golddiggin’
Jason posted on May 15, 2008

My office has no real windows.  My whole department is in an inner office, which occupies half a floor, in a skyscraper, deep in Lower Manhattan.  I have my own office in this larger inner office, and a glass "window" behind me.  I say "window" because the only view I have is to the cubicles outside my office and the people walking around in this bullpen area.  As this window is behind me, if you were to walk by my office, you’d see my computer screen and my back would be turned to you.  I would not see you.   

I pick my nose all day at work.  In this regard, I’m like a 70 year old man and simply do not give a fuck.  It’s been especially bad as of late, both because I am a slave to my allergies and because with this upcoming LA move, I’ve effectively doubled my responsibilities at work and thus have adapted a "Hey, if I’m going to work this hard for you, you gotta take me, nose-pickin’ and all."  I really don’t give a fuck.  I’m going to pick my nose whenever I want.  Because I take care of shit.

About an hour ago, I was sitting at my desk, reading SI.com and really digging in - I must have had my right hand about halfway up my nose before I found what I was looking for.  Nugget properly excavated, I transferred my treasure from my right pointer finger to my left, in order to flick my find into the garbage can on my left.  Transfer complete, I moved my body sixty degrees to the left, still mostly facing away from the window but moving in its direction, allowing me to flick away into the trash can below my desk.

It took a couple of tries - this was a true goober, a real clinger with the consistency and density of the inside of a grape - but after a few fingertip rolls to dry it out, I finally flicked the boogie into my trash can.  It was then that I angled my body even more to the left, toward the window, just to take a peak "outside."  And there, maybe six feet outside my window, stood a co-worker, a co-worker who from the look on his face had seen everything, from the initial decision to excavate to the ground-breaking ceremony to the Great Exhumation to the repeated unsuccessful launch attempts.  His expression said "I don’t know if I’m more disgusted or sad or did I really just watch him pick his nose?"  Our eyes locked for a moment, then I looked away.  Unsure of what to do next, I stood up from my chair, shuffled some papers on my desk, and walked over to my file cabinet.   

Since then, I have been laughing so hard that I’ve cried on two separate occasions.  Seriously.  I actually started choking on my laughter at one point, so loudly that I thought someone was going to call the paramedics.  What makes this especially funny is that I know this guy - we talk, we get along, we like each other.  If I didn’t know him at all or we never spoke, I wouldn’t care.  But I know him, not in a "let’s have beers after work"-type way but in a "we exchanges a little more than the standard pleasantries at the water cooler" way.  And he just watched me pick my nose - and I mean seriously, in a borderline mentally-ill person type-way, pick my nose - for a solid three minutes.  Count to 180 in your head right now - it’s a long-ass time.  I’m 28 years old, have my own office, and am the perfect employee (at least lately), and yet at 3:28pm on a Thursday afternoon I’m leaning back in my chair, reading SI.com, and picking my nose like I don’t have a care in the world.  Give me a raise already.    

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

I guess this is my way of telling you that I’m alive.  I have excuses, as usual: as mentioned, I’ve been doubled up at work; I’ve been trying to pack; I’ve been saying "goodbye" to various NYC friends; I’ve been traveling a bit (last weekend was my last in Philly; this weekend is, incredibly, my last in NYC).  But I’m alive and reasonably well and trying to figure out the best way to deal with such a jarring transition.  Wish me luck.

(More to come.)

(And if any of you guys want to help me pack, let me know.  Please bring beer.) 

a big announcement and its immediate aftermath
Jason posted on May 5, 2008

I lot of stuff happened a lot of quickly last week, and here’s the basic gist: I’m moving to LA. 

In three weeks.

Sure, I had some idea that I wanted to get out of NYC for a while, but this was something I wanted to do sometime in 2008, not in three weeks.  But certain opportunities have prevented themselves (boring opportunities that you wouldn’t be interested in), and so after seven glorious years, I’m moving out of NYC to Los Angeles. 

(Yikes.)

(Also, just for a little while, maybe a year. Then I’ll be back.)

(But still, yikes.)

The reasons for this move I’ll get into another time, but let’s talk about specifics, since they are first and foremost on my mind (since, you know, I’ve got three weeks to take care of business).  First, I have to be out in LA on June 2.  I’m keeping my current job and working out of our LA office and that’s the day I start there full-time.  Consequently, the Mulgrew Men Conquer America Road Trip, a cross-country drive that my dad, brother and I were planning for July, will now happen the last week of May; we’ll leave Philly on Saturday morning, May 24, drive the southern route stopping in Nashville and Phoenix and some other places along the way, and aim to be in LA by Friday night.  So bring on the red bulls, lunchables and gatorade bottle to pee in!     

In the meantime, I have three weeks to sell everything I own.  I’m going to store my books, clothes, and all but two of my guitars, my Strat and my Martin acoustic, which will be coming with me.  I’m not concerned about selling everything, I don’t think, because I’m sure I’ll be able to get rid of it or donate the rest.  What bothers me is that I bought a furniture set for $1300 last year, which I will now have to sell for what, $400?  I’m getting a little sentimental about selling my desk and desk chair, which, silly as this sounds, I’ve written most of the blog and the book at and on, and which I will sell to a stranger for $50.  Sweet.  Also, I have a 42" in high def TV that I bought last year for $1800.  I can’t bear to sell this, so instead, I’m giving it to my dad to use as collateral because he’s giving me a car.  "What?" you ask, "You always claim to be poor, but your dad’s giving you a car? You rich fuck."  Hold on.  My dad is a mechanic and lover of cars.  He recently purchased a - wait for it - 1996 black Lincoln Town Car ("Presidential Series," naturally).  He loves this car as an "antique" and because it has only 22,000 miles on it.  His plan was to hold on to it as an "investment" but we’ve worked out a deal: he’ll rent me the car for the year to drive while I’m in LA.  He wouldn’t take any money, so instead I’m giving him my TV.  It is this Town Car that we will also drive across the country ("It’s perfect," my dad says, "because it’s built for touring").  So in the most car-conscious city in America, where what you drive says much about who you are, and in an environment in which gas will be over $5 a gallon by year-end, I’m going to drive a bulking behemoth of a car, a gas-guzzling monster older than my second wife, normally the purview only of old men and car service employees.  I don’t even have a joke here. 

So there you go.  I don’t know where I’m going to live, but I’ve been staying with friends since I’ve been going out there and will probably do so again, in order to look for a place while I’m on the ground.  I guess I will have to post some "EVERYTHING SALE" craigslist ad soon, which I will link on here.  And then, I don’t know…I think I have to go out as much as possible and eat as much as possible and touch as many boobies as possible until I leave (in 18 days).    

(Yikes.)

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

Since this all happened, I haven’t been sleeping very well and also have been hitting it pretty hard, raging against the dying of the light, not going gently into that good night.  I mean this kinda literally; I’ve been sleeping about four hours a night, falling asleep after hours in bed, waking up intermittently and checking fantasy sports and doing the dishes and ironing, and then going back to bed and waking up hours before my alarm goes off.  Not good.

On Saturday, my friends and I planned to have a barbeque in Hoboken.  This was canceled at the last minute, leaving me crushed, because these barbeques generally degenerate into all-day drinking sessions filled with talk of sports, music and girls we’ve done (or would like to do).  However, my friends Jeremy and Meredith, roommates, called me to come over their apartment.  I’d gone to bed at 5am Friday night and woke up at 9am Saturday morning, so if I wasn’t going to barbeque I wanted to nap.  But they were insistent, so over to their place I went.

On the way there, I picked up a little something - six pounds and $70 worth of Italian meats and cheeses from a shop in Little Italy.  If we couldn’t grill outside, maybe we could dine on fresh mozzarella, prosciutto and other delicacies indoors.  I called Meredith and Jeremy and told them of my plan and they (well, Meredith) immediately ran out and grabbed wine and bread and olive oil and Campari.

So all afternoon, we ate our salted meats and fine cheeses and drank our Campari and wine.  We talked, we laughed, we actually had intelligent conversation (I put this squarely on Meredith’s shoulders; had she not been there, Jeremy and I would probably have sat in silence staring at the TV and would only talk in order to alert each other of nice boobies outside).  I was exhausted, all the salt and meat and wine really doing a number on me, so at 6:30pm I left their apartment - after I watched the horse I bet on die, right there on the racetrack (I should have known this was an omen for the night).  My plan was to go home and nap, because, since at that point I already knew my weekends in NYC were limited and I intended staying out until last call at 4am.  To do this, I’d need to recharge my batteries.   

But when I got home, I couldn’t nap.  I had a nice buzz and a full belly, but all I could think about was all the packing and moving I have to do, and I just laid there on my couch wide-awake.  So instead of sleeping, I did what came naturally: I made myself a drink.  Then another.  Then I made and ate another (half) Italian meat and cheese sandwich.  Then had another drink.

Jeremy and some friends, Lisa and Carly, came over to my place and we drank some more and watched VH1 Classic, which was lovely.  By the time we left, I had had three vodka red bulls, a couple vodka crans and a number of Bud bombers.  I felt like $40,000, completely better than I had when I first got home when I was tired and miserable and full.  If I had two Saturday nights left in NYC, I was going to take advantage of them.  That’s just how I roll.  Tell your friends. 

We went to Lorely, one of my old stand-bys, to meet a bunch of other friends.  I talked to my friend Susie, who I hadn’t seen in years, and after she took off talked to my buddy Pat and his brother, who was in town for the weekend, and his buddy.  It was a lot of fun, and long story short, Uncle Jason was getting a little tipsy - even for Uncle Jason standards.   

I kept my promise to myself, however, and was there until close with Jeremy, Lisa and Carly.  There was an argument with the bartender, who kicked us out even though we had half-full beers (he was right though, since it was well after 4am and we were the last people in the bar).  There was talk of pizza and we left the bar.  This is where the wheels came off.

Pizzaless, I walked home from the bar, which is only a few blocks from my apartment in Little Italy.  I really had to piss.  I have no idea why I didn’t just pee on the street; the area was deserted and I’m not above letting my bird get some fresh air.  But for whatever reason, despite my increasingly angry bladder, I was intent on making it home to pee.  And truth be told, I was doing ok with this - until I got into my apartment.  As soon as my key twisted in my doorknob, my bladder and urethra, which had been working in concert to stem the tide of urine raging and raging inside me, simply gave up, exhausted.  I was struck by that rare yet familiar feeling: I am going to piss myself.

I ran across my apartment toward the bathroom, throwing my keys on my coffee table and beginning the process of freeing my bird.  Unfortunately, I had button-fly jeans on, so this added a layer of difficulty when a layer of difficulty was most unwelcome.  Opening my jeans with my left hand and gripping my dick in my right, I kicked in my bathroom door like marshals executing a search warrant.  As soon as I entered the bathroom, before I got to the toilet, I couldn’t hold it any longer and it all fell apart - urine streamed out of my bird, my thimble-like penis expelling a surprisingly forceful stream of urine on (at first) my curtain and my walls then (eventually) my toilet and the bowl of my toilet.  Exhausted, relieved, I put my left hand on the wall ahead of me and let out a wail of ecstasy, shuddering, overcome with a feeling of pleasure, comparable to an orgasm achieved via threesome with Elisha Cuthbert and Christ.  Joy; sweet relief.  Sweet, sweet relief.

Having peed on myself and my bathroom, I did what an reasonable drunk guy would do at 4:30am - ate the rest of the sandwich I had made for dinner (after washing my hands, of course) (I think).  Provolone, fresh mozzarella, prosciutto, genoa salami, pepperoni, hot and sweet soppressata, and sweet cappocola, piled high, filling me with enough nitrates and sodium to kill a four-hundred pound man twice.  Once that was polished off, it was approaching 5am, so I did what an reasonable drunk guy would do at 5am - stripped down, grabbed a book, turned the water on and laid down in the shower to read.  I read in the shower usually, sitting in the tub as though I were having a bath, but with the showerhead pointing at my feet and the water draining, so only my body below my knees gets rest.  However, I don’t usually do this after such heavy drinking.  On this night, I’m not sure how many pages or words I got through, but I fell asleep, there, in the shower, water running, book on my chest.

I wasn’t out long, but I was definitely unconscious.  I woke up, drunker than ever, feeling sick - the steam and the meats and the booze…not a favorable combination.  So I put on my clothes and as I was dressing, bent over the toilet to puke.  After a vomiting session that left me feeling slightly better, I cleaned myself up and fell into bed, asleep before my head hit the pillow.

I woke up hours later on my couch.  Completely, 100%, balls-ass naked. 

I went back into bed.

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

My name is Jason Mulgrew.  I am 28 years old.  On Saturday night, I drank all day, consumed 6000 calories, peed myself and all over my bathroom, fell asleep in my tub with the water running, then vomited, then passed out, and then woke up in a different room than the one I fell asleep in, wearing no clothes.  On Sunday, I was so hungover that I remained naked for most of the day, walking around my apartment hunched over in pain, dividing my time between the couch and the restorative powers of the shower, the water running, listening to it, breathing in its steam, reciting my incantation of "Oh god…oh god…oh man…please" over and over and over again, praying for relief.  I did not leave my apartment, ate only Bayer and some reheated pasta, and was in bed by 9pm. 

You want a reason why I’m moving to Los Angeles?  Maybe I’m moving there to retire.  Maybe I’m moving there because I can’t stay out until 4am every Friday and Saturday night, because I can’t afford $7 beers (or $2000 a month in rent), because I’m getting old enough where nights like Saturday result not in a funny story but a trip to the emergency room after my heart explodes from the cumulative effect and abuse from years of vodka, of red bull, of Bud bombers and PBRs, of whiskey served in fancy glasses, of steak, of cheese, of prosciutto, genoa salami, pepperoni, hot soppressata, sweet soppressata, and sweet cappocola.

But you know what?  Fuck no.  I’m not moving to LA for those reasons.  Because I’m going to Philly next weekend, I have one more weekend in New York City, and a total of 16 more nights in the city that I have called home for seven years, the city that has made me.

Drinking too much, overeating, peeing, passing out in the shower, puking, waking up in a strange place.  A better way to say goodbye to NYC, I can think of none.  

One night down, 16 more to go. 

extremely belated march dinner: sfoglia
Jason posted on May 2, 2008

Sfoglia has always been our white whale.  Nicole, who is much more restaurant-savvy than I am, has been trying to get us reservations there for months and months.  It’s one of those "hot" restaurants - it’s tiny, has a modern Italian menu, and is all the way on the Upper East Side, but Nicole, who lives right above the restaurant (literally), has seen Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes walk out, as well as Jerry Seinfeld and his wife, Clive Owen, and other really rich and famous people.  It’s currently booked solid through June.

I don’t care for such things, personally.  Even though Nicole and I have been having monthly dinner dates at various nice restaurants in NYC for almost two years now, I wouldn’t say that I have good taste in food.  I wouldn’t say that I have bad taste either, but a more appropriate description of my culinary palate would be junior high.  If a junior high student loves it, then I love it.  I like butter, I like cream, I like sugar, I like cheese, I like steak (not necessarily in that order).  I’ll take a big piece of beef with a side of cheesy potatoes and creamed spinach, a generous pour of whiskey, and a giant piece of pie over almost anything else.      

Usually, I like to case out a restaurant and study its menu the day of a dinner.  I’m a planner and I like going in with a plan: I know what I want from the appetizer on through the dessert.  I feel like this enhances the dining experience, since I can spend all afternoon and the early part of the evening fantasizing about that particular meal.  What’s the quote - "the best part of sex is the walk up the stairs"?  Looking at the menu, deciding what I’m getting, and thinking about it all day is my walk up the stairs.

But for Sfoglia, I couldn’t pick my meal in advance.  This is not because I was without internet or temporarily unable to read, but because of what the hell is on their menu.  Here’s a sampling:

affettati misti

olive oil poached fluke, red onion, sesame seed zabaglione

wild mushroom soup, crisp guanciale, vin santo cream

stinging nettle, crab rotolo in tomato

riso venere, steamed cockles, jalepeno, parsley

pasta sciue sciue

broiled orata, lemon marmellata

A couple of things:

1) I consider myself reasonably intelligent and well-read, and I have (at least) a working knowledge of Latin, Greek and Spanish and a little bit of Russian, and yet I can recognize maybe 40% of the words in those descriptions.  40% on a good day.

2) I believe "zabaglione" is not a food, but an Italian slang term for when a girl puts her finger in a man’s heinie while giving him a blowjob.  "So she’s down there, right, sucking away, and then all of a sudden - zabaglione!"

3) Likewise, "guanciale" is slang for African-American penis.  "She’s hot, and I really like her, but I can’t compete - she loves the guanciale." 

4) "Pasta sciue sciue" is gibberish.  I’m not even going to argue this.  It’s like if I made "cheesesteak balki balki."  Complete gibberish, but no one wants to call it out, lest they look unsophisticated.

This is what we were going into when we arrived at Sfoglia.  I was not properly in the mood for dinner and might as well have looked at the menu blindfolded from all I was able to ascertain from it.  Instead, I looked around the room: the eating area was small, definitely cozy, even rustic and charming.  But again, I don’t care about these details - I would eat a pile of spaghetti and meatballs in a peep show booth.  Really, whatever. 

I started with the mushroom soup, basically because I am familiar with mushroom soup and I like every kind of cream.  Nicole had the cheese plate, which I didn’t realize was on the menu, since it was not called cheese plate.  Nicole won the battle of the appetizers, as her plate of three cheeses and homemade jam on gingersnap-type crackers was incredible - one smooth cheese, one moldy cheese and one cheese that was so good I can only assume it was made from clouds and the laughter of innocent babies.  My mushroom soup was not shabby by any means, but my first remark after trying it was, "I don’t think I’m good enough for this soup."  I realize it was complex and probably would be very critically-acclaimed, but I couldn’t appreciate it.  I’m too poor, too dumb, too unkempt.  Such is life, and we move on. 

For the main course, Nicole got something that appeared to be broad flat noodles with a meat sauce that was not tomato-based.  I got the "stinging nettle, crab rotolo in tomato" which I can tell you translates to "crab lasagna (more or less)."  Again, Nicole bested me.  Her pasta and meat sauce made my eyes water a little bit, because it was everything the mushroom soup wasn’t: so profoundly simple that I was moved by its delicious.  When I ordered the crab, I envisioned huge chunks of crab meat and…well, I didn’t know what else to expect.  Instead, there was no crab meat to be seen - there was crab essence in the ricotta-type cheese found between the noodles.  Delicious, to be sure, but not breathtaking.

Finally for dessert, Nicole got the homemade mint chocolate chip gelato and I went with some parfait with coconut meringue and plum.  Advantage: Jason.  This is what I’m talking about - delicate, creamy, the perfect contrast between the meringue and the plum.  Nicole raved about her gelato and made me taste it, and I was thoroughly disgusted.  But know this: I hate mint.  Hate it with the fire of a thousand suns and a million stars.  If I went to my grocer’s freezer and saw only two Ben & Jerry’s options - Mint Chocolate Chip or Ron Jeremy’s Spunk ‘Scream made with Semen-Flavored Ice Cream and sprinkled with Moustache Hairs and Valtrex - I’d probably take the Spunk ‘Scream. 

That concluded our night at Sfoglia.  A good dinner, maybe even a very good dinner, but one that needs to be taken down a notch. (We get it - your menu speaks Italian.  Just tell us what’s in the food, for Chrissake.)  Save yourself the wait time on the phone go to one of the countless restaurants in NYC that deliver with they promise.  Then cap the night off with some Spunk ‘Scream (if Oatmeal Cookie Chunk is not available).      

the messy business and vindictive nature of the gargoyle
Jason posted on May 1, 2008

There are three Mexican places that I love in NYC and eat at regularly (in order of cheapest to priciest, which not coincidentally is also the order of most frequently-visited to least frequently-visited):

1) Festival Mexicano (Rivington Street between Essex and Norfolk in the Lower East Side).  This is a dive Mexican place with authentic Mexican food, but also with authentic Mexican hygiene standards.  Their food is phenomenal and cheap - the picadillo nachos, piled with spicy ground beef with chunks of potatoes, may be the best nachos you’ll ever have - but every time I leave this place, I can’t walk the 15 minutes back to my apartment.  Instead I need to flag down a cab, preferably one with a toilet in it, to accommodate the imminent explosions that immediately burst forth from my colon as soon as step outside the restaurant.  Seriously, last time I ate here, I went home, pooped like a crazy person, and then looked down into the toilet bowl and saw a hand.  No idea what that was about.  Anyway, great food, but not for the faint of heart (or intestine).   

2) Pio Maya (8th Street between Macdougal and 6th Avenue).  This is a small place, which, unlike Festival, is very clean and colon-friendly.  Also unlike Festival, which uses beef made up of a mix of cow, horse and kidnap victim, when Pio Maya says "beef" they really mean "steak" - and steak of surprisingly high quality.  No need to eat at your own risk - sit down, relax and enjoy.  (And then walk home - no need for the toilet cab.) 

3) Agave (7th Ave, a few blocks north of W 4th Street).  Good food, good drinks, reasonably priced, and a good date spot because of its location.  This is where I ate Thursday night with my friend Stacy (who sadly was not my date).

Another reason why Agave is a good date place is because the Mexicans, god bless them, make drinking fun.  For example, you could take a date to an Irish pub, have burgers and fries and shepard’s pie, and then drink twelve pints of beer between the two of you.  Or you could go to Agave, order dips and chips and things with fun names like "enchiladas" and "chimichangas," and sip margaritas, mohitos, daquiris or sangria.  I ask you: which environment is more conducive to getting laid (as long as, of course, your date is not supremely racist toward Mexicans, which is most often not the case with me)?  Also, the meal is much longer and laid back - start with some guacamole and margaritas, work on those for a while, more margaritas, then the entrees and maybe a pitcher of sangria, and before you know it, you’re drunk and your hand is down your pants.

This is pretty much exactly what happened with Stacy and I on Thursday night (although my pants were too tight to fit my hand down them).  We started with guacamole and margaritas, each had two of those, and then ordered our entrees and more margaritas.  I went with the beef machaca enchiladas, slathered in a delicious sauce and covered in mushrooms and cheese.  I’m embarrassed to admit this, but I have no idea what Stacy ordered.  I was so drunk by the end of the night that I don’t remember what it was, and even looking at the menu didn’t jog my memory.  I blame this on the two pitchers of sangria we split, which I’m guessing I drank at least 72% of.  Whoops. 

The real fireworks didn’t start until well after midnight, hours after Stacy and I had parted ways.  I went to bed that night with a heavy buzz and a belly full of Mexican, feeling terrific and loving life.  At around 4am, I woke up with a sharp pain in my belly that made me sit up in bed.  I stood up and immediately doubled over, unsure if I had to shit, throw up or if I had been stabbed.  To be safe I ran to the bathroom and fell on the toilet.  And then it came:

The Gargoyle.

For those of you unfamiliar with it, a gargoyle is a traumatic and very personal event during which a person shits and vomits at the same time.  I had only done this once before, my freshman year of college, after eating Beef Wellington from the dining hall on Upper at Boston College.  I was struck so suddenly that I couldn’t even make it to the communal bathroom in the hall and instead opened my dorm room window and vomited, pooping myself more and more with each heave (our room was in the back and faced away from the quad).  I’m tempted to say that thankfully, I was wearing sweatpants at the time so the mess was minimized and limited to my legs and thighs and not my room, but there’s nothing to be thankful for when you’re in that situation.  The gargoyle deserves no gratitude under any circumstances. 

On Thursday night, I was at least sitting on the toilet when the gargoyle struck.  Also adding to my luck was the fact that the bathroom trash can was not one foot in front of me, so as the first eruptions came from my heinie and my mouth, I was able contain them (within reason). 

Dear reader, you must understand that the gargoyle is so much more than just pooping and puking at the same time.  It is also incredibly painful; it feels as though someone has stuck their hand inside your stomach and is gripping up and shaking around your intestines.  I’m not ashamed to admit that whilst I gargoyled, I cried.  The poop, the puke, the pain - it was too much for this man to bear.

(If you’re interested in the inventory, what was being released from my body was about two liters of margarita and sangria, a pile of guacamole and chips, the enchiladas, and a few beers that were consumed after the dinner.  Making matters worse, I had had lobster and corn chowder for lunch.  If you’ve never thrown up lobster and corn chowder, I would not recommend it.  Not at all.) 

Though I spent the rest of the night taking turns throwing up and puking (and cleaning out my trash can and bathroom), the gargoyle only struck once, only the second time in my life.  The next day - or rather, two hours later - I called out of work, because I was too exhausted to drag myself out of bed.  Also, though I was certain there wasn’t much left to expel from my body, I dare not run the risk of the gargoyle hitting me at work.  I am a veteran of colonic wars and routinely have to duck into public or bar bathrooms to vacate my bowels, but even someone as experienced as I am would have little hope of not pooing his pants if the gargoyle swooped in while I sat at my desk, writing personal emails or making personal phone calls.

Now, fully recovered, I look back on the gargoyle with respect; like any traumatic event that involves pooping, I feel like I’m a stronger person because of what I went through.  Sure, I may stay away from Agave for awhile, but I have emerged from my most recent dance with the gargoyle a better person, albeit a better person who will probably be eating mostly at Pio Maya for the next few weeks. 

how to keep a job for longer than nine minutes
Jason posted on April 29, 2008

Last week, I was approached by my friend Kate, who’s editing a new blog called neighborbeeblog.  Neighborbeeblog is supposed to be a NYC resource, with details about what to see and do and wear in NYC - pretty much like TimeOutNY, but only on the internet.  Due to some tragic error in judgment, Kate asked me to be the "dating" columnist for the site (apparently, their original choice, Josef Fritzl, became indisposed and was no longer able to make the commitment).  After asking if she was serious and learning that she was, I agreed to do it, even though I might as well write the "Menstruation" column for as much as I know about dating.

I also wanted to do it for two reasons: 1) It would give me focus, as I’d have to write something every Monday; and 2) I’d only have to write something short, anywhere between 200-600 words.  Length - at least in words - has never really been a problem for me, and the average post on here runs about 1500-2500 words (to give you an idea, you’ve read 199 words already).  So sure, I could bang out 200-600 words once a week on dating to help a friend out.  Besides, I kinda get off on giving advice to others on something I know so little about.  I don’t know…something about influencing the masses in an area in which I’ve had marginal success and in which I lack any real, workable knowledge kinda gets me hot.  Don’t judge.   

So last week, I sat down at the ol’ Mac, banged out the following and emailed it to Kate:

******

In this year of choices, I humbly submit myself to be your Neighborbee dating columnist.* I believe I have the necessary experience, desire and gumption for the position.  More importantly, I also have the complete lack of shame, the abundance of free time, and the irrational belief that somehow this gig may result in me having a threesome to be a successful dating columnist for you, the reader.  With your help and support, I can be the best dating columnist in the world, because I: 

…am the Best of Both Worlds
I was born in South Philadelphia in 1979.  Shortly after, my father began what would be an impressive career in fighting the law and losing.  Therefore, I spent my childhood overeating and memorizing every word to "Grease."  Later in my adolescence, once I became aware of the function of my penis aside from being something ornamental that pee comes out of, I served in the role of Gay Best Friend Who’s Not Really Gay and Wants To Get in Your Pants to numerous female friends, a role in which I continue to serve in various capacities to this day.  Though my first concert was Paula Abdul (with Color Me Badd opening), my second concert was the Grateful Dead.  At this Dead concert at the age of 13, I saw my first real-live boobie, and since then I have dedicated my life and a substantial portion of my financial assets to finding the perfect woman and the perfect boobies, a mission that has seen some minor successes and major failures in various bars, restaurants and parking lots in New York City.  Let’s go there.  Together.   

…have broad Geographic Expertise
I have lived in New York since I graduated college in 2001, living in various parts of the city from Bay Ridge, Brooklyn to the Upper East Side to my current home in Chinatown-Little Italy, or as I call it, Chilita.  For the past several months, I have been bicoastal, spending one or two weeks per month in Los Angeles, duly studying the relationships and sexes there.  Few other dating columnists can claim such versatility; it’s like being able to speak English and Spanish.  And really, how many people can do that?     

…am Educated
I’m educated enough to form complete sentences, but not too educated that I’ll use big words like recapitulate or dyspeptic or, you know, other big words or whatever.  For you numbers people, I scored a 620 on the verbal portion of my SAT, which is the highest of all of my friends.  So that’s saying something right there. 

…have Sexual Proficiency
I have navigated successfully through the musty realm of lovemaking over six times.  I am adapt at several sexual positions, including missionary, me just laying there, and "I’m too drunk to get this condom on, so I’m gonna go heat up some pizza."  My Patented Foreplay Technique follows three simple rules: 1) Start kissing; 2) Count to twenty; 3) Stick it in.  Critics in both the US and abroad have compared my lovemaking to "forty seconds of life-changing thrusting, then a noise that sounds like a bear falling down a flight of stairs, then a request for a high-five."  References available upon request.  

…am Dedicated
I am scheduled to write this column once a week, and I promise you that at least every other week you will get a column.  That’s my word. 

To recapitulate, I dyspeptically look forward to working with you in order to make this as successful a venture as possible.  As a matter of fact, you are a key cog in this machine, since I’m pretty much already out of ideas.  So if you have dating questions, need love advice or a place to go in NYC, or just want to send an email to a stranger, email me at ______@____.com.

[* I already got the gig, so technically there’s no choice involved.  So let’s just try to make the most of this.]

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Some of the jokes you’ve heard before, but c’mon, I’ve been doing this for over four years, so I have to repeat myself sometimes.  But overall, I was pretty happy with it.  As I suspected, the hardest part was whittling down the word count.  In the big picture, however, I was a little concerned.  I have no desire to share my dating experiences on the internet - at least as they happen in real time.  I have a statute of limitations that must expire before I can tell any stories about any hook-ups or dates I’ve had, all of which I make anonymous, and I find those who write about their boyfriends and girlfriends or dates in general…well, I’m kind of embarrassed for them.  With technology the way it is, you can’t ever erase this shit, and most relationships are not worthy enough to be forever etched in internet history (and yet I have no problem writing about doing drugs, shitting myself, or jerking off into empty Pepsi cans - I don’t know if this is ironic or just stupid).  But whatever - I envisioned the column being more about me answering emails and suggesting places to go rather than sharing details about my own life:

He said for $8, he’d rub my bird - for an extra buck, he’d lick his lips while doing so. I stood up from the toilet and asked him to my place, but he said he was most comfortable there in Penn Station. The rest is a blur, but I woke up under the Cross-Bronx Expressway with ejaculate crusted like glaze in my beard and a doll’s head in my pocket. The doll’s head was black. Someone had shit in my sneaker. Dating in NYC is hard.

Kate confirmed receipt of my email and wrote back almost immediately, saying that she loved the piece and it would go as is, thus immediately cementing herself as the best editor I’ve ever had.  On Monday (yesterday), she emailed to say that it had been posted to the neighborbeeblog, and I whipped up a quick post directing you all over there.  Done and done.  I was officially, for better or worse, a dating columnist (however an amateur one, since there was no pay involved, so I could still qualify for the Olympics). 

Eight minutes later, I got a frantic email from Kate.  She said that she had just gotten into a fight with the people who own neighborbee, who were horrified by my column and felt it was "inappropriate."  Kate said that they don’t want any mention of "sex acts, boobies, penis, etc."  She had to take the post down immediately.  Kate was supremely nice and apologetic about it, saying she didn’t think it would be a problem and offering to argue on my behalf to get me on the neighborbee team, if I still wanted to write the column.  I respectfully declined, pointing out that I am what I am, which is more or less only sex acts, boobies, penis, etc, and couldn’t effectively contribute if every week I had to write about dining at Tavern on the Green and discussing Proust with some New England-bred, Ivy-educated banker lady I met at a "Young Republicans For Not Change" banquet at the Four Seasons. (I also pointed out that my next column was probably going to be "Five Books To Keep On Your Bookshelf That Will Help Get You Laid", so it was probably best to cut our losses now).

And thus my opening salvo was also my swan song as a dating columnist.  About now is when you’d expect me to lash out against the neighborbee people (that’s kinda what I expect too), but I harbor no ill will toward them or their site.  It goes without saying that Kate is still sound as a pound in my book - how can I be mad at anyone who sings in a Meatloaf cover band anyway?  And there’s no real moral or lesson here; just a simple story about the shortest job I’ve ever had.

Jason Mulgrew
Dating Columnist
April 28, 2008 2:59pm - April 28, 2008 3:07pm

(If you’re keeping count, that was 1653 words.  A little on the short side.)