOME FUCKING LASAGNE! AND DON’T BE SHY ON THE MEAT SAUCE! NOW ADD THE RICOTTA! JUST DO IT!” Anyway, probably my fourth favorite Dylan song. And no, I’m not going to tell you the top three.

“It Must Be Love” Madness
I admit: I’d never heard this song until it was on that jeans commercial. But I downloaded it and I like it. Please don’t judge.

“Brown Skin” India.Arie
A reader emailed this to me, suggesting it could go on my make-out mix. One problem: it’s about two people with brown skin making out. My skin is somewhere “printer paper white” and “clear”. So of course I put it immediately on the list, hoping that if I do bring a girl home, she’ll be so moved by how non-racist I am she’ll volunteer to help me do the rainbow. [sigh] A guy can dream.

“Come To My Window (Acoustic)” Melissa Etheridge
You have not experienced music until you’ve heard Melissa Etheridge do this song live with only an acoustic guitar. Sadly, I don’t think I’m kidding.

[Shhhh – hear that sound? That’s the sound of 1000 frat boys clicking off this site, never to return again. As long as I have my CTMW, I’ll be ok.]

[Seriously though, I’m not a Melissa Etheridge fan, but I think this song acoustic is pretty cool. Let’s just move on…]

“Off The Record” My Morning Jacket
Here’s you for the past month: “Dude, you have got to listen to the new My Morning Jacket album.”
Here’s me: “Yeah, yeah, yeah – I’ll get around to it.”
You: “No, seriously bro, it’s really good. You HAVE to listen to it.”
Me: “Alright, I said. I’ll check it out when I get a chance.”

Well, I’ve had the chance. And it’s really good. This song goes from near-pop-ish rock to space/sex jam in the span of five and a half minutes. And it’s not even one of the best songs on the album. So check it out.

[And that’s all. Have a good weekend]

a new toy

2005-11-03T13:00:00.000-05:00

Boys and girls, I got a new toy. May I present to you, the Treo 650.

Now before ye pass judgment, hear me out. I am not a materialistic person. My wardrobe consists of clothes I buy at the same stores that every 26 year-old fat white dude with no fashion sense shops. But I don’t buy clothes very often. When I go out, I routinely hear from friends, “Dude, didn’t you wear that shirt last weekend?” To which I reply, “Dude, take it easy – my parents are divorced.” You’d be surprised how much this works. On top of that (or more appropriately, below that), I own only two pairs of jeans. I wear both constantly. The shoes that I wear to work and when I go out to bars etc have holes in their soles, so that when I step in a puddle my feet are soaked for many hours (seriously). I own one pair of sneakers, which I’ve owned for over a year. So I guess what I’m saying is that I don’t have a lot of clothes.

As for other material things, I don’t collect anything. Baseball cards, art, cookware, dvds; I have none of these (or very few in the case of dvds). I play guitar, but haven’t bought a new guitar since 2001. One could argue that my iPod is materialistic and unnecessarily expensive, but I actually think that the iPod saved me money. Before going digital, I would buy countless cds for one or two songs. Now I just steal those songs off the internet! I’d even say that prior to owning the iPod, I’d buy about 30 cds a year. Since then, it’s more like three cds a year. So take that, sucka.

But I have longed for some time for a mobile device that will give me a) optimal service; b) primo text messaging; c) the ability to email; and d) web browsing capabilities. Also, I wanted something that would make me look cool in front of women, like a real high roller or some shit. This is not a joke, either. It makes me kind of sad to admit it, but part of the reason that I wanted a pimped-out cell phone was so that I could look hip. Please, kick my ass now.

A few posts back, I asked what you all thought of T-Mobile’s Sidekick. I didn’t know much about the Sidekick, but I knew that lots of celebrities used them. And as I get farther and farther away from “Internet Quasi-Celebrity” and closer and closer to “Poorly Respected Writer Who Gets Very Drunk at Parties in New York and Los Angeles and Spends All Night in the Bathroom”, the Sidekick seemed like a reasonable option. But alas, you all said otherwise, panning the Sidekick for, well, just about everything.

So I did a little research on my own to see not only what was out there, but also what was feasible given my current cell phone status. I had Sprint and I wanted out (I have bemoaned the horrible service of my carrier Sprint very often here, so I need not rehash it here, even though I rehash the same fat/drunk/getting no ass jokes every week). But I am still under contract with Sprint until next May. To break that contract would cost $150, money that could be spent on better things, namely my two favorite seasonal winter habits: gambling and vodka. I have also been picked up phone sex as an interest of mine, presumably because the cold weather is keeping me in. At least that’s what I tell myself. But I digress…

So one day last week while ambling around Manhattan, I wandered into my local Sprint and saw it: the Treo 650. As soon as I saw I laid eyes on it, I knew it had to be mine. And so I grilled the guy at the store about my contract, the cost, etc, and told him I’d think about it and left the store. Of course, I did this only to seem like a smart consumer. When I left the store, I knew only one thing for certain: if I didn’t get that Treo, I would surely die.

This past weekend, I returned to the Sprint store with my posse in effect. It was the same crew that joined me as the Baldwin Brothers for Halloween – my roommate Brian and my buddies Bill and Joe in from Boston. I wanted them to come with me for moral support as I made such a rash and impetuous decision. They wanted to come with me so that after I made said decision (specifically, after my credit card was charged), they could say, “Dude – why did you do that? You don’t have that kind of money!” That’s what friends are for.

One of the requirements of the purchase was that I had to get a new number. I’d rather not get into the details of this, which involves a complicate mathematical formula taking into considering rebates, new activation discounts, and new contractual minutes. The bottom line is that it would be much cheaper for me if I got a new number, dig?

Before going to the Sprint store, my buddies and I had breakfast/lunch at LoSide, a nice lil’ hipsterish diner that opened on Houston Street a few months back. There, we discussed the possibilities of picking my own number and what I should choose if I were allowed to do this. I originally thought that 646-MULGREW would be best, because it’s easiest to remember (646 is one of the NYC cell phone area codes). Then, Joe suggested something like 646-RAPE-ASS. Brian had a slightly scary but unfortunately funny idea of 646-I-EAT-PEE, but then Bill put it all together with something stunning in its simplicity: 646-FUCK-YOU.

646-FUCK-YOU was going to be my new number. Undoubtedly so. I called the number (which translates to 646.382.5968) and – mother of pearl! – it was out of service. I presumed that this meant no one was using it, so I further presumed that it then must be available. I was so excited to get to the Sprint store that I couldn’t even finish my eggs benedict (well, ok, I could finish my eggs benedict – and most of Brian’s “Urban Cowboy Hash” – but you get it).

(Also I got a cookie to go. As a reward for such a good idea.)

I wasn’t entirely sure how the whole picking your own number process worked, but I knew it could be done. I mean, businesses have custom numbers all the time, so why couldn’t an individual chose one for his/her private line? I assumed that I’d have to pay a fee in order to get a custom number, and after mulling it over I decided that I was willing to pay around $1500 for 646-FUCK-YOU. Surely, the joy of telling my friends, my family, and women I met in bars that my number was FUCK-YOU was worth any price. And yes, I know that women don’t customarily ask me for my number in bars unless its part of an insurance claim report, but FUCK-YOU is still awesome.

I practically ran to the store. Well, I did my best impression of running, which looks like a cross between humping the air and “I’ve been shot in both hamstrings.” When we arrived, I ran right up to the phone when the girl asked, “Can I help you?” I blurted out, “I want this phone!” with the intensity of a retard asking for more pudding.

And so it began. If you’re not familiar, getting a new cell phone is a long process. I was in the chair opposite the sales girl for maybe 30 minutes, as she asked for information and clicked things on her computer. We learned a lot about each other in that time. She was a 19 year-old from Brooklyn in her sophomore year at the College of Staten Island. She was studying sociology, but wanted to be a lawyer. She hadn’t decided which kind of law, though; she had a real estate license, so could probably do real estate law, but she wanted to “change the system.” When I asked what she meant by that, she said, “Like, you know, cops? The cops are, like, supposed to protect you, but they don’t, you know? That’s just wrong.” This leads me to believe that her boyfriend/brother/cousin must have gotten caught dealing and so now she hates cops. At least she was kind of cute, with dark hair and light eyes, but she had one of my pet peeves: some chunk, no chest.

Look, I like girls with some meat on their bones. This is mostly for health reasons, as I don’t want to crush my lady or bruise any of her ribs during one of our vigorous bouts of lovemaking. Also because since I’m a big guy myself, so I don’t want to date a girl that going to make us look like the number 10 when we stand next to each other. That just ain’t cool. But it’s mainly because I like boobies (have I mentioned this before on the site? No?). Typically, “healthy” girl equals big boobies. However, some girls have the “some chunk/no chest” syndrome, which is exactly what it sounds like: though they do have some meat to them, they have small boobies. This makes me sad, seeing as (I would imagine) one of the best thing about being a lil’ chubby to very chubby girl is massive mambas. It’s kinda like the equivalent to how guys who are big and fat don’t usually get messed with or picked on because even if they secretly are pussies, others are intimidated by their size. But healthier women without boobs = sadness. Mostly for me.

Having said this, I still would have married this girl in a heartbeat and spent the rest of my life making her moderately happy because was most helpful when I told her that I wanted a custom number. I told her that I would pay whatever it costs and whatnot, but she said that she couldn’t give me a custom number, saying that when a new number is activated, she gets a list of possible numbers to choose from. And that’s it.

I was crushed. I wanted 646-FUCK-YOU so bad that when I heard it wasn’t going to happen, I think I blacked out for a few minutes. Horrible, horrible, horrible. Not yet ready to throw in the towel, I instead sat in the chair and sulked, saying things like, “Man, I was really hoping to get that custom number” and “That sucks – I’m pretty bummed about not being able to pick my number” and sighing heavily. Finally, she broke down and asked, “Well, what is the number? I can check to see if it’s here.” Realized that this was the point of no return, I told her, “I really want it to be 646-FUCK-YOU.”

To my surprise and delight, she laughed. I was in love. She cross-checked her available numbers, but FUCK-YOU wasn’t available. I was sad. But then the floodgates opened.

Me: “Ok, what about 646-PISS-ASS? I would also take 646-COCK-ASS, 646-I-LUV-ASS, or 646-GIMME-ASS.”
Her: [typing away] “Nope. What else? And ‘GIMME-ASS’ is eight numbers.”
Me: “I know, I’m trying here. Um, 646-CHICKEN?”
Her: [typing away] “No. Next?”
Me: “Ok, ok. 646-EAT-SHIT? 646-BIG-POOP? ‘Poop’ and ‘shit’ are interchangeable, really.”

This went on for a solid fifteen minutes. When my dad was 26, he had been working full-time for eight years, had a two year old son, and a wife of three years. I’m 26, and I’m spending my Sunday afternoon hungover in a cell phone store trying to customize my number around vulgarities so that I can buy a phone that represents 5% of the cost of my dad’s first home. God bless America.

Eventually, we couldn’t find anything suitable (sad, I know), so I went with something “easy”, though I’m not quite sure how easy my new number is. I said goodbye to Sprint store girl and left. It was sad. More for me, less for her.

But the good news is that I got the Treo and I absolutely love it. I love texting and making calls and most importantly, I love walking around New York City using it in front of people. Of course, I haven’t figured out how to email or use the internet on it and I more than likely never will, but that’s not important. What’s important is that I got a self-esteem boost because of a purchase. And anything that ups my self-esteem, no matter what the economic, physical, or emotional cost, is a good thing.

Amen.

(But I really would have liked to have gotten 646-FUCK-YOU. I’m sorry, but it’s going to take me a while to get over this. We’re just going to have to work through it together.)

halloween recap

2005-11-01T15:15:00.000-05:00

This past Saturday night, my friends and I went out for Halloween.

I like Halloween. I'm not one of those people who gets dressed to the nines in an elaborate costume, but I usually come up with something good. As a matter of fact, I think a major part of how good a costume is is how easy it is to put together. Meaning, anyone can have a good costume if they have $200 to spend and put in five hours a weekend at local thrift shops and flea markets. The key is to pull something together that's easy but also inspires people to say, "Wow – sweet costume. Is that your real penis? If so, I'm terribly sorry."

For example, three years ago I wore my leisure suit (yes, I have a leisure suit) and shaved my beard, leaving just the moustache. I threw on some fake chains and showed a little chest hair and the transformation was complete. My costume? My dad in 1977. It doesn't sound too impressive, but every time someone asked me what the hell I was supposed to be and I cockily replied, "Duh – I'm my dad in 1977", it went over like gangbusters (whatever the hell they are). Of course, my dad was not into disco in the late 70's, but I don't think anyone I ran into personally knew my dad, so the secret was safe.

I also like Halloween because women just get downright slutty. I don't know why they do this, and I don't care. And so much has been written about this that I really don't have anything to add. As long as they keep dressing as slutty cats or slutty nurses or slutty hookers, I'm just going to keep my mouth shut and enjoy.

This year for Halloween, my buddies Joe and Bill came down from Boston to crash with my roommate Brian and I. Since those guys were coming down, we figured that we should do a group costume. This is good for several reasons:

1) It's easy. When shopping for a costume, it's easier to do it times four. One guy gets one piece for the group, one guy gets the other, etc. And as mentioned above, ease is important.

2) There's less ballbusting and more camaraderie. Instead of spending the night saying to each other, "I didn’t know you were going for gay cop with that costume; I thought you were just going to be a heterosexual police officer" and "Let me guess - you're an overweight guy who gets no ass, dressed in a ninja costume - am I right?" and making other snide remarks, there’s a sense of togetherness. You all look like assholes together, so there's no room for divisiveness.

3) Women are more likely to approach you. If I'm dressed as an Indian chief, no chicks are going to come up to ask me about my costume (hell, I could be dressed in $100 bills, wearing the finest jewels from the world over, talking loudly to Brad Pitt on my cell phone, and have a ten inch penis and women still wouldn’t approach me). But if you and your buddies are dressed as the Cosby kids, ladies might approach to compliment you (or call you racist – whichever).

We had three main ideas for this year, but first I should describe the four of us. First, there's me, the leader. I am chubby and a little tall. Then there's Brian, who's average height and weight. Joe is tall and thin and Bill is short and fat. Got that all?

Here were some of our choices:

The cast of Gilligan's Island
This could have worked. I would have been the skipper, Joe would be Gilligan, Brian the professor, and Bill, hopefully, one of the girls. Or we were toying with Bill being another castaway that was cut out of the show and/or died on the island ("I'm Justin, the gay actuary castaway who died of dysentery in the fifth episode!"). Though it would have been easy, it was nixed in the end, because we didn't think it was funny enough and a little dated.

The Original Kings of Comedy
I was all for this. I would be Bernie Mac, Bill Cedric the Entertainer, Brian DL Hughly, and Joe Steve Harvey. All we needed to do is get some turquoise suits, top hats, canes, and some jokes about white people ("I'll tell you somethin' - white people just can't dance!") and black women ("Now let me tell you - a real sistah will make love to you like you ain't never been loved befo'!"). However, this was disqualified because, really, where the hell were any of us going to find a double-breasted lavender suit or a chartreuse fedora?

The Mamas and the Papas
This was our runner-up. Bill would have had to bit the bullet and be Mama Cass, which would only take a muu muu and a wig. I have a leisure suit and 70’s clothes are not hard to get for the rest of us. But this was a nixed because, well, we thought of something better.

And that something better? Ladies and gentlemen, the Baldwin Brothers.

Yes, Alec, Daniel, Billy, and Stephen, the single greatest family in entertainment history. I have a small fascination with the brothers that I've been harboring for many years now, but it does not compare to the obsession my roommate Brian feels toward them. When he suggested the costume, I knew that that's what we were going to do for Halloween. But it was at once easy and difficult. We decided that the best way to do it would be to each wear suits with open shirts underneath, to slick our hair back, and also to wear name tags that said which Baldwin we were (for example, mine said, "Daniel B." on it). Of course, there's the whole matter of how we, four guys who are not related, look nothing like the Baldwin Brothers. We were ok with this, because at the very least the costume amused us. And hell, odds were that by the time we left our apartment we'd be so drunk it wouldn't matter anyway.

And wouldn't you know it - that's exactly what happened. Bill, Joe, Brian and I didn't leave the apartment until 12:20am, though we starting drinking at 6pm. That's almost 6.5 hours drinking, just four dudes, sitting in a room, dressed as the Baldwins, with a lot of Budweiser. It was probably the happiest I've been in years.

[And in case you're wondering, I was Daniel, Brian was Alec, Bill was Stephen, and Joe was Billy. This was almost entirely arbitrary, except that I'm the fattest and tallest, so I was Daniel.]

Our friend Jeremy convinced us to go to meet him and his crew at an apartment party in Gramercy. I'm pretty anti-party when I don't know the hosts, which was the case here, but we didn't have anything better to do, so we went. Jeremy was Napoleon Dynamite, which works well because he kinda looks like Napoleon Dynamite in every day life (same hair and awkwardness). The problem was that by the time we got to the party, Jeremy was so drunk that he was speaking only in character. This was tremendously annoying, but the good news is that ten minutes later, Jeremy was asked to leave the party because he was too drunk. So that left us, the four Baldwins, at a party where we didn't know the hosts or many other people there. It wasn't bad, but it wasn't ideal. At least people were digging the Baldwins costumes.

[Later, Jeremy would puke outside his apartment building, just in front of the restaurant next door. He said that as he stood outside the restaurant throwing up everywhere, the waiter was banging on the window, yelling at him, telling him to stop or move. Maybe you have to know Jeremy, but the image of him - dressed as Napoleon Dynamite, no less - doubled over and vomiting in front of diners at a packed restaurant while a waiter mimes yelling at him from the other side of a window, well, that's had me in high spirits for days.]

We checked out of the party, traveling all the way up the Upper East Side to meet some friends of mine that were in town from Philly. We brought with us two of our friends from the first party, Jamie and Angie (dressed as Britney and Kevin, respectively). Why they agreed to go all the way up to the UES with four guys who were dressed as the Baldwins and were way too drunk, I don't know.

When we got to the UES, my plan of meeting with my Philly friends fell apart. I'm still not quite sure what happened; I think my friend Marisa fell off a barstool and got kicked out of the bar while we were en route, and her friends left with her or something. But by then, we were stranded in the middle of nowhere, miles away from our apartment. So we had to make the best of it.

But something happened in the long cab ride up from Murray Hill to the UES. Usually, long cab rides in the middle of a drinking night are a time for quiet reflection, sobering up, and using every muscle in your body to prevent yourself from pissing your pants. But it seems like the group collectively got drunker. Brian went with the girls while Bill, Joe and I shared a cab, and when we finally settled on a bar, it was like we'd been drinking the whole cab ride up, even though we hadn't (well, I had a little bit to drink because I brought my vodka cran from the party into the cab with me, but it was like four ounces). But my expertise in all things boozing tells me that the alcohol finally hit us on this long drive. When you're standing at a bar or a party, talking to people, walking around, and keeping active, your body has a lot going on. But when you're sitting in a cab for twenty minutes, staring out the window and thinking about molesting the belly dancer from the party, your body says it to itself, "Well, I guess I better do something about all this alcohol. Here goes!"

And so at the bar, it was a whole new world. After some drinks and shots, Bill did what he does best, which is pass out in a public drinking establishment. For over an hour. I don't know how we didn't get asked by the staff to leave, because he was legitimately asleep on his bar stool. Of course, we took advantage of this by taking pictures of him passed out in awkward positions, most of them involving us simulating handjobs and various sexual positions (and yes ladies, most of us are single).

Brian, who is usually pretty reserved, put on one of the most impressive performances I've ever seen. Brian does this thing were he becomes a Booze Zombie after about 2am. He's functioning - still walking, talking, and drinking - but one look at him and you know nobody's home. It's amazing. And of course the next day he'll remember nothing from this time period. This is what Brian was like at this point in the evening.

So he saddled up on a barstool next to Jamie and spent the rest of the night staring at her cleavage. I'm not talking about admiring from afar here. Brian sat next to her, bending over her, his face four inches from her chest for about ninety straight minutes. When he'd come up for air, I'd go over to him and say, "Dude, take it easy. I think the Sex Crimes Unit is on the way." And, in Booze Zombie mode, he'd say, "What? I'm not being a pervert. Everything is fine. Everything is fine." Then he'd stare at her boobies some more.

Fortunately, Jamie was a good sport about this. Between Brian being a pervert and Bill passed out, Joe and I had ample ammunition to make fun of the two of them all night, right to their faces (of course, neither was really conscious). Being very drunk myself, I don't remember much but I know we closed the bar and went to get pizza.

At the pizza place, a little divey Ray's at 95th & 3rd, the six of us were divided into three adjoining tables: me and Joe at one, Ang and Jamie at another, and Bill and Brian at a third. At Brian and Bill's table, someone who had previously eaten there left a takeout container half-filled with some pasta dish, like a shrimp scampi or something. We all munched away at our pizza, not thinking anything of this trash that someone had left behind, when suddenly Angie said, "Um, Brian, that's not yours." We looked over and Brian was twirling this half-eaten pasta dish with a fork. We all laughed, he was embarrassed and put down the fork, and we continued eating later.

No more than fifteen seconds later, Brian was eating this shrimp scampi. I mean, just going AFTER it: twirling up big heaping forkfuls and sending them down the hatch. Naturally, we all peed ourselves a little bit in laughter as we kept saying, "Dude - that's not yours! Someone ate that and left that to be thrown away!" Undaunted, he took a couple more forkfuls than said he was full. I don't remember if he then threw it out or left it for another patron to enjoy. After that, we went home. Mostly because it was almost 5am, but also because we didn't think we could top that. Nothing like watching another man eat trash to really cap off the weekend.

**********

You might be surprised to learn that the next day, Brian didn't remember much. He joked later that he got a little too into character, which is totally ok on Halloween (especially if you're a Baldwin). But I am very proud of him and proud of the rest of my Baldwin brothers for an entertaining night. Looking back, we really didn't do much, but I had a blast. I guess I'm a simple man: all I need is a solid 10+ hours of drinking, a few friends pretending we're the Baldwins, one guy to pass out at the bar, and another guy to eat trash, and I'm a happy, happy man. I think that means I'm getting old. Oh well.

Happy Halloween!

2005-10-31T15:26:00.000-05:00

No post today, as I try to make sense of a strange weekend, but I wanted to send my love. So, um, Happy Halloween and whatnot. Back tomorrow.

young lust

2005-10-27T16:17:00.000-04:00

For the most part, I have made it a practice not to lust after my younger siblings’ friends.

This may not sound like such a grand resolution, but you all know that I lust after everything and anything: boobies (and flesh in general), four-day old lunchmeat, used tennis balls, wires, tubing, worn hair pieces, etc. So for me to throw down the gauntlet like this, well, it’s pretty fucking impressive.

But, like they always do, things done changed. I left my hometown of Philly in 1997, at the age of 18. When I left, my little brother (and his friends) was 14. My little sister (and her friends) was only 11.

Since then, I have returned to Philly on breaks and vacations and watched these friends grow into, ahem, women. I don’t mean this in the pervy “I’m waiting in a trash can in your backyard” sense, but just that I see them when I go out.

(Ok, and one time I hid in one girl’s trash can for four days before I realized she was on vacation. What, and you’re perfect?)

But on each visit back home, I have managed to successfully restrain myself. It’s one thing for me to go up to an unfamiliar girl in Boston or New York and say, “Hey, I’ll give you $46 to come home with me and let me take pictures of you in my clothes”, but it’s another entirely to make such an offer to a woman and have her say, “You’re Dennis’ older brother, right? God, you are as creepy as I’ve heard.”

So I’ve done pretty well with this over the years. When I now go out in the bars in Philly, I’ll see my siblings’ friends, say a cordial and polite hello, and move on. Of course, I’ll spend the rest of the night with a mild erection thinking, “My god – look at her! The last time I saw her she was making her first communion, and now she looks like she’s been in at least a half dozen Vivid films!”

[Editor’s note: I realize that joke alienates the non-Catholics and the non-porn people, but get over it.]

But last week I spent a few days in Philly, hanging out, going out, and getting drunk and it was hard (no pun intended). Worse yet, it was (nearly) uncontrollable. I have to face the fact that my younger siblings’ friends are entirely lustworthy. Damn.

Firstly because, when I was 22 and 19, girls simply did not look like they do now. I know I sound like an old fuddy-duddy, but I know that every guy in America (and possibly Europe and Africa, but not Asia) who read that sentence is thinking, “Yeah, that’s true.” I don’t know what’s happened over the last decade or so, but I’m desperately trying to find out. When I was 18 (I’m 26 now), sure, there were some very attractive girls I was friends with (read: cranked called in the middle of the night to hear their breathing). But they were different…they were certainly good-looking and attractive, but, as referenced above, the didn’t look like they were coming off a shoot of “Island Fever 2” or “Where The Boys Aren’t, Volume 12” (of course, this isn’t to say that this new breed of girls is slutty, but that they just have a certain look about them – although if they were slutty, that is something I totally support).

Secondly, there is the element of the shock factor. For example, one night I saw a girl who I hadn’t seen since she was about 11 (maybe eight or nine years ago) and when she said hello I didn’t recognize her. When in mid-conversation I finally did recognize her, I actually blushed because she had really, um, blossomed. It’s kinda like that SNL skit I love so much: the one in which Lindsay Lohan plays a newly-busty Hermione, shocking Harry Potter and the other characters (sorry, I don’t know any other Harry Potter character names because I’m a grown-ass man).

Thirdly, young girls are HOT. Maybe it’s because they don’t have the baggage/history that women my age come with, baggage that renders them bitter, distrustful, and incapable of any emotions aside from “need” and “want” and “infliction of distress” (again ladies, that email address is jason@jasonmulgrew.com). Maybe because it’s unorthodox or even taboo to date someone much younger than yourself. Or maybe it’s just because we men want to do them first, before they’re collecting sexual partners like tubes of lipstick or scrunchies or whatever the hell else it is that women collect.

Fourthly, I’m no Denzel, but when learning of many of the guys these girls are sleeping with (most of them time, secretly sleeping with), it is easy to lust after them more, putting all your faith into “if he can get her, why can’t I?” that I have struggled many a night with. This conversation happened a lot:

Me: “My god – is that [some girl I haven’t seen since she was 13 and now looks like a Hooters trainee]?”
Buddy: “Yeah, that’s her. She really grew up, didn’t she?”
Me: “Good lord! Is she with anyone?”
Buddy: “Yeah, she’s messing around with Tommy C.”
Me: “Tommy C? Isn’t that the guy that pushed him mom down a flight of stairs? The really bad gambler, right? And isn’t he like 36?”
Buddy: “That’s him. But don’t tell anybody. He’s getting married next month to some hot-ass Rican broad from Fairmount, so it’s secret.”
Me: [stabs penis with fork]

So it’s over for me. I have tried very hard over the years to do my best and shrug off these sex kitten friends of my siblings, but I can no longer do it. And to be honest, I’m not concerned. I probably should have known this day would come eventually. But perhaps I’m worried that this is an après ceci, le deluge-type thing. Now that I am ok with lusting after them, maybe I’m going to start approaching them in bars asking them if they’d like to see my dad’s basement or if they know that I live in New York City (“In Manhattan, actually. Have you heard of Manhattan? Do you know the show Friends?”). Maybe I’ll start talking at length about the luxurious trips I take to faraway places, hoping that my stories about the African plains and the fjords of Scandinavia (all lies of course) will lead to a shared cigarette and a smooch. Or maybe I’ll just get very drunk and yell inappropriate things at them from the bar stool. Probably that last one.

The good news is that I’m not planning on returning to Philly for a while, so maybe I’ll cool off before then. Let’s just hope that happens, or else I am going to have some big problems. And by “I” I mean “These girls”. I’ll be just fine, only because I always am.

…

God I’m so fucking high right now. Time for a nap.

some world series-related thoughts

2005-10-26T11:20:00.000-04:00

1) Do black people go to Astros games, or is that not allowed? Was it “White Night” at Minute Maid last night? I think I saw maybe a half dozen black people in the stands at the game last night, although most of the time it was only a quick glimpse so they could have been really tan Italian or Greek guys. Did anyone else notice this, or am I just sensitive because I’m been secretly dating a hot black chick?

2) Why do so many players have trouble being called off pop ups? Why do easy pop ups so often end in collisions or near-collisions between players? Do the players not hear each other saying “I got it?” Is it an ego thing? Do they get an extra $100 per pop up? When I was in Little League, I used to let my teammates go after pop ups all the time and it was not a hard thing to do. I mean, fundamentals, people. If one guy says “I got it”, let him take it. This is not hard.

3) What the fuck is wrong with Dustin Hermanson’s goatee? Are those white splotches on his chin or is he trying to do some AJ from the Backstreet Boys-type thing? Judging from this picture from when he was in Boston, I think he likes the AJ carved goatee look. Either way it looks ridiculous.

4) Craig Biggio is a very easy player to root for. Not only does he consistently produce despite being 5’1” and not having a batting helmet that actually fits him, but he’s a class act too. His wife was in the stands in Chicago for Game Two and was slapped by a (male) White Sox fan. Biggio went into the press and said it wasn’t a big deal and that he wasn’t going to judge all the ChiSox fans because of the actions of some jerk. Good for him. If someone hit my wife, I would have taken him into my basement and raped him with a shoehorn, but that’s just me.

5) AJ Piersynzkeisni looks like a real asshole. I know every team he’s played for has hated him and I can see this in his face. Something about the smug look he has screams, “I am a real douche.” I just want to punch him in his fucking face. And he doesn’t even owe me money.

6) Paul Konerko has a really unfortunate bald spot. I’m trying to thing of what celebrity he looks like with curly hair and the bald spot, but I don’t have anything (Steve Guttenberg maybe?). But regardless, he’ll be able to afford plenty of Rogaine come this winter.

7) I know the Sports Guy talks about this a lot, but the incessant promos for Fox shows are going beyond advertising and entering the world of psychological manipulation or even hypnosis. My god, enough already with “Bones” and “House” and “Prison Break”. If you’re going to promote at least one of these shows during EVERY commercial, can you at least make several commercials for each? Like maybe show one “Prison Break” commercial wherein the protagonist is sitting on the toilet in his cell pooping and the narrator says, “He broke into to prison to break out his brother. But he never realized how embarrassing shitting in front of another man is. [pause for six seconds while camera closes up on guy shitting with his head in his hands] Boy this is uncomfortable.”

8) I’m glad the Astros got rid of the playoff beards. This ain’t hockey, geeks: you’re wearing tights and hitting a little white ball. So dispense with the lumberjack look.

9) I’m sorry, but any pitcher with bleach blond hair doesn’t scare me. Houston’s Mike Gallo has hair whose color can best be described as “lemon.” And though he did his job, he looked ridiculous doing it. Guys, no hair dyeing. C’mon. You should know better than this.

10) Heck of a Series so far, despite the 3-0 Sox lead. But we’ve got to try to limit the extra inning games. I like baseball as much as the next guy, but after four hours, things get kinda blurry and I start zoning out. I think the ‘Stros win tonight, but then the Sox finish it in Houston tomorrow night. And I know a lot about sports, so feel free to wager on this if you like.

"party"

2005-10-24T12:48:00.000-04:00

Many years from now, long after my spectacular death in a garbage fire, my authorized biography will be released. It will come after several unauthorized biographies, which will contain various half-truths and lies, like how I was briefly Vice President in Charge of Operations for Petco (half-truth; I was CFO), how I played a small but important role in the Falklands War (lie; not even sure what the Falklands War is), how I don’t know how to use a fax machine and have always hated this about myself (half-truth; no idea how to use a fax machine but I don’t care), and how once when cornered by a gang of youths in 2000 I turned a potentially dangerous situation into a satisfying sexual romp (lie; I wasn’t cornered, it was two men I met at club and not a gang, it was only somewhat satisfying, and it cost me $400).

Of course, there will be shocking revelations in this authorized volume, penned by my long time friend and confidant, this guy. And of course, I won’t reveal these revelations now, because I want you to buy the book. Not for me, because I’ll be dead, but for my estate, to whom I will leave many, many legal bills and gambling debts and countless half-Taiwanese children, all named Sip-Sip.

But there will be a lot of talk in the biography about how, though loved by literally millions – even trillions perhaps – I have, for the most part, few friends. This is my own fault entirely. It’s not because I’m not that open of a person and yada yada yada, but this isn’t therapy. It’s also because I suck at the whole keeping in touch thing and doing my part to make friendships work. I’m not good at following through with plans, I don’t return most emails, and if you call me, there’s a less than 10% chance I’m going to call you back (in part because of my horrible Sprint cell phone; by the way, I think I’m getting a Sidekick – please email me if you have one and tell me what you think).

Basically because I’m lazy, self-centered and somewhat private, I don’t have a lot of friends (I should say that this applies to NYC only; I have lots of friends in Philly and Boston and had lots of friends in NYC before everyone moved out). I have lots of associates and people I get along with, but few tried-and-true, “wipe my ass after I’ve shit myself on your bedroom floor and passed out” buds. Sad, but true. The good news is that I always manage to convince myself that I have more, but the bad news is that this weekend I learned that it just ain’t true.

On Saturday night, Brian and I had a joint party. Friday was Brian’s birthday. He is now 27, and we are all happy he made it this far. Seriously, I don’t know how he’s lived this long, but we’re not going to start questioning this, lest we jinx him.

On my end, I’m working on this. For legal/pr reasons, that’s all I can say about that until further notice. I’m also working on another project which I can’t speak about for the same legal reasons (not the same exact legal reason, but a different set). Additionally, my wonderful, wonderful employer has made it possible for me to work only one day a week while I pursue these other things. So basically this is the best time of my life and this party was to celebrate that.

[And yes, I hope to make an official, tell-all announcement very soon. But please, this is all I can say now, so don’t inundate me with emails. Believe me, I want you all to know, and as soon as I get the green light, I’ll let you all know, but this stuff takes time. But know that I’m working one day a week at my real job and writing (read: sleeping in, being slovenly and disappointing people) the rest of time. Thank you for understanding.]

We even classed it up a bit. We usually have our parties at the Keltic Lounge on Ludlow Street, but this time around we went for the Happy Ending Lounge. Brian and I had been there before several times, and it’s not too fancy for scumbags like us and our friends. Plus, it was a special occasion: Brian is old and I’m livin’ the dream, so a lil’ fanciness wouldn’t hurt.

What we didn’t know was that the location of the bar really didn’t matter. By the end of the night, Brian summed it up best: it was a new personal low. Ladies and gentleman, Brian and I had our party at Happy Ending. We were there from 10pm until 4am. We were expecting around 50 people. Six people joined us.

Six.

(Eight if you include Brian and I. But I don’t think we should.)

I should clarify to say that six people spent a decent amount of time at the bar. By that I mean that six people were at the bar for longer than one hour. Roughly ten others stopped in for a drink en route to other, no doubt more exciting places and parties.

Six. I sent out an email inviting around 80. Six came and hung out. Ouch.

In truth, I am not that bothered by this. I had a pretty decent time with those that did come, managed to get very drunk, bought drinks for everyone, and had my credit card rejected because it’s maxed out. Good stuff.

And like I said, it’s my fault too. I stink at being a friend, so I shouldn’t have been surprised. Also, a few people replied to the email to say that they couldn’t make it. Also, it was pouring rain and around 48° out, so if I didn’t have a party to host I probably wouldn’t have come either.

But damn – six. That’s just embarrassing. I don’t want to turn this into a pity party, because I’ll make it. Sure, Brian and I might just have to move out of NYC and rent a house upstate where we can get messed up and start fights with trees, but if that’s what we have to do, that doesn’t sound too bad.

And I’m not, in any way, mad at those who didn’t come. I’m sure they each thought, “Jason is the most wonderful and charismatic person I know, so I’m sure he won’t even notice if I don’t make his party, because there will probably be all sorts of athletes, celebrities, and strippers there.” I’m ok with that. Of course, these people didn’t know that I locked myself in the bathroom for two hours during the party while my friend Jeremy talked through the door consoling me, finally getting me to come out only when he promised me that we’d go to Friendly’s the next day. God bless him.

But the whole incident made me put things into perspective. I need to do one of the following things:

1) Be a better friend. I doubt this is going to happen, so let’s just move on. Although maybe if I get that Sidekick, that will help.

2) Join some groups or some shit. Maybe I can look for friends on craigslist or join a choir or discussion group or something. This probably isn’t going to happen, because I’m not good at meeting new people and I don’t really want to discuss anything except how awesome I am and how much I can bench press.

3) Move. I can either move to Philly or Boston where I have friends and family, or to LA, where I don’t know anyone but I can start over as a vegan, environmentalist, and horrible writer who uses way too may run-on sentences and doesn’t place quotation marks properly. Odds are not good on this either, because moving would require a ton of physical effort, something I am strongly averse to.

4) Nothing. Winner.

So that was the big party and this is what I’m going to do. I don’t really have an ending or a point, so I’ll go with this: Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go lie on the couch and watch ESPN all afternoon. If I get ambitious, I might make a giant omelet, but right now I can’t tell either way.

sizemore/paris, karaoke gibby, id1g1t, music, nfl (not) picks, b-day

2005-10-21T12:41:00.000-04:00

Erin in the Philly was the first to send me this.

My fascination/love with/for Tom Sizemore has been well documented on this site, and this latest piece of news makes me very happy, because it just keeps getting better. Just when you think he can’t top himself after releasing his own homemade porn, he goes and claims that he banged Paris Hilton.

The thing is, I would believe him if his story wasn’t so far-fetched. Sizemore “heard the repeated clicks of a cigarette lighter and followed the sound to his gym, where he saw Hilton, and suggested rather explicitly that the two should have sex.”

Survey says? No way. That’s too, too…porno-like. That doesn’t happen in the real world, even in the world of celebrities. I’ve seen every Paris Hilton sex tape and I know that she’s not coy enough for something like that. If Sizemore had said,

“I had a party at my house and went to take a shit and found Paris passed out in my bathroom with a bottle of champagne. She attacked my penis like a piece of kielbasa, passed out, and I made her sleep in my pool house. It was pretty uneventful.”

I would have believed him. But the clicking lighter and sex on the gym equipment? No way. Hell, I think I’ve seen that actual scene in “Masseuse 3”, starring Stacey Valentine, Jill Kelly, Raylene, and Dale Debone. So don’t try to tell me that actually happened, Sizemore.

But I wait with bated breath for his next misadventure. If I had to guess, I’m thinking it’s got to involve either a) a church or other house of worship or b) something racist. At least I hope it involves one of those two. Let’s keep our fingers crossed.

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Thanks for the all the kudos on the karaoke post. A lot of y’all wrote in, offering additional karaoke types, but David from Venice (California, not Italy) gave the best example:

In your list you need to include what we can call the 'Kirk Gibson' or 'Gibby'. For whatever reason, he doesn't sing at karaoke bars...ever. Perhaps you've had one or two or ten drinks in yer belly and you try to cajole, harang, or intimidate him into singing (by the way, is there no better word in the English language to get another guy to do something than by calling him a "skirt"?). For whatever reason, he refuses to get on stage. Maybe he "isn't drunk enough". Maybe "all the songs the karaoke dude has sucks." Maybe he just doesn't "want to make an ass out" of himself. Maybe he's "got really intense diarrhea and cannot be away from the toilet for more than two minutes". Whatever. Over the years you have never seen him do anything at a karaoke bar but drink and make snarky remarks about everyone who gets on stage except for that drunk-ass Pancho who sings "Strokin'" before he passes out on the bar because that guy fucking rocks. Anyways, one night you are at a karaoke bar, and you don't expect 'Gibby' to sing, because it's just not in the cards.

Until one night, you notice that he has hobbled his way onto the stage. He looks in rough shape. You almost sense how much pain he is in being up there. You hope for the best, a miracle, but you feel that the deck is stacked against him. But somehow it all comes together, and he knocks it out of the park. Whether it is your version of Joe Cocker's "I Am So Beautiful to You" or Random Asian Guy with Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'" or some guy doing David Lee Roth's "Just A Gigolo" or Guns-n-Roses "Paradise City" (all eighty minutes of it), the song and performance just bring the house down...and then he never sings again. All of this is like Kirk Gibson in the 1988 World Series: wasn't supposed to play, suddenly appears in the dugout, hobbles out to the plate, belts out a memorable, emotional game-winning home run, and never appears in the World Series again. Hence, the Karaoke Gibby.

Dynamite. This is a classic karaoke guy who I overlooked: the guy who gets up and out of nowhere bangs one out, shocking the whole room, and rides off into the sunset.

Also, I love any example that reminds of my childhood so vividly. The Gibson home run off Eck was one of the first “I remember where I was and what I was doing when that happened” sports moments of my childhood, right up there with the Tyson-Douglas fight, the A’s-Giants Earthquake game, and when the Ultimate Warrior fairly beat Hulk Hogan in WrestleMania VI. God I miss those days.

(Maybe I should write a book about my childhood?)

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If you don’t know, now you know: ID1G1T is the coolest site on the web. It allows you to listen to songs right on your PC, or you can right-click and save the song to your desktop.

And they have a ton of stuff on there, including most, if not all, of our Six Songs selections. I was hoping from now on to hyperlink each Six Song to ID1G1T so that you can just click and listen, but for technical reasons that I’d rather not get into, I can’t do that. So you’ll have to search for them yourself using the link above, but at least you’ll be able to listen to each Six Song from now on (most of them, at least).

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Six Songs:

“Ain’t That Enough” Teenage Fanclub
I referenced it in a post about a week ago, but it deserves it own “Six Song” designation. Airy harmonies, fun guitars, and happiness, happiness, happiness. Download it and listen to it while driving in a convertible.

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

“Lady Stardust” David Bowie
Some of David Bowie’s songs are so beautiful they make me want to cry. If were talented and ambitious, I think I could write a whole movie or novel just by listening to this song over and over again. So, so pretty, except for the last line, where David mumbles (I think), “Get some pussy now.” Otherwise, pretty song.

“Fight Test” The Flaming Lips
I love sad songs the best, but I love original sad songs even more. By this I mean that there are thousands of songs that say, “I’m sad since you left.” This song says, “I’m sad because I let another man take you from me and I didn’t put up a fight for you.” Elegiac is the word I’m looking for, I think, but I only got a 470 on the verbal portion of my SAT.

“I’m A Cuckoo” Belle and Sebastian
If you want to walk around with a smile on your face, blast this number from your iPod. You’ll be skipping down the street by the second verse.

“Thundercrack” Bruce Springsteen
An epic on par with The Who’s “A Quick One While He’s Away.” I’m not particularly a fan of the Boss, but this one gets me all riled up (and not in that way).

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You may have noticed that last week I didn’t write about my and my mom’s NFL picks. This feature has been permanently discontinued. Not because I was losing; indeed, if you’re read even a little bit of this website you know that losing is something that I am used to. Rather, no more NFL picks for two reasons:

1) You all didn’t like it. In keeping with the whole “We’re going to complain about something we get for free”, the email/hate mail was enough to turn me off. So I get it – you didn’t like it. No more.

2) My mom got WAY too competitive about it. Before, she and I never spoke about sports. By week two, she was calling me on Sundays, asking me how she was doing and who I picked for certain games. I was afraid that by week nine we’d no longer be speaking to each other.

So no more picks. Gambling is a bad habit anyway (and I have my fair share of vices already, thank you very much).

******************************************

Finally, happy birthday to my asshole roommate Brian. We will be celebrating on Saturday night, so that means at about 4:14am on Saturday night/Sunday morning Brian will be incarcerated and I will be at the sixth precinct screaming, “Do you know who the fuck I am? I am my own man! I am a grown-ass man!” at the top of my lungs as some of New York’s Finest mace and/or club me (probably both). So if you want to meet me, come on down. And bring some oatmeal raisin cookies, because I’m thinking I’ll need some comfort food.

karaoke

2005-10-19T20:08:00.000-04:00

On Saturday night I went to a birthday party for a female friend (actually, two female friends) at a karaoke bar. That means tons of drunk girls with full access to a very loud microphone. Yikes.

Now I’m not one to throw stones and come down on karaoke. Last August, I gave arguably the greatest performance in karaoke history in the Bahamas, actually threatening the structure of the hotel because I received such thunderous applause. It was, and always will be, the greatest moment of my life. So before we continue, know that I like karaoke.

However, on this particular night, I wasn’t “feeling it.” I was suffering some several gastrointestinal distress (thank you Pomodoro’s vodka slice) so I couldn’t get drunk enough to let my inhibitions fly and sing my enlarged heart out.

But the good news is that I was able to sit on the sidelines and ponder. When I wasn’t thinking about the gargantuan breasts of the bartender and waitress (seriously, they were SPECTACULAR – and you know I’m not fucking around when I use capital letters like that), I took notice of all the people singing karaoke, dividing them into the ten main types of karaoke-ers below.

The group of screaming girls
By far, the most abundant source of noise, I mean, singing, at the karaoke bar. The group can consist of anywhere from two to ten girls standing on stage, screaming like a gang of deaf mutes to a girl power song (number one example: “I Will Survive”). Those girls that didn’t have the cajones to get one stage to sing will stand in front of the stage and root on their friends wailing their hearts out. Just a messy, messy scene. If I weren’t so lonely, I’d say that I couldn’t date a girl who partakes in this, but times are tough.

The black guy who can really sing
Every karaoke bar has one. He’ll get on stage and do a random D’Angelo, R. Kelly or Gerald Levert song just go OFF, singing every note perfectly, getting way too into him, and doing every noise, squeal, and extended “Oh yeah” and “Yeah baby” that his hero sings.

But however good his singing voice, he is looked down upon by the audience. His intense effort, seriousness, and high pitched “Oh yeaahh, yeah-yeah-yeah, you know I’m gon’ love you right, girl” turns the audience off. Instead of getting compliments like, “Man, you sound exactly like R. Kelly!” he hears, “Man, you need a hobby or some shit” and countless American Idol jokes. Poor guy.

The fat chick who can really sing
The fat chick who can really sing is closely related to the black guy who can really sing, with one main difference: he’s black and she’s fat. But another example of someone getting on stage and going for at all, leaving the audience feeling more saddened than awed.

The unattractive girl who after she sings is much hotter
One time, many years ago, I was at a karaoke bar in Boston and this chick got up on stage. She was somewhere between not good looking to average, but didn’t have any major physical deformities (giant head, one arm, moustache, tail, etc).

Anyway, she got up there and did a near-perfect Janis Joplin impression to “Piece Of My Heart” and every single guy in the bar was in love with her from the first note. It was an incredible transformation from meek average girl to sexual angel of sin and lust (or something). She didn’t have the scratchy voice like Joplin, but she nailed it. I remember my friends and I got quiet when she started singing and when she was finished, my buddy Tom broke the silence saying, “Well, that was just about the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

I didn’t see her on this particular Saturday night, but I know she exists. Keep an eye out for her. In fact, you might want to hit on OK-looking girls at the karaoke bar hoping that they get on stage and do something hot. That’s called buying low and selling high.

The random Asian/Southeast Asian guy who lives for the stage
A karaoke bar staple. This is arguably my favorite character at the karaoke bar and this guy was in full effect on Saturday night. Up to the stage went a conservative looking bespectacled Asian guy in a red North Face jacket with the sleeves rolled up, and he proceeded to bring the house down with an impassioned performance of Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing”. When it was over, there wasn’t a dry eye in the room. Just tremendous in every way.

The clown
This would be the category that I fit into, I think. The guy who gets up there to do something funny, like dedicate a song to a girl or sing something retarded (i.e. Tiny Turner’s “Private Dancer” or The Scorpion’s “Winds of Change”). Of course, this has varying degrees of success and can either be an enjoyable experience or leave the singer and audience feeling awkward and ashamed. With me, it’s mostly the latter. Damn.

The group of douchebags/guidos/meatheads who sing a popular song
These guys will get on stage to show off their new striped shirts (which of course are opened to reveal their pumped pecs and white beaters), their awesomely gelled hair, and their muscles and sing something dumb like “Hit Me One More Time” or another corny pop song.

Of course, the performance stinks and anyone with an IQ over 90 and a moderate amount of self-esteem either shakes their head in disgusts or laughs at these guys, but what amazes/saddens me is how many dumb (yet super hot) girls go nuts for this stuff. I mean, it is a rule that really hot girls have to be dumb and go for dumb guys? Did I miss this somewhere along the line? If I were a dumb hot chick, I’d think that maybe I’d think to myself, “I’m hot, but very dumb. And being dumb sucks. So since I can have any guy I want, I’m going to go with a smart guy, a guy who knows that ‘longitude’ is not a way to brag about the length of one’s penis. This way, maybe my kids will be smart and won’t have all the problems I faced in my dumb life.” But I guess that never happens and if I ever want to fulfill my dream of making it with a hoop-earring wearing, busty and tan hot mama, I’m gonna have to hit the gym, salon, and Banana Republic. Crap.

The drunk guy who has potential but then it gets sad
This is my other favorite character. This is the blitzed guy who gets up on stage to the cheers of his friends, who are expecting a stellar, alcohol-fueled performance. The drunk guy who has potential but then it gets sad will soak in the cheers, waving to his buddies as he slowly rocks back and forth on stage, drunk off his ass. Now is his time.

Then the song will start, and it’s all downhill from there. He’ll mumble through the most of the song and forget the rest, not realizing that the words appear right on the screen in front of him. His friends, who had been cheering, will look at him in disgust and start heckling him as he struggles through “Billy Jean” in a monotone voice. Most of the time, disappointed with his performance, he’ll simply walk off the stage mid-song. And everyone is sad. Except me of course, who is standing by the bar laughing and looking at the bartender’s cleavage, wondering why I woke up in an abandoned car that morning. But that’s just me.

The guy/girl who gets way too into it
This guy (or girl) can take my different forms. Perhaps, like two examples above, he can really sing and gets very emotional and into the song. Or perhaps, this guy can’t sing but still gets into the song anyway, because he thinks he sounds exactly like Robert Plant. Or perhaps even this guy is so wrapped up in the majesty that is “Closer to the Heart”, he starts dancing around and doing the air guitar.

Any way you cut it, he needs to relax, come down of the stage, and sit the next few plays out. There’s a little bit of this in every karaoke performer and that’s ok, but when you rejoin your friends at the table and they say, “Dude, what the fuck was that?”, you’re doing something wrong.

The professional
This guy is the perfect combination. He knows his voice and range, has good stage presence, has his timing down, and delivers a smooth performance. Rare is the person who can make everyone at the karaoke place happy, but this guy can do it. “Magic” is the only word that comes to mind.

[I read the above a paragraph over and debated changing “guy” to “guy/girl” and “his” to “his/her” to lessen the homoerotic overtones, but fuck it. I stand by everything I write. Mostly.]

******

So there are the ten types of karaoke-er. The question is: which one are you? I would say you’re probably The random Asian/Southeast Asian guy who lives for the stage, only because over 87% of my readers live in Asia, Southeast Asia, and Eurasia. Christ, I’m like a god in Hindustan. Or maybe it’s one of the other “-stan” countries. Whatever.

a life lesson

2005-10-18T15:32:00.000-04:00

If I’m not careful, this post will degenerate into a word orgy about men and how they are dumb and women and how they suck, so I’m going to try to limit myself here. Not because I have anything better to do, and not because I’m lazy (though I certainly am lazy), but I’m trying to get the posts away from “hateful tirade” and most toward “reasonably coherent complaining”. Wish me luck.

One important thing I learned this weekend:

Never underestimate how long a group of guys will watch a decent looking girl play pool poorly in the hopes of getting in her pants.

On Friday night, I went out with about ten guys...and one girl. Rest assured, the girl was not my friend. All my female friends moved out of the city a year or so ago, and since then I haven’t been able to find replacements. I assume this is because every time I get close to a woman (emotionally) I rub my penis against her (physically) and usually any friendship that was building between us gets washed away (or rather, wiped away). But such is life.

This girl was a friend of one of the guys we went out with. It was a larger than normal crew; both my roommate Brian and I had friends in town, and we met up with more friends, so we were rolling thick.

And we were having a good time. Beers and shots were flowing freely, as it was nice to have so many friends gathered in one place. Special props go to my roommate Brian, who wakes up every day during the week for work at 4:45am but somehow manages to go out drinking every Friday night from the moment he leaves work until the lights come on at the bar (more on this later). Jesus. I sleep ten hours a night and on most days I have to have two red bulls to help me get through a shower.

I couldn’t really determine the connection between the girl, whose name I don’t remember but who I’ll christen Jessica, and our mutual friend, my buddy Mike. She was just sort of there, no questions asked. And she was a nice enough girl and pretty good-looking. I harbor no ill will toward her, nor do I blame her for how my friends behaved through the course of the night.

At the beginning, things were fine and normal. Everyone stood around drinking, talking to each other. There were comments made on the side between the guys (“She’s a PYT, eh?” and “She’s got a slammin’ lil’ body” and “Is that Mulgrew over there praying with the guy in the wheelchair?”), but for the most part, everyone was civil and well-behaved.

But as the night progressed and more booze was consumed, I noticed changes in the way my friends acted around her. Chests were stuck out and puffed up. Body language changed, was more confident, louder. The guys started standing around Jessica, hoping to be closest to her. Each man subtly jockeyed for positioning in the race for her affections.

It was more and more apparent that this was becoming a competition for her. This was never admitted between my friends, but it was true nonetheless. It was as though after enough booze, each man had made a decision: “I’m going to get on this girl. But first I’m going to get another beer. But I am totally going to get on her. Oh yes, she will be mine.”

And so we left the first bar and went to the second, an awesome place that has 32oz beers for $7 (trust me, in NYC, this is a steal). At this bar was a pool table, which was the chance for my friends to show off their pool playing to Jessica, akin to when we were in 7th grade and the star basketball player got all the girls while I talked to them (the girls) on the phone about how the star b-ball player was really a dick and they deserved better, perhaps someone who could read above a 4th grade level and knew that the US had a president, not a king.

Once the pool playing began, what followed was a scene that appeared to be adapted from the African plains. My friends (male lions) lorded over their domain (the pool table) while Jessica (the lioness) lolled about. Guys got territorial, each tried to teach her to play pool, and there were some rivalries going on. Each guy did his best pool shark imitation, leaning over her, teaching her to shoot. Then she'd play against guys and with other guys, all the while they'd be refuting each other's pool knowledge, putting each other down to look better in her eyes. It was like the way lions strut around and fight to show how tough they are to the female lion. It was not only primitive, it was primal.

Where was I in this whole process, you ask? I was playing the role of the "slow" lion. You know, the one that sits in the shade, laying around in his own feces, waiting for others to kill something so he can eat it, and occasionally roaring (but not to intimidate, but to complain). I've never done well when there's a competition for a girl among a group of guys. I think this is because of my delicate mixture of low self-esteem, apathy, and pride (and yes, I know low self-esteem and pride are opposites, but bear with me).

For one, I don't know if I've mentioned this, but I'm not exactly "all that". I am chubby (on a good day), have bad hair, have a weird speaking voice, and when I talk to women at bars I spit all over them. Not to mention my baby penis and pea-testicles. So I'm when in a bar in a competitive environment for a woman, I will defer to the other, fitter males present. Hell, I could be in a shelter and still have to defer to the the other, fitter males, but I digress.

Secondly, I really don't care that much about chasing tail. If going after a girl means that I'm going to have to forsake having a good time and subtly compete with my friends, f that. I know that most times when I go after a girl I usually go home with a slice of pizza and a chicken roll, so I'm better off saving my energy and effort and having a good time with my friends.

Thirdly, and probably most importantly, I don't want said girl to think that I'm just another a-hole vying for her attention. I'd rather go with the attitude of, "Well, you ain't that special to begin with, so I'm not gonna go out of my way to impress you because I've had a few beers. Go with one of the other geeks." I know this makes me sound like an egomaniac and very bitter, but, well, I am a bitter egomaniac. You suck too.

I wish there was a happier ending to this story, but there ain't. After watching the guys watch this girl play the worst pool that humankind was ever seen for a solid two hours, she got a phone call, stormed out of the bar, and was gone. Poof. No one knew why, no one knew what happened, and no one said anything about the little competition. When it was all said and done, all that effort, wasted, for nothing. Sheesh.

I'm done. I can't wait to get my eHarmony profile going. Or perhaps I'll just put an add on craigslist like:

Look, I'm tired. About me:

Pros:

I have some money
My friends mostly like me
I am a little bit famous, or at least known
I have a very well-trimmed beard, and my pubic hair is pretty nice too

Cons:

I am not good-looking and in terrible shape
I drink perhaps a little too much
I pretty much just want someone to have sex with
I am vengeful

If you are between 21 and 25, live in Manhattan, and most of your friends would describe you as "doable", please send a picture. Please, no fatties. No small boobied-women either. Thank you for your time.

Keep your fingers crossed.

[Also, a small story about my roommate Brian. Brian had a family wedding in NJ at noon on Saturday near his hometown (it takes him about two hours to get there via public transportation). After work ended on Friday at 4 in the afternoon, he went out boozing and put in a solid half day, staying out drinking until 4am. When he got home, he set his alarm for 8am so that he would make the 12pm wedding. Of course, he slept through the alarm and woke up at 12:15pm. Horrified, he jumped out of bed to learn that his parents and siblings had been texting and calling him since 10:30am. We talked it over and decided he had only one way to go: tell his parents that the power went out and his alarm didn't go off and that his phone's ringer was off. We thought it was the only option, even though his parents would know it was a lie and that he was drunk. For this reason, surely they wouldn't ask him to attend the reception, what with the wedding being two hours away and Brian so very late and hungover.

That was not to be. Brian's dad was more than a little p.o.'ed and ordered him to come to the NJ for the reception. Brian raced to Penn Station, but missed his train. Ashamed and beaten, he spent a whopping $112 on a car service to take him to the wedding, getting dressed in his suit in the car ride over. He went to the reception, spent a few awkward and hungover hours with this family, and when it was over, came back to NYC. He brushed the whole thing off and three hours later, we were all out together and Brian and I were hitting on two girls, him telling them that he's related to Captain Cook and me saying I was in Fountains of Wayne before they got big. Brian was a true champion this weekend and I am very proud of him. His birthday is Friday and I'm going to by him something special. And by "something special" I mean "nothing".

...

And I just read those two paragraphs over and I swear I don't have a man-crush on him. Thank you for understanding.]