JewMitch

Just a Jew. Named Mitch. Writing about his feelings.

The JewMitch Diet

Posted by JewMitch on June 27, 2012

A lot of people ask me, “How do you stay so fit and trim; while never exercising, eating what you want and drinking heavily 5-6 times a week?”  I usually smile coyly and compliment their shirt, but in reality – I actually have terrible body issues and a bad metabolism and I worry about being fat all the time.  Thankfully, I have perfected a lifestyle/diet that works for me.  And in the interest of sharing information and having less fat people in the world, I’ve decided to post a few tips here.  As a disclaimer, this diet is almost certainly likely to lead to an early death, massive health problems later on, and liver disease.  But it’s not about feeling good, it’s about looking good.

Exercise:

Exercising is terrible.  I used to go to the gym a lot and I pretended that I liked it, but I really hated it.  Do you know how some days you plan on going to the gym, but the gym is closed or your car won’t start or something, and you can’t make it — and a huge feeling of relief and happiness washes over your body?  Yup, you hate going to the gym too.  But here’s the thing; study after study have shown that it’s better to spend several hours a day doing light exercise (standing/walking) than a short amount of time doing intense exercise – and that the reason we’re all fat is because we sit around too much and 30 minutes on an elliptical doesn’t reverse that.

That’s why I recommend the following workout:

–    Go to bars all the time.  Stand when you’re in bars.  Drinking is allowed.

–    When you travel to bars, walk to them.

–    Walk to other places too.

I’m not joking.  If you go out as much as I do, this can equal 4-6 hours standing per day (think 6pm-midnight) and 1-2 hours walking time per day.  I know it seems like a lot, but you can do it.  Just believe in yourself.  And make friends with more bartenders.

Diet:

But Mitch, won’t I get fat if I drink tons of alcohol?  Doesn’t alcohol have tons of calories?  That’s what Weight Watchers told me.

Lies!  Well, not really — but there are high calorie drinks and low calorie drinks.  Here are some of my go-to drinks:

–    Rum and Diet.  This is a great drink because it’s cheap, usually on special, and tastes fine even with rail rum.

–    Captain and Diet.  For fancier occasions.  Or when you think you’re about to throw up and want something that tastes good.

–    Vodka and Diet.  Also known as a “skinny bitch”.  This is fun to order.

–    Chocolate vodka and Diet.  This is a girl’s drink, but it tastes better than a regular vodka and diet.

–    Scotch on the Rocks.  Scotch is delicious!

–    Johnny Walker Black on the Rocks.  This is a little bit pricier, but Johnny Walker Black is the best scotch for your money and no bartender in America will fuck up this drink.

–    Gin and Soda with a splash of tonic and a lime.  Note: you can also use vodka. Here’s the thing – gin and tonic tastes great, but tonic water has as many calories as soda and most bars don’t carry diet tonic water. Gin and soda is low cal, but tastes horrible.  So if you add a splash of tonic, it’ll greatly improve the taste and keep the calories fairly low.

–    High alcohol content beers.  All beers have a decent amount of calories, so you’re much better off having one really good beer that’s 9% alcohol, than 3 bud lights.  The lighter the beer, the less alcohol.

Food:

Eat whatever you want, but drink heavily before and after meals.  This will allow for more time standing, and when you’re hungover the next day, you’ll eat less.  Better yet, skip dinner and just have a chicken finger or two while you stand up in a bar.

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LiquorTreat

Posted by JewMitch on December 4, 2011

Staying on topic, my other favorite day of the year is Liquor-Treat – a house party crawl that my friends and I do every Halloween.  Halloween truly is an amazing holiday.  As a kid, you love it because you get to dress up and get unlimited candy.  And as an adult, you love it, because you get to dress up and drink unlimited alcohol – which is really the closest equivalent to “candy” in your adult life.  I’m sure that parents who have children have some thoughts on the holiday too – but we’ll cross that bridge when the condom breaks.

So anyway, to take things a step further – we started doing Liquor-Treat a few years ago.  The rules are simple:

  1. Everyone must come in costume.
  2. Every “host” must provide a different drink.
  3. Spend no more than 1 hour in each person’s house.

Anything that involves drinking and the word “crawl” is usually a pretty great day, although house party crawls are way better than bar crawls.  With a bar crawl, it’s difficult to find everyone in the bar to tell them it’s time for the next stop (although whistles help), the bars get packed, and then it gets impossible to get a drink.

Meanwhile, with a house party crawl – it’s like the bar was waiting to open until you and your friends got there.  Also, what makes it great is that momentum stays high, because as soon as you get bored with one person’s house – it’s on to the next one.  Each place has different music, different drinks, different atmosphere.  Also, there’s no sitting in the corner nursing one drink, because you have to finish your drink within an hour, and then someone is handing you a new one.

And on Halloween, this is all compounded by the fact that everyone is in costume, and you get to serve Halloween themed drinks.  Some great past drinks have been: Butterbeer, Rum and Apple Cider (best served with dry ice for effect), Spooky Punch, Orange Jello Shots, and Hot Chocolate with Whipped Cream Vodka.

So we usually start in Hell’s Kitchen, head up to Upper West, then walk across the park to Upper East (this is where spiked hot chocolate in to-go cups becomes amazing), then down to Midtown East, and then down to Gramercy or somewhere else that I have no idea, because I’m always blacked out by this point.  I think I made it to seven apartments this year.  But once again, I’m not really sure.

Being a host is really fun, because then the party just comes to you – and also you get to demolish your friends by forcing them to drink huge amounts of alcohol.  My friend Ece took this to the next level this year by refusing to serve anything except Birthday Cake shots.  No beer, no mixed drinks, just a huge pitcher of hard alcohol – designed to be drunk in shot form.  And we were there for an hour.

I wish I had a story like from the Beer Festival that shows how amazing this day is, but usually I just drink way too much and then pour spiked hot chocolate all over my lap (that happened twice this year).

And yes, that’s me dressed as Zombie Steve Jobs this year.  It wasn’t too soon.

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Beer Festival

Posted by JewMitch on November 29, 2011

So I’m surprised that I’ve never written about this before, but probably my favorite day of the year is not Christmas (I’m just hungover and waiting for Chinese food while everyone gets a million presents), not Thanksgiving (way too much family time), not my birthday (I’m getting fucking old), but the TAP New York Craft Beer Festival at Hunter Mountain.  It takes place every year on a gorgeous weekend in April and features over 40 breweries, who each bring like 6 beers for you to try. The way it works is that you pay something like $60 to get in, they give you a small tasting glass, and you walk around and DRINK ALL THE BEER YOU WANT. None of this – “just try five and then drive home safe” bullshit type events that I would never be bothered with – this is an all-day thing. It starts at noon – and goes till about 5:00pm, and I’m always worried that there won’t be enough time to drink as much beer as I want – but there is always way more than enough time to drink all the beer I want.  You’d think after four years of attending this event, I’d have learned that by now – but I haven’t, and never pace myself.  Although, pacing yourself is for losers and people with DUIs.

Anyway, as I was saying – this is the best day of the year.  I’ve been going since back when I lived in Baltimore, and we’ve never had bad weather – although I’m sure I’m cursing it now. Not only are you outside all day drinking all sorts of amazing beer from great breweries at a beautiful ski resort, but they also have great food; there’s like 20 different food stations of every possible type of food that you’d want to eat while you’re drinking.  Think pizza, chili, ribs, chicken wings, etc. And they COME AROUND AND BRING IT TO YOU WHILE YOU’RE DRINKING BEER OVERLOOKING THE MOUNTAIN.

Because I talk this event up so much, a few additional friends from work also came this year – and decided to one-up us by getting a hotel nearby (we had always taken a bus back to the city).  And after about 50 beers, they convinced me to ditch my friends that I had come with and stay in their hotel room that night.  Because obviously, the best thing to do after drinking all day is to continue drinking and stay in a strange hotel.

So we keep drinking and the crowd changes from the “we just came for the day to pleasantly drink beer” to the “we’re really serious about drinking – because we’re not going anywhere tonight” crowd – and it’s amazing.  Just a great vibe, and everyone is bombed.  The weather is still perfect.  And then the following happened:

“So what’s the situation with the hotel?” I ask.

“Oh!!! Do 10 Push-ups!” about 8 people scream; apparently they’d started playing a drinking game where if you say the word “situation,” (which happens more than you think), you have to do 10 push-ups.

And because I’ll never say no to a stupid drinking game – and because I’m awesome – I said, “Fine, but give me a cigarette first.”

Then, with lit cigarette in my mouth – I easily crank out the 10 push-ups (I used to do a lot of push-ups).

A crowd had formed while this was going on – and this one girl comes up to me.

“That was awesome. Where are you from?”

Without thinking about it – I gave the best possible answer to this question:
“Craig’s List.”

“You’re crazy. What’s your name?”
“Craig.”

Then, of course, my friend Megan starts chanting “Make-out! Make-out!” and gets the entire crowd to do it.

Then the girl, who I admit, was not the cutest girl ever, says “I never do this,” and comes at me so we make out for a few seconds.  The crowd goes crazy.

And this all happened literally 10 minutes after my friends left.

The rest of the night is blurry – less exciting, but trust me, getting a hotel is the way to go.  The entire festival stays there – and the hotel has all these balcony rooms facing the mountain – and you can walk from balcony to balcony.  People even brought grills.  Let me repeat that – people brought grills to BBQ on hotel balconies.  And the hotel was cool with it.  Drinking continued till about three.

Anyway, just make a reminder for yourself to buy tickets for next year, it always sells out.  Just do it.

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“Assholes” — The Graphic Novel

Posted by JewMitch on November 28, 2011

I know it’s been forever since I did a post, and the main reason is that I’ve been lazy/drinking too much, but I really have been working on some other projects. So since it’s Cyber Monday and all — here is a free link to download my entire graphic novel — “Assholes.”  It was inspired by a few of the stories on here, and loyal JewMitch readers will recognize much of the Adventures in Mexico story in the first chapter. Enjoy:   http://bit.ly/9repbg

Note:  It’s a big file download — but is a pdf file, so will look great on an iPad or any other portable device. Or print it out on your office’s expensive color photo printer and give it to your Aunt for Christmas, whatever makes you happy.

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The Time I Peed off a Boat

Posted by JewMitch on April 18, 2011

A few years ago, the girl that I was dating invited me to visit her best friend in Key West, FL for Fantasy Fest, which is their annual Halloween celebration. Fantasy Fest is kind of like Mardis Gras, but it’s on Key West – so it’s gayer, and there are more naked people and the weather is better.

I was psyched up, as it was our first vacation that we were taking “as a couple,” and I love Key West (it’s really one of my favorite places in America). Which is why I was extremely surprised when we sat down on the plane, and the first thing my girlfriend said to me was “I don’t think I’m physically attracted to you anymore.”

“What?!”

“Well, it’s no big deal, but I just haven’t been feeling attracted to you for the last couple of weeks. Haven’t you noticed?”

“No, I hadn’t noticed?!”

“Oh, well now you know.” And with that, she put on her headphones, and we began the best couple vacation ever.

We made it to Key West without further incident, and it looked like the rest of trip might still be fun, regardless of what issues we had brewing as a couple. The weather in Key West was beautiful, and we were staying in this enormous mansion in the middle of town, that her freind’s boyfriend’s family owned. It was one of those houses with a different room for everything, like one room had nothing but leather furniture and mounted animal heads in it.

We had the room in the attic and while we had sex the first night there, it was definitely the “I’m just going to get really drunk and then have sex with you quickly so we don’t fight” type of sex rather than the “I love you and we’ll work it out” kind of sex I was hoping for. But oh well, we were still on vacation.

The next day, we all took one of the family’s boats out to this other island near Key West, where all the locals went to day drink. It was straight out of an episode of Jersey Shore (in Miami), but still a lot of fun. After a few hours of drinking, we got ready to leave. In retrospect, I probably should went into the forest to take a leak, but I figured oh well – we’re on a boat, and we’re only 20 minutes from home, I’ll be fine.

Of course, after about 10 minutes, we run into someone’s cousin, who is stranded in the middle of the bay with a dead boat engine, and needs a tow back to shore. This required finding the rope, tying a bunch of complicated knots and all sorts of other boat stuff. Around this time, I learned that the bathroom on the boat was broken.

So, as been discussed before, I have a tremendously small bladder, especially when I’ve been drinking. And my girlfriend is already on the verge of breaking up with me, since I constantly “embarrass” her, and now I really have to pee. I mentioned something to her about it, and she shot me one of those “I’ll murder you in your sleep” looks (she’s good at those) and said “tough, hold it.”

So I held it, and held it, as we fucked up the various knots, had to retie them, had to bring the boat to some other neighborhood, had to untie all the knots, etc. And this was about when I decided “fuck it;” my kidney was about to explode and I remember distinctly thinking — “well if this is what kills this reltationship, then oh well,” as I peed off the side of the boat (in the waterfront community that we were docked in, where the cousins supposedly lived).

The other people on the boat laughed it off, but let’s just say my girlfriend was not happy.

Later that night, we all went to the boyfriend’s father’s law firm, to watch the Fantasy Fest parade, because the office had a great porch that overlooked the main street in town. We brought coolers and coolers of booze, and there were about 20 of us up there.

Of course, while the father was giving me a tour of his office, my drink slipped out of my hand and onto his files. I tried to clean them up, and I think the files were okay, but they all definitely now smell like vodka. It was one of my finer moments.

After that, we all went outside to watch the parade. Now, I don’t usually like parades – but Fantasy Fest is something different. Let’s just say it’s a very “adult” parade, and there’s lots of people in nothing but body paint, and the floats are amazing; tons of flames and special effects (do a google image search of “fantasy fest” when you’re not at work).

But I can’t tell you anything else about the parade, because around this time, my girlfriend grabs my arm, and says, “I can’t believe you peed off the boat today!” Then, she proceeds to drag me into the office kitchen, where we have the big relationship fight that has been brewing since we got on the plane. Let me repeat this; she decides that during the Fantasy Fest parade in Key West (during Fantasy Fest!), in her friends’ boyfriend’s father’s law office (while the parade is going on!) is the perfect time to have a Big Relationship Fight.

Now, I know not every relationship works out, and I’m obviously not the perfect boyfriend that every girl dreams about and I know that I probably shouldn’t have peed off the side of that boat, but SERIOUSLY?! You want start a fight right before a vacation to Key West and then finish it during the most fucking awesome parade ever? Why?!? Why not fake your period or something through the vacation and dump me afterwards (it was only a 4 day trip). Or why not at least wait until after the parade?! Why do this DURING the parade?! We were leaving the next day! Fight with me on the plane even? It was a long flight, and my book was shitty. But oh well. Good fucking riddance.

Follow up Note:  We officially broke up about six weeks after the trip.

Follow up Note #2:  I’m not bitter.

Follow up Note #3:  This is the same girl from this post.

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Embarrassing Stories about Me Peeing on Things

Posted by JewMitch on April 11, 2011

I have two really embarassing stories about me peeing on things from when I was in elementary school, and since this blog primarily exists for me to tell embarrassing stories about myself, here we go…

Story 1:  When I was little and my family would go on car trips, I would always have to pee like a million times  (Note: this is still an issue for me; I’m not allowed to have any caffeine on a long road trip — and usually wind up just dehydrating myself intentionally so we don’t have to take a bunch of rest stops).  So naturally, my parents got in the habit of just pulling the car over to the side of the road and letting me pee really quick – and then we’d continue on.

So when I started at a new school in third grade, and the bathroom happened to be on the complete other side of the school than my classroom, I just thought that it made a lot of sense for me to pee in the bushes right outside the classroom, rather than walk ALL the way over to the other side of the school, just to pee.  This system worked extremely well for about three months, until of course – a teacher saw me peeing outside the window of her classroom and completely freaked the fuck out.

The funniest part of this story is that they thought I was intentionally defacing school property or something, when really, I just had to pee and this seemed like the most convenient place to do that.  However, to their credit – the part of the bush I always peed on had turned black and was basically dead by the time they caught me.

Story 2:  Now, you would have thought that I’d have learned my lesson about peeing from that first story, but I didn’t.  Later that year, my class did a science experiment that had something to do with learning about rocks and erosion.  The idea behind the experiment was that river rocks get really smooth because water is always running over them, so let’s try to recreate that by filling a seltzer bottle with a few jagged rocks and water, and then each member of the class would take the bottle home and add whatever ingredient they thought would help the erosion process, and then spend several hours turning the bottle upside down and then back upright, to mimic the current of a river.

Most people added something acidic or chemical to their bottles.  Some examples I can remember involve lemon juice, bleach, detergent, soap, etc.  Can you guess what special ingredient I added?  If you guessed, “my own urine,” you’re correct!

Let’s just say that my classmates were not too thrilled when they found out that I peed on the rocks that they had to later take home and shake for hours; the same rocks that we had collectively been shaking for months.  To my credit, pee still seems like it would be an excellent choice — it’s acidic (maybe?), it exists in nature (definitely), and animals pee in rivers (do they?) — so maybe it does have something to do with river rocks getting smoother?

The best part was that afterwards, the students told my teacher, my teacher called my parents, and then my parents had to sit me down and explain why this had been a poor choice on my part.  To their credit — they explained to me that from a scientific experimental perspective, my pee was a poor choice – because its chemical composition depended on what I ate and drank that day – so there would be no way to recreate the experiment.

Of course, my elementary school fed straight into my high school, so this story followed me all the way through 12th grade.  I think it may have even come up at my 10 year high school reunion.  If you know anyone from my class, feel free to ask them about this — they’ll remember.

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The Time I Didn’t Make Out With a Pretty Girl in High School

Posted by JewMitch on March 31, 2011

So I don’t think it will come to a shock to anyone that I wasn’t particular good with girls in middle school or high school. In fact, it wasn’t until 8th grade or so, that I figured out the difference between being really awkward/weird in the way that makes people not want to hang out with you, and being awkward/weird in the way that people think is funny.

But gradually after I realized this (and realized that it was cooler to wear jeans to school instead of sweatpants), I started making more friends and getting invited to parties.  I definitely wasn’t “popular” and I wasn’t getting any handjobs behind the bleachers or anything, but when I called girls on the phone, they would talk to me because I was really good at being that mean version of funny that high school girls love.

Anyway, there was one girl in my class, let’s call her Debbie, who had always been considered one of the hottest girls in my class, so naturally, I had a crush on for a few years.  We were never close friends, and there was no reason for me to ever think I’d have a chance with her, but you know – it was high school, and pining away for a girl was much easier than having a girlfriend.

Luckily, as my stock in the class was going up, her’s was going down.  It started with one unfortunate haircut she got and her getting a reputation for being fairly easy (neither of these things bothered me), and one day, I found myself on a weekend school retreat with her, where she was actually flirting with me.  I don’t think she was flirting with because I was so awesome, as much as that she was a super nice girl and I think that she thought a really nice thing to do would be to hook up with me that weekend.

I didn’t know much about flirting back then (let’s be honest, I still don’t), but something was definitely going on because she was talking to me and touching my arm and stuff.  Then, one time when we were all standing around and it was a little chilly out, she came up behind me and gave me one of those from-behind-the-back-hug things.

Let me preface what happened next with the fact that this was my first behind-the-back-hugs-thing, as I had never had a girlfriend before and still thought Garfield the Cat was cool.

So there’s this girl, who I’ve had a crush on for years, giving me a hug — and really all I had to do was put my arms around hers and things would be in motion.  But that’s not what I did.  Instead, I PUT MY HANDS IN MY POCKETS.  Yes, I had so little experience with girls, that I did not know how to receive a hug.  So I just did the most natural thing I could think of and put my hands in my pockets.

But the story gets worse.  Some point later in the weekend, she came up to me and asked me if I had any allergy medicine in my cabin (the retreat was at a summer camp, and we were all staying in cabins).  This doesn’t sound sexy, but she could have easily gone to the nurse on duty or many other people — and there was definitely something about the way she said it that implied — “let’s go makeout;” especially since my cabin was all the way on the other side of camp, girls weren’t supposed to be in boy’s cabins, she didn’t seems like she was suffering from allergies, she knew my cabin was empty, and all my friends were giving me winks and saying things like “Have fun giving her allergy medicine!”

So we go back to my cabin, and I have my high school crush alone for the first time, in what was a perfect makeout situation.  We’re alone, she’s been flirting with me all weekend (despite my inability to reciprocate), and we’re in a cabin in the woods.

So I give her the allergy medicine, and then she says “thank you” and just stands there for at least 30 seconds, giving me that “are you going to make a move already?” type of look.  So of course, I PUT MY HANDS IN MY POCKETS AGAIN, and just stood there until she left.

After, that weekend, I took her on exactly on 1 date, where we went to a movie, and I put my arm around her (progress!) until, halfway through, she said it was hurting her neck and asked if I could take it away.

We never made out.

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Dr. Suzy’s Porn and Purim DVD Bacchanal – A JewMitch Review

Posted by JewMitch on March 20, 2011

In honor of Purim, I’m reposting this classic JewMitch review which I wrote for Heeb Magazine two years ago.   Not surprisingly, this was the most popular thing that I ever wrote for them.

Dr. Suzy’s Porn & Purim—DVD Bacchanal opens with a shot of the title character, Dr. Suzy, standing in the backroom of a nightclub, decked out in what looks like a pirate hat and a sparkling, blue bikini.  In one hand, she holds a live snake, in the other she clutches a long rubber dildo.

As I popped the disc into my DVD player, I expected a brief tip of the yarmulke to Esther and Vashti and then a whole lot of gelt shots.  But that’s not what happens.  As it turns out, Dr. Suzy’s Porn & Purim is a little bit of porn, and a whole lotta Purim.  Can the Jewish universe not even figure out the formula for making a porno?

For the first hour and a half, Dr. Suzy tells the story of Purim.  Let me repeat that; she narrates the entire story of Purim.  For an hour and a half.  Only Dr. Suzy is not reading from an actual Megillah or even a script, she’s just rambling.  There’s some nudity in the background while this is transpiring, but not one decent sex scene.

If I haven’t yet sold you on this amazing cinematic experience, allow me to explicate further.  Dr. Suzy is the only actor with a real speaking part, which mostly amounts to telling people what to do and where to go while bad techno music plays in the background.  (It’s like a horrible acid trip in Tel Aviv!)  The only other speaking part belongs to Haman, courageously played by an African-American actor, who shouts “Hey-Man!” every time Dr. Suzy refers to him. Watching this porn was like sitting in shul for hours on end, waiting impatiently for Haman to die so that you can go home and eat some triangle-shaped cookies.

To make matters worse, Dr. Suzy hands the role of Vashti to the far more attractive actress and gives the role of Esther to the heavily tattooed uggo.  Dr. Suzy does let Vashti strip a little, but then we are forced to spend the rest of the evening with Esther, who I suspect has a learning disability or two.  The only direction she seems capable of taking is when Dr. Suzy tells her to kneel down and touch the King’s golden scepter.  Spoiler alert: The golden scepter is King Ahasuerus’ dick! (It should be noted, that the actor who played King Ahasuerus did an excellent job getting excited every time a woman took her clothes off in front of him, which I imagine is exactly how the real King Ahasuerus acted).

All in all, I give this porno one out of five yellow stars, which makes it pretty much the worst Purim porno I’ve ever seen.

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Helen Keller Shots

Posted by JewMitch on March 3, 2011

I can’t believe I haven’t written about this before, but it seems that I’ve never done a post on Helen Keller shots.  “What are Helen Keller shots?” you ask.  Don’t worry, I’ll explain right now.

A Helen Keller shot is when you ask the bartender to close their eyes, spin around three times, then randomly grab three bottles from behind the bar, mix them in a shaker over ice, then serve.  The shot is different every time and ranges from “that’s not bad” to “oh my god, I just threw up in my mouth.” It’s really a drink designed for nights when you’re just looking to hurt yourself.  And get really messed up.

I know what you’re thinking right now (“What a great way to learn about American history!”), but wait, it gets much worse, because I haven’t described how you order them yet.  In order to honor the memory of Helen Keller and all that she was able to accomplish for the deaf community, you can also order the shots using sign language.  The proper way to do this is to just sort of mash one hand into the other a few times, with a few fingers extended, and say “Wahwwwhaawhaaa” to commemorate the time that Helen Keller first learned how to say “water.”

My friend Mike originally told me about the shot about two years ago, and what started out as a ridiculous joke quickly became the only shot I ever order in bars anymore.  Because why order a normal shot like Patrón, when you can order something waaaaay more exciting and offensive.

I think the real joy of doing Helen Keller shots (aside from making fun of disabled people) is that as soon as you start drinking them, the night becomes wide open.  You might be passed out in two hours, but it guarantees that you’re not going to have a “I just had two beers and then watched a 30 Rock rerun” type of night.

It’s also really fun to bring dates to bars where they know how to make a Helen Keller shot (as of now, the Snug, Brooklyneer and Dylan Murphy’s), tell her it’s an amazing shot, casually order two of them, then watch her mouth open in horror while the bartender closes their eyes and starts grabbing random bottles.

If you decide to order Helen Keller shots (which I highly recommend), the best part is that after you teach a bartender how to make one, you can then write a Yelp or FourSquare tip encouraging others to “order the delicious Helen Keller shots!”  I don’t know if I’ve ever been happier than the moment my local bartender told me that thanks to this, people come in off the street and order them fairly regularly.  And if anyone wants to source this blog in a Wikipedia article about Helen Keller – that would just be amazing.

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The Story Behind My Bar Mitzvah Photo

Posted by JewMitch on February 22, 2011

If you go to my parents’ house today, you will notice thousands of photos of me on every wall (I was an only child), but more than any other – you’ll notice an extremely large, framed glossy print of my Bar Mitzvah photo.  This photo has become mildly famous among my friends; it was used in an internet e-mail advertisement for FreeDVDS.com (where I used to work) that went out to millions, it was profiled on HeebMagazine.com, and was even turned into a cake (as seen above).

Many ask the story behind this photo, and since I have this wildly popular venue to post such things; here we go.

Like, any nice Jewish boy, I got Bar Mitzvah’d at the age of 13.  As much as I dislike organized religion, and would never opt to be Bar Mitzvah’d again if I had the choice, I sort of understand this ritual, especially for the parents of boys.  The parents of girls get lots of opportunities to spend lots of money on their daughter and throw Sweet Sixteens and weddings — but what do the parents of boys get?  The chance to pay for a Bris and then throw a rehearsal dinner before the wedding?  That’s definitely not enough for Jewish mothers, eager to show off their offspring in front of a huge crowd.  And while we’re at it, why not do it at the age of 13, when puberty is just hitting and Jewish boys look the cutest.

For whatever reason, my parents, who are usually conservative with money, decided to throw an insane bar mitzvah for me.  My mother went dress shopping in New York for weeks before settling on one, we rented out a nice hotel, we flew in an “entertainment group” (think: a DJ, a bunch of dancers, and a bag of silly hats and costumes) from New York called “Heart to Heart,” we served Peking Duck; it went on and on.

But all this was not quite enough for my mother, she also insisted that we have a “theme.”  Why?  “Because Bar Mitzvahs without a theme lack focus and are generic.”  Or something like that.

So 13-year-old me had to pick something.  13 year old me, who really had no interests besides video games, pizza and the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and was generally depressed and mopey at that age, had to pick a “theme.”

“What do you like?” asked the Bar Mitzvah planner?  (Yes, we had a bar mitzvah planner).

“I don’t know.”

“Well, we need something.  Sports?  A Team?  Magic?”

“No.”  (I was not very athletic).

“You’re not giving me a lot here.  How about hats?  You’re mom said that you like wearing baseball hats.”  (This was true).

“Okay, hats it is.  ‘Hats off to Mitch at his Bar Mitzvah.’  Perfect!”

And so, the theme to my bar mitzvah actually became hats.  Everyone got a baseball cap that said “Hats off to Mitch”, there were center pieces based on hats at every table, chocolate that looked like hats, etc.

But best of all, when it came time to pick my Bar Mitzvah outfit out, instead of going with a suit – I decided if we really were “going to have a theme,” I might as well go with it, and so I picked out a full tuxedo with a top hat.  Because you really can’t wear a top hat with a suit, and tuxes are awesome (I still hold that belief).

And that is the story of my Bar Mitzvah picture.  May it live in infamy forever.

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Dan Savage and a Song I Wrote

Posted by JewMitch on February 10, 2011

A while back, I found myself in Seattle on Valentine’s Day with just my dad.  Normally, I love Valentines Day when I’m single, because it’s an amazing going-out night – packs of girls raid the bar, order $4 Manhattans like they’re going out of style, and try to convince themselves that it’s okay to be almost 30 and still single.  But since it would be weird to bring a girl back to a hotel room that I was sharing with my father, I suggested that we just go out for a decent dinner and see where the night took us.

Afraid to go anywhere too nice since it would be overrun with Valentine’s Day couples, we went to the least romantic restaurant we could find – Outback Steakhouse, which surprisingly (or maybe not surprisingly – this is America), still had a fair share of couples.

After dinner, we got in a cab and asked what area of the city would be good to go out in.  Keep in mind – this was a middle aged Jewish man and his son – so of course, he took us to Capital Hill, which is the gay area of Seattle.  We figured this out fairly quickly, when we accidentally wandered into a lesbian karaoke bar.  “Those lesbians were very friendly,” my dad commented as we left.

We then wondered around the neighborhood and noticed that this huge venue was having an Anti-Valentine’s Day party.  There were drink specials and it looked like a straight crowd, so we went in.  As they were checking ID, the girl asked me if I wanted to sign up to destroy something.

She then explained that Dan Savage (of the column, Savage Love) was on stage hosting, and if I had brought something from a past relationship – I could sign up to get up on stage with Dan, and he’d help me destroy it.  Even though I hadn’t brought anything, I immediately signed up.

Once we got to the main stage area – we realized this was a much bigger event than we had thought.  Dan Savage was on stage with a wide variety of tools of destruction, such as a flame thrower, ninja sword, sledgehammer, etc, and there were at least a 1,000 people there. Thinking quickly – I grabbed some napkins from a bar, and scribbled down the lyrics to a song that I once written for an ex-girlfriend.

Before I knew it, I was on stage with Dan and I explained that I had brought some song lyrics that I’d like to destroy, but first I’d like to read them to the audience, if that was okay.  He said, “of course,” and handed the mike over to me.  It’s better if I actually sing the song, but imagine it with a kind of childish, sing-song melody.  Also, keep in mind that my father was in the audience.

Jamie is a girl that I know /
She’s got girl parts from head to toe.
But the girl parts that I like best /
Is her vagina and her breasts /
Is her vagina and her breasts.

Mitch is a boy that I know /
He’s got boy parts from head to toe.
But the boy parts that I like best /
Is his penis and his chest /
Is his penis and his chest.

Mitch and Jamie go together /
Like birds of a feather /
Or whips and leather.
But Jamie needs to wear a scarlet letter /
Because they had sex before they were married /
They’re not married /
They’re not married.

Do you believe in love?
Do you believe in love?
I believe in love.
That’s why I think we should take the boy parts /
And put them inside the girl parts.
It’ll make a mess /
But I think it’s best /
Because I believe in love /
I believe in love.

The crowd loved it and afterwards, Dan Savage and I burned the lyrics.  As I got off the stage, I asked my dad how he thought it went, and he said that Dan Savage seemed to really like the part about whips and leather.  Then he asked if we could go home, because he was really tired.  It had been a very special Valentine’s Day.

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I Saved You Some Pizza

Posted by JewMitch on January 10, 2011

I went to GWU for undergrad, which is a kind of a funny school – since instead of living in dorms, most students like in old hotels that have been converted into dorms.  This is because GWU is right in the middle of DC and has an insane amount of money – so they figured this was an easy way to expand.  For instance, I lived in the old Howard Johnson across the street from the Watergate hotel my freshman year, which was actually pretty great – since the Watergate had a great old school barbershop, where they’d give a Playboy to read while they cut your hair and the liquor store there didn’t card at all.  Also, something something about history.

Anyway, my junior year – my roommate and I scored a room in a dorm called City Hall, which used to be a luxury suite hotel, right on 24th street.  It had just been converted to a dorm, so it came with all the old hotel furniture (which was awesome) and was really nice.  The only catch was that we could only get a triple – which meant we’d have to share with a random person.

This seemed like it would be okay, but of course – it turned out to be awful.  We wound up living with someone I’ll call Jon Lotkin.  Picture a tall, slim guy with acme and anti-social personality disorder, who dates a short, plump, completely unattractive girl, who would always walk three feet behind him like a Chinese wife, and who always had a “please don’t hit me again” expression on her face.

In the semester that we lived there, I exchanged no more than a few sentences with Jon.  No, “Hey, nice to meet you. I’m your new roommate.”  Just a grunt, and then he’d bark something at his girlfriend, and she’d follow him into his room.  Once, he just yelled at her for like 20 minutes.  His temper was out of control.

So of course, my roommate and I kept trying to come up with fun ways to make him angry, but that wouldn’t result in an actual fist fight.  Or just ways to get under his skin in funny ways. Like I once made my girlfriend yell out “Do it to me Jon Lotkin!” while we were having sex and I knew he was in other room.

Jon also used to get super angry whenever we left dishes in the sink or on the counter.  But instead of talking to us about it, he would just leave nasty notes, like “Don’t leave your dirty dishes here!”

So one day we ordered pizza and there was half a slice left that nobody wanted.  So we put it on a plate – left it on the counter and left a note that read:

“Dear Jon,
You looked hungry yesterday (have you been losing weight?) so we thought you might like this cold, unrefrigerated half slice of pizza.  Hope you’re having a super good day!
Love, Mitch and Dan”

Jon came home late that night, saw the slice of pizza, angrily threw it out, tore up the note we left him and threw the pieces of the note on the floor.

We could have easily left it there, but instead we took the pieces of the note, taped them back together, then taped the note on the fridge – with a new note on top of it, that read:

“Dear Jon,
Why did you tear me up?  I was just trying to inform you about the delicious pizza?  :(
–  The Note”

He didn’t think the second note was funny either.

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Sometimes, I Don’t Think I Like Lawyers

Posted by JewMitch on January 2, 2011

Happy New Year!  Because I’m lazy and because someone requested it– here’s another awesome reprint (slightly edited, for more JewMitch humor) of a column I wrote in law school, that made a large portion of my class question their chosen profession.  A lot of people didn’t believe that this guy was really this awful– but trust me, he was.  The photo above is me wearing a wolf mask and a suit, and is completely unrelated.

One day when I was in law school, my grandmother (lovingly referred to as “Ma”) called me with a favor she wanted to ask me.  Make sure to imagine her side of the conversation in a thick New York/Jewish grandmother accent.

“Miittttchy.”

“Hi, Ma. How’s it going?”

“I want you to meet someone.”

“It’s not another Jewish girl is it? Because I told you, you can’t trust a Jewish grandmother when she swears that her granddaughter is beautiful.”

“That girl my friend Sylvia brought to the Hanukah party was very nice.”

“No, she wasn’t. She kind of looked like an overweight duck, and she was mean and weird.”

“Oh, Mitchell. You’re too picky.”

“Ma, I have a girlfriend that I’ve been dating for almost two years.”

“Oh her (lengthy pause to acknowledge my non-Jewish girlfriend).  No, I want you to meet a man. (pause).  He’s a lawyer. (pause).  In D.C.  He’s my friend’s son, and he’s a very sweet man.  I met him over Rosh Hashanah at temple. You would have met him too if you had come to temple (pause).  He’s very sweet, and he wants to meet you.”

Now, for those of you in graduate school who haven’t had the pleasure of sitting down with a family friend to talk about your future career, I can only stress that it’s the worst idea humanly possible.  They usually give such amazing advice as “You should write a cover letter when you apply for jobs,” or “I like ivory colored envelopes.”  But this experience went well beyond anything of that nature.

He made me meet him at 8:45 a.m. at a Starbucks in D.C., which meant I got to leave my apartment in Baltimore some time around 7 a.m.  He was a short man, about 5’4”, which is always a bad combination with being a partner in a law firm.  We chatted pleasantly for a whole of thirty seconds before he asked me if I had read his law review articles.  I confessed that I hadn’t had a chance yet.

“Big mistake,” he said with emphasis.  “You go to meet a man, you read his work, you find out what he’s all about.”

I took a sip of my coffee and nodded.  He then asked me where I saw myself after graduation, and I told him I thought I’d be happy in a small firm, working 40-50 hours a week, with people whom I liked.

“You know,” he said.  “You make more money working in a big firm. I mean, you work more hours, probably 6-7 days a week, but you end up making a lot more money per hour.”

As nice as it was for him to point out this obvious fact, I tried to explain to him that my girlfriend was also going to be a lawyer, at a big firm nonetheless, and I doubted we’d be poor.

“So what, are you going to be a kept man?  Is that what you want?”

I tried to explain that I really cared more about lifestyle than money, and I just wanted to find a job that I enjoyed.  He didn’t seem to understand, and quickly came back to the money argument.

“You know, guys with more money get prettier girls.”

Was he really, to my face, insinuating that my girlfriend wasn’t pretty?

Another fun moment came when I slipped and accidentally referred to the Maryland Court of Special Appeals as the Maryland Special Court of Appeals.

“You know,” he responded, “you have three options when you open your mouth.  You can either say the right thing, say the wrong thing, or keep your mouth closed so I don’t know that you have no idea what you’re talking about.”

If you can imagine a more pleasant way to spend the morning, please enlighten me.  And on top of everything, I couldn’t splash espresso on his $200 tie and leave, because this was the son of my grandmother’s friend, and he assumed that he was doing a favor for my grandmother.  It was like in middle school when a bully sits on you, grabs your arm, punches you in the face with it, and asks you, “Why are you hitting yourself?”

The best part came at the end though, when he gave me various instructions on how I might be able to find a job and then told me exactly which bottle of scotch I was to buy for him.  (“I don’t want the crap you and your friends drank in high school.”)  And then he said, “And always be a mensch.  Like me.”  It was a special moment.  Somehow I managed to smile, shake his hand and leave the Starbucks without getting my first felony.  And then I got to drive back to Baltimore in morning traffic, and be late for class that day.

The best part of the whole experience was that he honestly thought he had been doing me a favor.  It was one of those odd moments where you just can’t understand what happened to the world.  And also that maybe there is some sense to all those dead-lawyer jokes you hear.

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Be Careful of Child Thieves in Trees

Posted by JewMitch on December 26, 2010

So when I was a kid, there was this parking lot for a Jewish community center that was directly across the cul-de-sac where I grew up (actual Google map photo above).  It was a really cool parking lot, in the sense that it had ramps and was usually empty of cars – the perfect place for a kid to ride his bike or rollerblade.  So naturally, I’d want to go there on afternoons to play.

This was fine with my overprotective Jewish mother, except for the fact that there was a thin row of trees that separated my cu-de-sac from the parking lot, and to her, this seemed like the perfect place for child abductors to hide. Although, these weren’t ordinary child abductors who wanted to kidnap kids, rape them in white vans and then murder them.  These were members of the White Slave Trade.

My mother was very big on instilling a fear of the White Slave Trade in me from the time I was a small child.  Apparently, in Potomac, Maryland (one of the nicest and safest communities you can imagine), there was a large gang of international child thieves, who would kidnap kids from the parking lots of Jewish community centers and then sell them into the white slave trade.

As much as I could figure out, the White Slave Trade mostly took place somewhere in Asia – where there was a premium for skinny boys with fair hair and blue eyes (my hair was lighter then).  I never fully got the gist of what would happen if you were sold into the White Slave Trade, but it seemed to involve performing unpleasant sexual acts and doing a lot of chores.  Similarly, my mother loved to tell me that I should be extra afraid of ever going to jail, because the other inmates would consider me to be a “pretty boy.”

So, whenever I went to the parking lot to play – my mother would always instruct me to inspect the trees to make sure there was no one hiding there to steal me away.  Now, if this was some thick forest outside of a Walmart parking lot near a prison, that would be perfectly logical advice.  Except this was Potomac, Maryland – outside a Jewish community center, in daylight, and it was a single row of trees.

I was retelling this story to a friend the other day, and he commented that if there really were child thieves in these trees, you’d think that the authorities would be able to do something about it.  “Oh yes, we know there’s an international gang of child slave traders operating out of that row of trees by the Jewish community center – there’s just nothing we can do about it.”

Needless to say, I kept my guard up and thankfully made it out of Potomac alive.

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The Joy of Chanukah

Posted by JewMitch on December 18, 2010

In honor of Chanukah — a classic JewMitch re-post. This column originally appeared in my law school newspaper, and actually triggered a huge First Amendment debate due to a metaphor I included about a handjob. Enjoy. Happy Chanukah!

With Chanukah (pronounced Hanoo-KAh) right around the corner, I thought it would be fun to write a column dedicated to Chanukah, otherwise known and “The Festival of Lights,” otherwise known as “The Jewish Response to Christmas.”

Chanukah is a holiday that is very similar to Christmas, except that the Jewish people follow a lunar calendar and this causes Chanukah to fall on different random dates each year. This year Chanukah begins on December 8th, which is just in time to coincide with finals.  Hooray!

Also, Chanukah differs from Christmas in that it is eight days long, and Jewish children receive a different present each night. When I was little, my parents used this fact to try to explain to me why Chanukah was better than Christmas. “You get eight whole days of presents, Mitchy! Now aren’t you glad you aren’t one of those goyim?”

Not knowing any better, I would nod my head, put on a kippah and bless the Chanukah candles. Although, I later learned the many ways in that Christmas is infinitely better.

The main reason that Christmas seems better is because it is a one day orgy of infinite present receiving bliss. Christian kids get all their presents in one swoop and sometimes even stay up all night in anticipation.

On the other hand, Chanukah is an eight day long drawn out process, which resembles a bad hand job given in high school. You’re really excited and there are some nice moments, but then there are some bad moments, and by the end you just wish it was over already.

Unlike the joy of receiving all of your good and bad presents at once, where the good ones greatly overshadow the bad ones; Chanukah forces you to only receive one present a night – and you know that only one or two of them will be good. And my parents would always try to disguise the good presents by wrapping them in strange ways. The result was that I would spend all day spasmodically awaiting present time, only to incorrectly chose a crappy present and have to wait another 24 hours to try again.

To further elaborate on this point, let me list some of the worst presents received: a girl’s diary with hearts on it (because I liked to write), pencils (because I liked to write), a pad of math games, and a dustbuster shaped like a robot (which would have been cool now, but sucked when I was thirteen).

One favorite game of my parents was to purchase a 2-part present and wrap each part separately. So, when I finally found the box that Legal Enforcers for Sega Genesis was in, I ended up spending the rest of Chanukah praying that I would find the box that the Legal Enforcers Gun was in. (While it was possible to play Legal Enforcers without the gun, that would be as much fun as going to an all paraplegic ballet).

I’m sure some of my Jewish readers would argue that Chanukah isn’t really about presents, that it’s about some miracle or something. Let me take the chance to correct them now. Of course Chanukah is about presents. Saying otherwise is like saying that Labor Day sales are really about celebrating labor.

But, let’s get back to my highly scholarly comparison of the two holidays. Another great benefit of Christmas is that Christmas songs are much better than Chanukah songs. While I’m sure that many of my Christian readers are not as much of a fan of Christmas music as I am, I think they just don’t realize how bad many Chanukah songs are.

The highlight of Chanukah songs is probably, “I Have a Little Dreidel,” whose lyrics are simply: “I have a little dreidel / I made it out of clay / And when it’s dry and ready / Then dreidel I shall play!” Doesn’t that sound like fun?  Doesn’t it make you want to make things out of clay and then wait for them to dry?  They should have just written a Chanukah song about watching paint dry or doing laundry.

Although Chanukah still can be fun. You get to eat gelt, which are chocolate coins wrapped in gold foil. I think I was told that they were to make the holiday sweet, but the image of Jewish children actually eating fake money still makes me laugh. And other cultures wonder why Jews are so good with money.

And I guess the real benefit of Chanukah is that I learned it was better to wish for a bunch of small easily wrapped things, rather than only one or two big things. My Chanukah wish lists are still filled with CDs and video games that feature scantily clad girls either fighting each other or playing rigorous games of volleyball. And while Chanukah is much less exciting as a result, it taught me how to lower my expectations and defer gratification for certain things until I could afford them myself.

Those crafty Jews, they’re always up to something.

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Another Dead Poet Story

Posted by JewMitch on November 11, 2010

Back when I lived in Baltimore, I used to come up to New York City all the time for drinking weekends. During football season, I couldn’t make it back in time for 1pm football games, so I would bring Ravens gear up with me and make The Dead Poet (our favorite Upper West Side bar) show Ravens games on their flatscreen. This always made the bartender annoyed, because he was a huge Jets fan, but since there was no one else in the bar on Sunday afternoons, and we spent about a thousand dollars a month there, he would have to comply. Then, we would all order 1-3 Dead Poets and enjoy the game.

These Sundays would always end in disaster – as my friends would encourage me to drink as much as possible, since I was headed home that afternoon and they wouldn’t have to deal with me. One time, I blacked out in the Dead Poet and woke up in my friend’s car, near Exit 6 on the New Jersey Turn Pike. Let’s just say, she was not super happy with me.

Another time, my friends made me drink three Dead Poets, even though I was already hungover and was taking the Chinatown bus back to Baltimore that afternoon. I was already queasy by the time I got to the bus, so I knew there was no way I would make it the whole 4-5 hour bumpy ride without puking at least once. This was an issue, as the bathroom on the Chinatown bus was in the condition you’d expect it to be in.

I had about five minutes before the bus was leaving, so I ran into the nearest store I could find, which happened to be a DVD porno store, and asked them if they had any plastic bags I could have. The confused clerk obliged (the look on his face was kind of priceless – “you just want plastic bags? no porn?”) and I then ran back to make the bus. I threw up about five minutes after we drove off.

Looking back on this story, you’d think I’d have realized that my drinking was getting a little out of control or that maybe I should have only had 2 Dead Poets, but all I can remember thinking was “Good thing that friendly porno store guy gave me two plastic bags” and “I really need to just move to New York already.”

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Helping People in New Orleans

Posted by JewMitch on October 29, 2010

About a year after Katrina, my friend Nate approached me and asked if I wanted to go on a Jewish mission to New Orleans, to help rebuild houses for the victims.

“Do you know me at all?  That would involve both a Jewish organization and helping people – two of my least favorite things.”

“You don’t understand.  I’m in charge of this trip.  I handpicked almost all of the girls that are coming.”

“Aren’t they all Jewish though?”

“They don’t look it.  Plus, all you have to do is pay for airfare.  Food and hotel are free.”

“How far away is the hotel from Bourbon Street?”

“Walking distance.”

“Okay, I’m in.”

So the next thing I knew, I was on a plane with a bunch of Jews, heading to New Orleans to repaint houses and help boost the local economy by spending ridiculous amounts of money on alcohol.

The community service part of the trip was actually not bad – we mostly just scraped old paint off the walls of houses so that they could be re-painted. And knowing that this would make a good story to later tell girls on dates, made me feel good about helping out.  (“Did I ever tell you about the time that I volunteered in New Orleans after Katrina?”)

There was a bunch of Jewish stuff too, but as always, I spaced out during that part until it was time to hit the bars.

If you haven’t been drinking in New Orleans, and you enjoy drinking, I highly recommend it.  I don’t think there’s any other city in America that is so obviously designed for going on a bender. You can buy and consume alcohol everywhere, including on the streets.  Let me repeat that. They will sell you a 40 oz beer on the street (like buying a hot dog in nyc) and you can just walk around drinking it.  Bars don’t really close, there’s amazing live music everywhere you go, and the casinos are also nearby and open all night.  There’s none of that – “Oh what a fun night – let’s go to bed early to be fresh for sightseeing tomorrow”;  it’s more like, “Holy shit, we’re in New Orleans –  this city is on the brink of destruction – give me another hurricane now and don’t let me stop drinking because your economy directly depends on it!”

It was around 4am on our first night, when I found myself near black out drunk, buying a gyro in some place off Bourbon street.  At this point, my phone rang and it was my other buddy on the trip, Scott.

“Hey Mitch, you still out?”

“Of course. I’m just getting a gyro.”

“How did you find a gyro place at 4am in New Orleans?”

“I don’t know.  What’s up?”

“Just got back to the hotel and was thinking about coming out?  Do you know where you are specifically?”

“No.  Hey did Jeff go home with that chubby girl?”  (SIDENOTE: one of the guys on the trip had been hanging out earlier with the lone heavy girl on our trip; one of the few girls on the trip that had not be invited by Nate).

Then, in the background – I just hear this little high pitched whine noise, and then – in a hesitant, whimpery voice –  “Am I the chubby girl?”

It was then that I thought to ask Scott,  “Am I on speakerphone?”

Which of course, I was.

But before you pass judgment on me (which I’m sure you’ve already done), who is more to blame?  Me for saying what I did?  Or Scott for putting me on speakerphone at 4am and not telling me.  Because really?  I mean, it’s me.

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Atlantic City and the Best Buffet Ever

Posted by JewMitch on September 8, 2010

So if you have been wondering if Atlantic City is going to go bankrupt, I’m pretty sure the answer is yes, because earlier this year Harrah’s Casino offered a deal that absolutely reeked of desperation. For $39 (+$16 taxes and hotel fees) we got a one night stay in a pretty nice room, two passes to the spa, two passes to their club (“The Pool After Dark”), and two passes to the buffet.

The deal was only good on Friday nights; so we made plans to leave work early on Friday so that we could get to the pool early for happy hour. I had gone out really hard the night before, so I thought it prudent to call out of work sick on Friday morning (I was already taking a half day anyway), so that I could sip Pedialyte and catch up on Jersey Shore reruns for a few hours. By noon, I was back to normal and ready to go. The train was great (highly recommended – just remember to book two weeks in advance to save $20), but the hotel, pool, and almost everything else about Atlantic City, aside from the buffet, was awful.

For some reason the hotel decided to build the entire pool complex under a giant dome. So on a nice sunny day; it was hot and muggy by the pool – and you felt like you were indoors, because technically, you were indoors. Also, I think I just completely forgot that Atlantic City is in New Jersey, and that a lot of people from New Jersey go to Atlantic City. And as much fun it is to try to guess how many of the few decent looking girls in the pool will have HALS (Huge Ass and Leg Syndrome) when they get out of the water (Answer: all of the them), I was wishing I was back on my roof deck in NYC after about 2 hours. Or basically anywhere else. But we were already in AC and on the list for the club later, so you know how the story goes.

After almost not getting into the club because our 28 year old British friend only had an international driver’s license, the club was very much just okay – (“Look, it’s a club! By a Pool! Who says AC isn’t glamorous?”). But it was the type of place where they intentionally make everyone wait an hour, but then they still let fat, ugly girls in. I mean, seriously? And not just one or two of them, but packs of them. Of course, I got way too drunk too quickly, and got kicked out for falling asleep in one of the club’s big lounge chairs. Which brings my total of getting kicked out of bars/clubs for falling asleep up to 25 or so, while I’ve only been kicked out of a bar once for inappropriate behavior (peeing in the ally right behind the bar, because the bathroom line was too long).

But then there was blackjack, and more drinks, and late night diner, and more blackjack, and more drinks, and talking to girls at 4AM in the morning, who had been ditched by their friends and were just flat out lost at that point, and then crashing for a few hours before the spa opened so we could be hung over in the sauna and drink a lot of that fruit flavored water, with real fruit in it, which for some reason, you can only get in spas. But I was literally so hungover that morning that I remember trying to make myself some tea, and then the top of the hot water carafe fell off, hot water poured over my hand, and it literally took me 5 seconds to realize that near-boiling water was pouring over my hand. I was okay though.

After this, we all made it to the buffet, which really was amazing. It truly was enormous – in that, I-love-America type of way. And they had every type of hangover food that you could imagine. Chicken noodle soup, four different types of Chinese food (including lo-mein), bagels with cream cheese + lox, potato latkes, funnel cake, pancakes, French toast, cheese cake, ice cream, corned beef, five types of eggs, fresh fruit, and all the other standard breakfast fare. Did you notice that I said “funnel cake”!? Which is probably nature’s perfect hangover food – yet you can never find it unless you happen to live near a state fair. And potato latkes! With apple sauce. It was like being in hangover-heaven, where you just thought about a food you want, and then you realize that they had it.

So as much as Harrah’s made me want to drink until I hurt myself, they were excellent at taking care of me when I felt my worst. Kind of like that awful girlfriend that you should break up with, but somehow date for years.

Overall Rating:  Two Stars.

PS – I should write hotel reviews professionally.

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Adventures in Mexico

Posted by JewMitch on July 27, 2010

It seems as you get older and more entrenched in your career, it becomes harder and harder to take seriously awesome vacations. The other day I had the sad realization that the last time I went on a vacation longer than 5 days was back in 2006, right after I had taken the Maryland Bar and didn’t have to start work for a few weeks. It’s a great time to take a big trip, because you have plenty of cash left over from working at a law firm during school, and you have absolutely zero responsibilities, because the bar is over and your real job hasn’t started yet.

Before the Bar, I had planned to travel with my then girlfriend to visit one of her friends in Colorado Springs who just had a baby, and then go to L.A. to visit my cousins. However, we luckily wound up breaking up right before graduation, which meant that I could completely skip seeing some stupid baby and fly straight to California, where I had a law school friend who was itching to go a road trip down the West Coast, and then go back up to L.A. to see my family.

We started off in San Francisco, headed down through San Jose, then down to L.A., where we drank $17 Red Bull and Vodkas at the Standard Hotel, had dinner at Blowfish with Paul Lieberstein (from The Office), and almost wound up in a weird orgy (not with Paul), but that’s another story. By the way, Paul Lieberstein is exactly like his character Toby; this was near the height of the Office and he was telling me how he spent the day writing. I asked him what he was working on, and he said (in that depressing Toby voice), “Oh, I write for a television program. It’s called ‘The Office.’ I don’t know if you’ve heard of it.”

But the highlight of the trip was definitely when we decided to violate our rental car contract by crossing the border and going to a small Mexican coastal town called Rosarito. Think Tijuana, but slightly classier and with less high school kids. Our hotel was right on the beach and cost about 70 dollars a night. We hit the beach for the day, walked around town, had some really good tacos, etc.

One amazing thing I learned about small Mexican coastal towns is that you can be sitting anywhere; at a bar, the beach, or a restaurant, and Mexicans in huge sombreros will sneak up on you from behind, tilt your head back and pour tequila down your throat. Afterwards, they’ll request 3 dollars from your friends. You can’t really say no. But why would you want to?

After a full day of surprise tequila shots and Coronas, we were ready to hit the town. None of the bars were too expensive, but if you want to be particularly cheap (as we did), you can just walk around the street and let the all-you-can-drink-specials come to you. We literally could not walk more than ten feet without someone shouting at us to come into their bar. The drink specials were all about the same ($15-$20 for unlimited tequila drinks) and every person working the door swore up and down that although there were no girls in the bar yet, there would be soon.

We wound up in the first place that let me negotiate the door charge down to $10 a person, and we quickly befriended the bartender by learning his name (Juan, I think) and tipping him five American dollars. Apparently, this is all that it takes in Mexico to make a friend for life. We positioned ourselves right at the front of the bar, so that when any girls wanted drinks we could just signal Juan, and he’d hook us up with as many frozen, super-sweet, cheap tequila drinks as we wanted. By the middle of the night we were ordering at least ten at a time. But the night didn’t really get started until we were handing a bunch of free drinks to some girls and they asked us how long we were staying in Rosarito.

“We just moved here!” I said, for no particular reason.

“No Way!”

“Yeah, we wanted to do something crazy after college, so we grabbed all our stuff, drove down here and figured we’d find jobs and an apartment once we got down here. Tonight’s our first night.”

“That’s incredible. We come down here all the time and know all the bar owners. We’ll totally help you find jobs!”

So, the next thing we knew, we were meeting the owner of the bar, telling him that we wanted to be the guys in sombreros who poured tequila shots into people’s mouths. We swore we’d be back the next day to talk to him seriously and were very excited about our new careers. Of course, we all did shots to celebrate, and kept drinking heavily.

I think I probably had about 13 tequila drinks throughout the night (they came in really small cups), and it was one of those nights where you black out, but then come to later on while you’re still out. At one point the entire bar had turned into a foam party, and when I came to, I was grinding against one of the girls who knew the bar owner, while her boyfriend (an extremely large/scary Mexican man) and my law school friend were talking over in the corner.

Things were getting a little hot on the dance floor (like physically hot – it was really crowded), and the next thing I knew, she was asking me if it would be okay she took off her shorts. I nodded yes, and we kept dancing. I remember her waving over at her Mexican boyfriend, who smiled and waved back. While this was going on, the boyfriend was asking my law school friend how long I had been out of the closet as a gay man (apparently, I had told him that I was gay). My friend promptly sprayed his drink out of his mouth, and said tried to insist that I was straight.

Amazingly, instead of promptly charging over and stopping me from grinding with his girlfriend (who was now only wearing a thong), the Mexican boyfriend started defending me and assumed that the reason that I hadn’t come out to my friend was that I must have been nervous that he would judge me. He then starting giving my friend a lecture about tolerance, and how people in who live on the West Coast need to set an example for the rest of the country. All the while, my friend kept insisting that I was straight, and the boyfriend kept not believing him.

Of course, while all of this was going on, we had completely forgotten that we weren’t supposed to drink beverages with ice in them, nor eat the limes that came with our drinks, nor eat the vegetables that were in our dinner/late night tacos. Miraculously, we were both fine the next day, even while we broiled in the hot Mexican sun for the three hours that it took to cross the border back into the U.S. (it took less than 2 minutes to get into Mexico). My buddy was driving straight back to San Francisco, so he dropped me off in Santa Monica, where I was going to stay the night in a hostel.

I had paid the extra 30 dollars for my own room, but it wasn’t ready yet – so I was just walking around Santa Monica by the pier when the combination of Mexican ice/fruit/vegetables hit my fragile Jewish intestinal track. I frantically looked around for a hotel or restaurant that would have a decent bathroom, and but the public bathrooms near the pier were by far the closest option. I bolted towards them, and made it just in time before I exploded on the toilet.

It wasn’t really diarrhea that came out; it more like pissing hot, brown water out of my ass, which burned like crazy on the way out. The stench got really bad in one toilet, so I wiped off, and made my way to the next one, which I destroyed equally. After I finished with that one, I thought I was okay, but ten minutes later, I was back in a third public bathroom, just wrecking it.

After I was done there, I wandered into a pharmacy to get some pepto-bismol or something that would help my stomach. I was completely out of it at this point; hungover, sick to my stomach and totally dehydrated. Of course, no one in the pharmacy spoke English and they had a bunch of off-brand products that I didn’t recognize. I remembered that when I was a kid, my mom used to give me Milk of Magnesia to help my stomach, so when I saw that in a calming pale blue bottle, I just decided to buy that and instantly chugged half the bottle.

Of course, for those of you who have any amount of common knowledge, Milk of Magnesia is actually a laxative and the exact opposite of what I should have bought. It was about fifteen minutes before I was back in the public bathroom, destroying yet another toilet with hot, Mexican, brown ass piss. It was during this time, sitting in this stall, when all of the weight of taking the Maryland Bar suddenly began to set in. I knew I had passed (I had aced the exam), and that in a few months, I would soon be a lawyer. Not a pretend lawyer; but an actual, I-talk-to-clients-on-the-phone-and-actually-practice-law lawyer. Looking back, it was probably an extremely appropriate beginning to my legal career.

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Solo Cup

Posted by JewMitch on July 14, 2010

A while back in Baltimore, I was at an event called the Santa Stomp. All of the guys dressed up in Santa Clause outfits (I wore one with a giant menorah across my chest) and the girls wore holiday costumes (my friend Susan came dressed as a Christmas tree). It started off as a house party and then we all went to the local karaoke bar. While singing “Somewhere Out There” in a Santa suit is almost enough for a JewMitch post in itself, it was in this setting that I met a guy who will forever be nicknamed “Solo Cup.”

Solo Cup worked for the Solo Cup Company and unlike everyone else who was in full Santa/Christmas gear; he was wearing khakis and a polo shirt, with a red Rudolf the Reindeer nose. I was nearing black out drunk, but Solo Cup somehow cornered me into a conversation at the bar. Note: in order to get the full effect of this story, you have to picture Solo Cup talking in an extremely slow, monotone, nasal voice (kind of like Eeyore, but sadder and more depressed). Also, keep in mind that this conversation was happening as about 20 drunken Santa Clauses were taking turns performing 80’s pop karaoke and downing Jello shots by the handful.

S:  Hello, my name is _______ .  I work for the Solo Cup Company.

M:  Hey. So do you actually work at the Solo Cup Factory? That’s awesome! That must be like working at the Wonka Chocolate Factory. Do you get to test out all the new disposable cups before they hit the market?  Also, can you help me find the Solo disposable coffee cups with the lids on them? They always sell out of them at the grocery store.

S:  No, I work in an office building. And I mainly work with their financial statements.

M:  Oh.

S:  The Solo Cups Company is actually in a lot of trouble. The company heavily refinanced several years ago and now may not be able to shoulder its debt. The company is actually made up of many subsidiaries and some of them are losing a lot of money.

M:  So you don’t know where to find those disposable coffee cups?

S:  No.  What do you do?

M:  I’m a lawyer.

S:  Oh, a lawyer… I thought about going to law school, but then I decided it would be too boring.

Solo Cup then took off his reindeer nose and went back to slowly sipping his Bud Light. I’m pretty sure this was the exact moment when I knew I didn’t want to be a lawyer anymore.

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Pigtown

Posted by JewMitch on July 8, 2010

One year when I was living in Baltimore, I decided it would be a really good idea to live in the cheapest apartment that I could find near school. This was obviously an awful idea, as I wound up in a neighborhood called “Pigtown,” and directly across the street from a drug dealer. And not a friendly – “do you want some pot” type of drug dealer, but a “crackwhores regularly come in and out of your house” type of drug dealer. Of course, there’s also the possibility that he just really liked fucking crackwhores, but that just seemed less likely and they never stayed long. There was also a guy named Mike, who’s full time job seemed to be sitting on my stoop, and who I would give cigarettes to/let him steal my newspaper every day in exchange for watching my car (Note: if you ever find yourself living in a bad area of Baltimore, I highly recommend this, as my car never once got broken into).

The neighborhood obviously wasn’t great, but the apartment itself was pretty nice. Two floors (with a full spiral staircase in the middle of the apartment), two bedrooms, two bathrooms, full kitchen, etc., and my share of the rent was $375 a month. The other funny thing about this apartment was that it was in such a bad neighborhood that no one ever thought to break into my place – while my friends who lived in the student area regularly got broken into (and mugged, and one got stabbed).

However, the landlord was this total slum lord named Mr. Klein, that drove around in an 1960 Mercedes convertible, and the roof kind of a had a problem with leaking. By “kind of had a problem”, I mean that when I moved in – there were huge black mold stains on the wall, which I had to paint over with special mold killing paint.

I had been told that the roof had been fixed, which was true, until it wasn’t, and then the roof started leaking again. And then it started leaking in my room. And then it started leaking near my bed. And since my landlord wouldn’t respond to my calls, I did the next best thing, which was to go to the dollar store, buy a bunch of buckets, and then mark the places on the floor where the roof leaked with masking tape so I knew where to put the buckets when it started raining. And as more leaks opened up, I just kept adding buckets. Till I literally had six buckets in my room, which I had to set up every time I left the house if the forecast called for rain.

And the really funny thing about this situation was that I was a LAW STUDENT. Someone with full access to and understanding of Maryland’s landlord tenant law. This went on for like 3 weeks before someone finally suggested that I send a certified letter citing all the violations of Maryland Law, which resulted in the roof being fixed the next day. By Mike (from the stoop) of all people.

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Obama = free oil?

Posted by JewMitch on July 6, 2010

A while back, I was out at dinner with a bunch of people, and I happened to be sitting next to David Smith (CEO of Sinclair Broadcasting, which was responsible for airing the anti-Kerry Swift Boat Veterans for Truth documentary back in 2004). David Smith is basically everything you expect him to be (for more back story, click here), but a nice enough guy to drink scotch and eat steak with. This was right before the Obama-McCain election, and David wanted to talk to me about why young people liked Obama so much.

D:  “I don’t understand why young people are so infatuated with Obama.  Don’t they realize that he might be Muslim?  Don’t they know how excited Muslims overseas are that he might get elected?”

M:  “I like the idea of having a president who people think is Muslim.”

D:  “How do you figure?”

M:  “Well, you would agree that America’s dependence on foreign oil is a problem, right?”

D:  “Definitely.”

M:  “And you would agree that most of the foreign oil is in Muslim controlled countries?”

D: “Yes, that’s the problem.”

M:  “Well, if the oil is controlled by Muslims, and they think Obama is Muslim, won’t they be much more generous to us with their oil if Obama becomes president?”

D: (pauses for a few beats) “Ahhhh, I see what you’re doing.”

And with that, he went back to his steak.  Although, the funny thing is that I kind of really believe that foreign policy works this way.

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How do you tell someone…

Posted by JewMitch on June 30, 2010

I would argue that the most dangerous threat to single guys in New York City is the intense focus that can come from a crazy girl that you might have hooked up with a few times when you were really drunk, but clearly never want to see again. I don’t really understand how girls get this crazy or why they think this is a good way to get guys to date them, but every guy I know in New York has at least one of these stories. Luckily, because of the magic of text messaging, I have been able to reproduce the entire “break up.” Note the dates; I believe the last time I saw this girl was some time in February, and I had already been ignoring her messages for a while before this.

4/8/10

H:  Snug?  (Note: the Snug is the name of a bar)

M:  Nope. I have kickball.

H:  That sounds cute.

H:  Lemme know next time you go.

4/13/10

H:  Are u in ny?

5/27/10

H:  Hey! What r u up to tonight?

H:  Snug?

H:  ?

H:   :( why am i being ignored? :(

M:  Busy

H:  Ok. Guess no snug then :( call me when u r free- I miss hanging out!

H:  U arent mad at me r u?

6/5/10

H:  I think it sucks that you arent talking to me.

6/7/10

Voice Mail Received (from her, asking what I was up to and if I wanted to hang out sometime).

6/15/10

H:  Know u are over talking to me for some reason but wanted to let u know that miley cyrus is in the park Friday. Wouldnt want u to miss it :)

M:  Honestly, it’s time you stopped texting me.

H:  Ok. Dont know get it but fine. You are a jerk.

H:  Fuck you

Epilogue:  Checked her Facebook page one week later to discover that we are no longer “friends.” Double win.

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Summer Picnic

Posted by JewMitch on June 28, 2010

So instead of having a company Christmas party, my company has a giant summer picnic every year, with insane amounts of food, rides, bumper cars, karaoke, climbing walls, a giant TV screen to watch World Cup games, etc. I could go on and on about it, but instead I just wanted to share this one story.

I was standing next to a female co-worker that I’m friends with, who obviously hadn’t had a pedicure in a while (the polish was flaking pretty badly). Looking down, I said, without really thinking about it:

“Do you realize that your toenails look like the walls of an East Harlem public school? It might be time to take care of that.”

Of course, this was in front of a large group of co-workers.

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Chinatown Bus Fun

Posted by JewMitch on June 22, 2010

Back when I used to live in Baltimore, but liked to pretend that I lived in New York City, I used to take the Chinatown bus up almost every other weekend. Nowadays, a few legitimate companies have taken over this business, and offer clean, comfortable buses that safely get you between DC, Baltimore and NYC. But back when I did this, the companies were “AABus,” “Lucky Star Bus,” “MVP,” and “Apex.” You didn’t so much buy a ticket, as much as you went to the Baltimore Travel Plaza (a great place to go if you’re a hooker who doesn’t like earning a lot of money), gave some random guy with a walkie talkie and a clipboard $20, and got on a sketchy white bus.

Still it was so cheap (I mean, a cab ride from one neighborhood in Baltimore to another was $13) and the bus drivers sped like hell, so it was worth doing when you didn’t think there would be traffic. Also, the crowd was always interesting, since it was mostly Chinese. The first time I rode the Chinatown bus, someone actually had a live chicken on it. It was loud, and smelled, but I would just take an Ambien and pass out.

However, as more people found out about the bus, it eventually became more gentrified, and I found myself doing odd things like helping a twenty year old read/revise her first lease. One time I had forgotten the Ambien and was talking to a buddy on the phone. We were having a typical guy conversation: giving play by plays of our latest dirty hookups, telling stories about getting too drunk/throwing up, swapping pick up strategies and R rated jokes, etc. This went on for at least half an hour or so.

Anyone who knows me, knows that I have no control over the level of my voice when I’m on the phone and always talk too loudly. And of course, there was a nice couple in the seat ahead of me. They were in their mid twenties, but everything about the girl made me assume she was a bitch. Cropped haircut, conservative/sensible Walmart clothes, a lot of denim. Also, I could tell that with every minute of me talking, she got more and more physically upset by the content.

As soon as my conversation was over, she leaned into the aisle, and sternly said to me, “You know, not everyone on the bus needs to hear your conversation.”

To which I replied, “Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m hard of hearing. I wish you had told me earlier.”

She immediately apologized profusely, and didn’t say a word to me for the rest of the trip.

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Peer Advisor

Posted by JewMitch on June 14, 2010

So at my law school, they had these things called peer advisors– where they would assign a few 2L’s (second years) per small section of 1L’s (first years), to answer questions and help the 1L’s get situated. I’m told that the process to become a peer advisor is now very strict (due to me), but when I applied, all I did was have a fifteen minute conversation with one of the 3L’s that I used to go out drinking with, and then she handed me a red t-shirt that said “Peer Advisor” on the front and had a Thurgood Marshall quote on the back.

Mainly, all I wanted to do was organize happy hours/parties, where I could teach the 1Ls how to play “Partner Track,” which is a law school drinking game that I made it up. Basically, you take one shot for each year of law school you have left, and then one shot for each year that it should take you to make partner (7). The 1L’s would usually get to 3 or 4 shots and then quit, and then I’d yell at them and tell them that they would never make partner with that attitude.

Unfortunately, my group of 1L’s was not nearly as cool as we were, and all they wanted to do was have brown bag question and answer sessions in the courtyard– where they would ask me boring questions about the trial team and where to buy books and stuff. (We were convinced that the law school went out of their way to find really boring 1L’s after us, because our class was so crazy/alcoholic).

I would usually get tired of their questions, and after a while I would just start going on random rants. The best one was when I was conducting a Q&A session and only girls from my small section showed up, so I started giving a speech about how this was a really great law school to find a husband at, and how I think they all made really good decisions for their futures to come here.

They were not especially pleased with this. “But what if we want to practice law?” one asked. “Oh that’s just silly I replied. Especially when your husband can practice law and you can just reap the benefits without any hard work.” I then started explaining how you could tell which boys were in the top ten percent of the class by seeing who was wearing a suit during on campus interviews, and that you definitely wanted a guy on law review or a journal.

Then one girl stood up and said, “But what if you’re already married?”

I stopped mid-spiel and just looked at her. I couldn’t come up with an answer. After a moment, I said “I guess I don’t have any advice for you. I’m not really sure why you’re here.”

Epilogue: One year into law school, she was divorced. By second year, she was dating a guy on law review. By third year, she was pregnant and they were engaged. Some days, it’s like I have a gift.

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Fire Island Weekend

Posted by JewMitch on June 4, 2010

Last weekend, my roommate and I decided to go to Fire Island, which is a small beach island in Long Island, about two hours north of Manhattan. You can only get there by Ferry, and the island is filled with beach houses that you can rent a share in (meaning you can rent only half of a bedroom in the house for 1 or multiple weekends). The island is really unique in that there are almost no cars; so people ride bikes everywhere and wheel their bags/groceries around in red Radio Flyer wagons. We lucked out and got a house that was right on the beach, and we roomed with a bunch of UPenn frat guys (in their mid twenties now) who were pretty awesome. One of them insisted on being called “Business.”

To run through some of the highlights:

  • Playing beer pong and bbq’ing from our deck, while overlooking the ocean.
  • Meeting girls, simply by letting them use the bathroom.
  • Actually “hollering” at girls walking by from our deck.
  • My roommate (who is British) sitting in the direct sun all day on Saturday without sunblock, and getting so sunburned that he didn’t leave the house at all Sunday or Monday, and then missed work on Tuesday and Wednesday because it was so bad. He also was wearing manpris on Saturday – so he sustained a permanent manpri tan (on the area above his ankles up to his mid shin).
  • A lot of Bros Icing Bros; including going out to fancy lobster dinner, then just after we finished, one guy pre-apologized – and then dropped a six pack of Smirnoff Blueberry Lemonade on the table – icing all of us. Then we iced our waiter.
  • Playing Ultimate Wingman – where I would help my friends try to meet girls using the worst pick up lines imaginable, such as: “Do you girls like strangers?”, “Hey, have you met my friend Scotty, he works for BP”, and “Are you girls looking for casual hook-ups or more serious relationships?”
  • Constantly texting each other “The McRib is Back!!!
  • Excessive use of the phrases “crymax” and “masterdate.”
  • Talking about trying to impregnate the daughter of the President of Citibank (who was staying in the house next to us), by finishing inside and afterwards bringing her knees up to her chest, keeping them there, and saying “This is how I cuddle.”
  • Teaching one of the UPenn guys that if you accidental light a Marlboro Red backwards, the workaround is to break off the filter and smoke it filterless.
  • Explaining to another UPenn guy what a DTR talk was, and that he had just unwillingly participated in one.
  • Creating awkward sexual tension after anyone did any sort of action (like taking up a sip of a beer) by looking at them and saying, “Slower.”
  • The guy in the next room bringing a girl home, then the next morning when they woke me up, I plugged in my iPod speakers and blasted Boyz To Men’s “I’ll Make Love To You” through the paper-thin wall.

All in all, a pretty successful weekend.

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Train Drinking

Posted by JewMitch on May 18, 2010

This weekend, I got invited on a beach/drinking weekend in Westport, CT. Which was amazing for about hundred reasons, but the highlight may have occurred on the train ride there. Note: one of the main benefits of living in NYC is being able to take the train for weekend trips, where you’re allowed to bring as much alcohol as you can carry on board.

My friend Nick and I got to Grand Central about 5 minutes before the train left, and the people we were traveling with, who we hadn’t met before, were already on the train.

“How will we find them?”

“Easy,” Nick said. “Just look for people drinking.”

Sure enough, a group of 5 people had taken over one of the double seats (where the seats face each other) and were getting into a 12 pack and a handle of vodka. This was definitely our crew.

Now, if you were a commuter on the train, and you just wanted a quiet place to read the newspaper, you probably wouldn’t choose to sit with a group of twenty-something weekend alcoholics, who are already drinking?  Right? Well obviously this one woman is retarded, because she sat down in the one remaining seat between us.

We did the only thing that we could in such a situation; drink and be loud and tell inappropriate stories. All the while, this large, mannish, angry woman (let’s call her “Hogbeast”) looked on in disgust. I guess I could feel bad for her; she’s probably a very nice person who just wanted to relax on the train ride home. But as there were other seats on the train, she really brought this on herself.

She hated us for the whole trip (at one point she shouted, “I think everyone in Westport can hear you already!”), but there were two moments that made her look up at us in utter disgust. The first was when I retold the Cowboys and Indians and Stripclub story in full.

But the second moment was truly classic. It turned out that I had met one of the girls on the trip before – and she began telling me about when she had come to flipcup after kickball, and I had tried to pick her up, but had been drinking, and wound up falling down during the process, and dropped her onto a table, and she had bruised her leg.

I apologized to her and responded: “I really wish that was the first time someone has told me a story like that — of meeting me, me trying to pick them up drunk, and falling down in the process, and someone getting hurt, — but it’s not.” At this point Hogbeast just looked over like at us like she was about to write her Congressman about the state of youth in America. It was an amazing start to the weekend.

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Floaters and Friendship

Posted by JewMitch on May 14, 2010

During my first year of law school, I used to live in a high rise that was literally two blocks from the school, so my law school friends would constantly come over for study breaks, lunch, etc. On one of these occasions, a girl we didn’t know very well came over (let’s call her Sara), and asked to use my bathroom, and accidently left a few floaters in the toilet (for those of you who don’t know what floaters are, they are small pieces of poo floating on the top of the toilet that somehow did not get flushed on the first go around).

This is the sort of situation where if I was a different type of guy, I would have just quietly flushed the toilet, and not said anything. But of course, I chose to call her out in front of all of my law school friends, who were eating tuna sandwiches in the main room at the time.

Me: “Hey Sara, did you leave something in the bathroom?”

Her: “No, I don’t think so…”

Me: “Yeah, I’m pretty sure that you left some floaters in there.  Did you want me to save those for you or something?”

Her: (embarrassment, followed by flushing).

Of course, she became one of our best friends in law school, and after graduation, we wound up going to a lot of bar conventions and all sorts of other professional events together. We’d meet lawyers, judges, my boss, etc. They’d ask how we met and instead of just saying “law school,” I would just recount the time that she left floaters in my toilet. Reading this over, this behavior comes off as kind of cruel, but trust me, it was hysterical at the time.

And amazingly, despite this behavior (of because of it?), Sara and I ended up dating for a few months. Despite what Hollywood tells you; never date your best friends. Because everything you ever did to them comes back to bite you in the ass:

“Hey, can you close the door?”

“Hey, remember when you told your boss that I left floaters in your toilet? Close it yourself.”

It’s probably for the best that we broke up though, because there’s really no way I could have not told the floater story at the wedding. (I mean, you have to tell people how you met, right?)

And for the record, this is the same ex from the Baltimore Wedding Fun entry. We don’t really talk anymore.

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The Dead Poet

Posted by JewMitch on May 10, 2010

One of my favorite bars in NYC is the Dead Poet (located on 81st and Amsterdam), and this is mainly because they serve free popcorn all the time, and they have created a wonderful concoction named “The Dead Poet.” It’s similar to a long island iced tea, in the sense that it’s made with 7 different types of liquor, but it tastes more like grape soda and comes in its own glass that’s yours to keep (one friend’s glassware collection is made up almost entirely of these). The bar claims to limit patrons to only 2 Dead Poets per night; although all of my friends have all had at least one 3 Dead Poet night before, and every once in a while, someone manages to drink 4 before vomiting.

The drink is also only $10, and since two will get you pretty toasted, this is a bargain in NYC. Over the years, this quiet UWS bar has become so ingrained in our drinking lives that two of my friends have been named “Customer of Month” and whenever we’re in the neighborhood, it seems necessary to stop in for at least one Dead Poet, no matter what we’re doing afterwards or how much we’ve drank before. It’s also become common practice to always have a dead poet before going on a first date or going to the movies.

So when a friend of a friend wanted to meet on the Upper West Side on Sunday morning to discuss a project he was working on for grad school (funny enough – he wanted to talk about the modern Jewish community in America; I can’t escape this stuff), I suggested that instead of meeting for coffee, we meet at the Dead Poet to talk. Of course, I ordered a Dead Poet and a popcorn to enjoy while we discussed Jew stuff.

I answered his questions and basically tried to explain how I am an atheist and almost anti-Semitic, but simultaneously am completely defined/shaped by Judaism, and afterwards still had half a dead poet to drink. I had brought a paper with me, so I decided to sit there, finish my popcorn and Dead Poet and read the paper for a bit. It was maybe 11am. At this point, a girl I had recently met through kickball walks in, sees me casually enjoying a Dead Poet and some popcorn, with the Sunday New York Times. As if this is what I do every Sunday instead of going to Starbucks. She either thinks I’m: A) An alcoholic, B) Awesome, or C) Both. I didn’t bother to explain the situation, and just said hello and continued reading the paper. It was actually a really great way to start off a Sunday.

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Kike Baby

Posted by JewMitch on April 25, 2010

Unbelievably to many (and myself), I used to work in a law firm, where I read contracts, and generally lived a super boring life. Also amazingly, I was the only Jewish person at my law firm. (Note: this drove my mother crazy. “How did you manage to find the only law firm with no other Jewish people?!”). This was great for me though, as I get uncomfortable if I’m around too many Jewish people (I did not really enjoy my visit to Israel), and this gave me a carte blanche to make jokes about other Jewish people/eat a big lunch on Yom Kippur/make up fake Jewish holidays, etc.

The firm was generally pretty WASPy, but there also one Asian attorney, who I was good friends with. Together we used to regularly trade Asian insults for Jewish insults. “I’m putting you last in the batting order of the softball team because Jews can’t hit” for “Do Asian people eat fortune cookies after every meal? Because sometimes I notice you don’t eat one after lunch. How do you know your daily fortune and your lucky numbers?”

We we’re pretty brutal to each other, and one day the senior partner of the law firm took me aside for a serious chat. “Mitch, I know there’s a lot of joking around that goes on between you and some of the other people here, but I do understand that you’re the only Jewish person here, and I want to make sure that you’re comfortable with everything.”

I replied that of course I was, and that I wouldn’t give it out if I couldn’t take it, and that it was all in good fun. Then I said, “However, it does really bother me when Michael calls me ‘Kike Baby.’ Can you ask him to stop that?” After which, I just walked away and ended the conversation, leaving the partner with no clue to whether or not I was being serious. This was probably my favorite moment working at the firm.

My second favorite moment came when they gathered all the associates in the conference room and announced that they were bringing in a new associate, who they were really excited about. However, we should know that she had experienced some sexual harassment at her last job, and we should all be extra sensitive about that subject around her. It was nothing too awful, but apparently some of the guys at her last office had been publicly watching pornography on office computers and this had really bothered her. At which point in the meeting, I said loudly, “Damnit – now I’ll have to cancel my Pornography-Welcome-Basket that I ordered for her.”

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Two-Beer-Seven

Posted by JewMitch on April 18, 2010

Everyone knows that guys like to rate girls based on their appearance and that we spend most of our days doing this (If not, well, you should). There are a lot of different rating systems out there, but my favorite is a modification of the “zero-beer-fuck” system.

A while back, my friend Julie was having a really bad day (she had just gone through a break up) and was out drinking with a male friend of hers. To cheer her up, he looked straight into her eyes, and said, “Julie, you have nothing to worry about. You’re a zero-beer-fuck.”

The amazing part of this story is that he was completely sincere and this was, in his mind, one of the highest compliments that you could pay a woman. “Julie, you are so mildly attractive, that it would take zero amount of alcohol for me to sleep with you. Yes, I would have sex with you sober. You are that mildly attractive.”

The other awesome part of this story is that it’s clear that he lumps all woman that he would sleep with sober into one awesome “zero-beer-fuck” category, and everyone else is probably between 1-20 beers. In this system, there is no difference between the supermodel and the cute girl at the grocery store; they both have the high honor of being “zero beer fucks.” In a way, it’s very empowering to women.

Because my friends and I loved this story so much, but also needed a more precise way of rating girls, we ended up combining it with the traditional 1-10 rating system. For instance, a cute girl might be a 7, but her friend with the slightly weird face is a 2-beer-7. Or a 4-beer-7. And her really ugly friend might be a 15-beer-7. Or a 5-beer-5. Or a 30-beer-fuck. It’s up to you.

Feel free to modify and use in public.

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Worst Things I’ve Ever Said on a First Date

Posted by JewMitch on April 11, 2010

As a follow up to last week’s post, I thought it would be fun to do another list: “Worst Things I’ve Ever Said on a First Date.” Looking back on this, it’s actually kind of amazing that I’ve ever had a relationship.

1.  “For a Jewish girl, you’re really pretty.”

2.  “I look into your eyes, and I feel like I can understand how the Holocaust happened.”

3.  “You’re still a virgin? I guess you must be really into oral then?”

4.  “You’re really lucky that you’re good looking. I think you would have a hard time making friends if you weren’t.”

5.  “How do you feel about fat people? Because I really don’t like them.”  (Note: the girl I said this to wound up coming home with me that night, but then texting me a week later to say that this comment was a DealBreaker.)

6.  “Do you like dead baby jokes?”

7.  [To a religious girl]: “Don’t you feel like the idea of the afterlife is just a convenient, easy answer to the question of what happens after we die? Like someone asked, and then someone else said, ‘We all go to happy place. Problem solved.’”

8.  [To a girl who keeps kosher]: “I can’t stand anyone who keeps kosher.”

9.  [To a Teach for America teacher]: I try not to go to the Bronx. There’s too many ethnic people there.

10.  “Don’t be mean to me; wasn’t killing six million of my people enough?”  [Note: she then responded, “We can make it six million and one if you want.”  I kind of wanted to marry her after that].

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Boyfriend of the Year

Posted by JewMitch on April 4, 2010

People are often surprised when I tell them that I’m a really good boyfriend, and am pretty sure that the only times I’ve been dumped in my life was because I was too nice to the girl I was dating. “But Mitch, you’re a complete asshole?” people say. “Yes, yes… but my favorite movie is still the Princess Bride, and for all my faults I still have an unshakable belief in such a thing as true love and being best friends with your girlfriend and all that Harry Met Sally/You’ve Got Mail crap.

“Alright, Mitch, tell us something really nice that you’ve done for a past girlfriend.” I can do that. In fact, I’ll make a whole list. Starting with the nicest thing that you can possibly do for a girlfriend…

1.  Make them a t-shirt with your face on it in a heart (photo above). As you can see, I also inscribed “My Boyfriend” under the photo, so that it was super clear, and made her wear the shirt to her law school Constitutional Law final exam. To be fair though, I wore a shirt that read “I heart KW” (my girlfriend’s initials) to the same exam. True, I had purchased the t-shirt in Key West, but the thought was there.

2.  Purchase an original Nintendo entertainment system for a girlfriend as an anniversary present. In retrospect, this was probably not the most romantic present ever, but she did love playing Mario Brothers, and I needed something to do at her apartment that didn’t involve talking to her.

3.  Take your vegetarian girlfriend out to BBQ restaurants on a regular basis. I would let her order baked beans, corned bread, whatever she wanted.

4.  Take a girlfriend on a romantic trip to Big Sur, and invite your best friend to come along too, because that sounds like too much alone time with her. This trip actually was incredibly fun, until my buddy left and it was just me and my girlfriend, and then we just fought a lot as we drove up Route 101. I did get to go to the house that the Goonies was filmed in though – and that was awesome. Oh wait, that was another trip – the rest of this trip just sucked.

5.  If your girlfriend is wearing a cat costume on Halloween, ask her to drink milk out of a bowl on the floor at a party, and then let her leave the costume on during sex later. Oops, I already blogged about this: https://jewmitch.wordpress.com/2009/06/24/drink-the-milk/

6.  If the girl you’re dating is not Jewish, and you are, give her a t-shirt that says “Shiksa.” I actually did this on a second date with a girl. She was all about it.

7.  Related to No. 6, if the girl you are dating is not Jewish, invite her to go to Synagogue with you and your grandmother. My grandmother called me one day to tell me a “joke.” The joke went like this, “There was once a boy who never went to synagogue. One day his grandmother asked him if he would attend synagogue for her funeral, and he said of course. The grandmother then said, skip synagogue on my funeral, I’d rather you take me there once while I’m still alive!” Of course, I then had to go to synagogue with her.

8.  After going on to dinner on Valentine’s Day, come back to your apartment with her and immediately put on the second half of Beneath the Planet of the Apes. She just started crying, and it took me a day to figure out what I had done wrong. The worst part is that it was a Netflix movie, so it wasn’t like it was due anytime soon.

9.  If you’re on a boat with all of your girlfriend’s friends, pee off the side of the boat. The funny thing about this list, is that this is the only incident that may have directly contributed to a breakup, and I really don’t think it’s all that bad. I really had to go.

10. Tell your girlfriend (who you were friends with first) that when you first met her, you didn’t think she was very attractive, but then after you became really close, you eventually became more attracted to her. If you ask me, this is just a really sweet thing to say.

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Vegas Recap

Posted by JewMitch on March 13, 2010

So, like any single 28-year-old guys, my friends and I convinced ourselves that it would be awesome to go to Vegas for the weekend. So after months of planning, and e-mailing back and forth, including several accidental e-mails about flights to a girl who I went out with once and never called again, but who happens to have the same first name as my roommate, it was time to go to Vegas.

Only, except for a giant blizzard that hit New York City the weekend we were supposed to fly out. One friend was already in Vegas, and the hotel room at the Hard Rock Hotel was pre-paid for, and I didn’t have trip insurance, so failure was not an option. Here’s the recap:

3:58pm on Wednesday, get a text message saying that my flight on Thursday night has been cancelled, even though it hasn’t even started snowing yet.

4:00pm on Wednesday – work meeting that lasts 2 hours, so I can’t call the airline for a bit.

After work, call the airline, sweet talk the Indian girl on the other end into putting me on an earlier flight on Thursday afternoon.

Call my roommate, to tell him he needs to call the airline to switch his flight too. He’s already at the bar and convinced that all flights will be cancelled the next day.

Go to the bar.

My roommate is now busy playing darts with another guy and two cute girls. He says he’ll call later.

Have a few drinks; look at the awful weather report for tomorrow.

1:30am, hear my roommate come home and drunkenly try to change his flight. He’s British, and his accent is even worse than usual. I feel sorry for the Indian at the call center.

Wake up the next day, it’s completely clear out.

10am – it starts snowing.

10:30am – it starts snowing hard.

Get to the airport at 2:00pm; convinced the flight will be cancelled. My roommate had managed to get on a later flight, but it has already been cancelled. Almost every flight on the board has been cancelled, except mine.

Go straight to the airport bar, where I meet a cute girl from UES trying to fly to San Diego, and a bunch of other people convinced their flights will be cancelled.

Drink a few pints, get the girl’s number by offering to give her a tour of my office building (I still am not sure how I worked this).

Flight takes off on time – in crazy snow, blizzard conditions.

Realize I’m sitting next to 2 crazy Irish guys from Dublin, who are pissed that they can only buy beers on the plane with a credit card (which they don’t have).

Offer to put the beers on my card in exchange for cash – now the Irish guys love me.

Turns out the plane’s credit card machine is broken, so all beers on the flight wind up being free. Drink steadily for the whole flight.

Land.

Go to the hotel; free upgrade to pool side room.

My friend who is already in Vegas, E (different E from the Spanx post), has already managed a free upgrade to HRH tower, where he has a bottle of Captain waiting for me.

E has also already gotten us on the guest list for a band Thursday night, and the hotel’s club on Friday night.

Drink.

Win money at Black Jack.

Go see the band; turns out to be a Johnny Cash cover band, who is awesome. Probably the best Johnny Cash cover band ever.

Back to Black Jack – lose money.

On to Roulette – win money, meet a cute girl at the table.

I am awesome at roulette, and the girl wins money too by following my betting lead.

E meets some other girl, who has a personality disorder.

E becomes convinced that the girl I’m talking to is a prostitute, and texts this to me.

I text back that I’m fine with that.

Me and the girl play roulette for a while – then go to another table to meet her friend, who is talking to another guy.

We hit some other tables for a while. I lose everything that I had won at Roulette. We also lose all the girl’s money too.

We then go to get breakfast: me, the girl, her friend, her friend’s male friend, some other dude. The friend is making out her guy friend at the booth. I am trying to make a move on my end, but there is this other guy sitting next to us. I don’t know who he is or why he is there.

I go to the bathroom – come back and find the girls, who say they are going to bed, because they’re leaving tomorrow. She’s says, “It was nice meeting you. You have my number.”

I don’t have her number.

At this point, I’m pretty sure she’s not a prostitute.

Meet the other guys at the table – pay for half of breakfast anyway. They seemed like okay guys.

Check my phone, E has called me 14 times, because he thinks I’m getting murdered by a pimp. I have ignored all these calls.

Go to bed – it’s around 8am, west coast time.

E wakes me up at 11am. He had gotten himself kicked out of the bar last night by the girl with the personality disorder.

Get breakfast – feel like death. Cannot remember the name of the girl I was hanging out with all of last night, nor what she looked like.

Go back to bed.

Hit the gym/whirlpool/steam room with E. Actually work out for half an hour. Feeling kind of better.

My roommate texts me to tell me that all the flights have been cancelled from NYC, so I have the room to myself. Also, that the two girls he was talking to in the bar on Thursday night turned out to be lesbians.

E and I make reservations at the hotel’s steak house.

Go to the steak house – get seated in the back corner, as they can tell we are completely hung over.

Takes 2 hours to make it through dinner. We ordered small portions, which we didn’t finish. The waiter laughs at us.

Have some more drinks.

Go to the club. Have to wait 20 min, but still get in before all the slutty girls who are trying to flirt with the bouncer. It might be because I am wearing a bright blue vertical striped $270 Ben Sherman jacket that I bought for $20 at Daffy’s.

Drinks.

Drinks.

The club is a ridiculous scene – but also as expected for a Vegas club. My favorite part was the fat old man, with two hookers, smoking a cigar, ordering champagne, and making the girls dance and make out for him.

Run into one of the guys I had breakfast with last night in the club.

Back to the Black Jack table. Did I mention there is an almost-stripper dancing on a pole over the black jack table, and the dealers are all hot girls wearing push up bras?

Amazingly, win money at Black Jack.

Back to the diner. E wants to order two appetizers. I inform him that I can only eat half of one appetizer and refuse to try to eat more.

Eat 2 chicken fingers. No more.

Toss E 10 dollars in chips for the check. To his surprise, I have a whole pocket full of chips.

Bed.

E can’t change his flight, so he leaves Sat morning. I sleep for a while and then decide to walk the strip.

Check out Aria and the Bellagio, which are both magnificent, but filled with tourists. Take a cab back home.

Nap.

Shower.

Vitamin water.

Nap.

Shower.

Go down and grab a sandwich – take it back to my room, eat it in bed.

Vitamin water.

Find all of my chips from last night, and take them down to play poker.  Play poker for a few hours; try to start drinking again. Fail at both poker and drinking.

Realize that they sell Spanx at the hotel gift store. Actually see a girl buying them.

Back to bed. Rent a movie off the hotel TV. Take another nap.

Shower. Try to rally around midnight, walk a lap around the floor, decide to just go back to bed. Fail.

Sleep.

Hit the gym/spa again.

Breakfast.

It’s a beautiful day, and my flight doesn’t leave for a few hours, but all I want to do is sit in air conditioning and not think – so go to the airport early.

Take the cheap/express bus back from JFK. Give the driver $5 bucks to drop me off directly in front of my house.

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Spanx and Texts from last night

Posted by JewMitch on February 24, 2010

After living in New York for a while, you begin to learn a little about fashion, and you definitely begin to become more of an asshole.

I mean, I’ve always been a little hard on girls who are even slightly overweight, but this text message conversation from the last weekend really takes it to another level. (And if you don’t know what Spanx are; take a look here: http://www.spanx.com/home/index.jsp).

Mitch: At a party, talking to a girl that I wish was wearing Spanx but isn’t.

E: Hahahahahah. Is she chubby?

Mitch: Yes, in all the wrong places.

E: Oh nooooo.

E: Rob says stop talking to her this instant.

Mitch: Can I just buy her a pair of Spanx?  I think if she leaves them on, I think it’ll be okay.

E: You wanna hook up with a girl spanxed out?

E: Is she pretty?

Mitch: No, but it’s a slow night.

Mitch: Although, she’s wearing shoes that look like they’re from Payless. This will take a lot of shots.

E: Oh noooo. Run!!! Run!!!

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You’se Guys vs. Us Guys

Posted by JewMitch on July 14, 2009

rainy

Surprisingly, my all time favorite day at the MD/DE shore occurred on a super shitty, rainy day. I was down there with five other friends from law school and the forecast couldn’t have been worse. Rain all day. So we went to brunch, ordered a ton of bloody mary’s, and tried to figure out what we were going to do.

It was then that my friend John had one of his best ideas ever. He pointed to three of us (myself, and my friends, Munachi and Sophia) and said, “I’ve got it. Let’s divide into teams. You guys will be called ‘You’se Guys.’ And my team will be called ‘Us Guys.’”

“Why do we need teams?” we asked, foolishly.

“We just do,” said John. “It’ll make the day more fun.”

So we went to one of those huge crappy beach stores that sells everything and found some XL plain white sweatshirts in a clearance pile for $1 each. We also bought sharpies, so that we could make proper uniforms.

On the back of everyone’s sweatshirt, we wrote the person’s team name and their nickname. It became a tradition on law school trips to give every person an offensive or annoying nickname and call them that throughout the entire trip. Some of the better nicknames that come to mind were: Bubble Boy, TaterNuts, and Blood Fart. I remember writing “Magic Man” on the back of my sweatshirt, as I’ve always wanted a jersey that said that and figured this was the closest that I would ever get.

I can’t remember what Sophia and Munachi’s sweatshirts said – but I’m sure it was something making fun of the fact that Sophia is from Russia and Munachi is from Nigeria. For the purpose of this blog post, we’ll just say that Sophia’s sweatshirt read, “Mail Order Bride” and Munachi’s sweatshirt read, “Black Man.”

We decided to do every activity that could be done at the beach indoors and kept score at everything. It was like getting to do everything you wanted to do as a kid at the beach, all in one day. The three main activities were indoor mini golf, bowling and laser tag. Keep in mind that the team sweatshirts had to be worn at all times.

After mini golf and bowling, the score was 1-1, You’se Guys vs. Us Guys. Thus, it all came down to laser tag. We would have had a distinct advantage in the dark with Munachi, except that the bright white sweatshirt leveled the playing field. I don’t remember all that much about that laser fight, except that Munachi and I lit it up and were crushing everything in site. The thirteen year olds in the arena with us were caught completely off guard.

After the match, the laser tag people gave us a printout of everybody’s scores. Munachi and I were way at the top, yet we somehow had a team score that was one point lower than Us Guys, meaning that we had lost the day. We scrolled down the printout until we finally found Sophia’s score at the bottom of the list. It was zero, meaning that she had not managed to hit another person at all throughout the entire 20 minute laser tag match. If she had managed to hit just one person, we would have won.

Still, it was the best rainy day ever. Also, I’m pretty sure there was caramel corn and pizza involved too.

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Running of the Bull

Posted by JewMitch on July 13, 2009

bull

This weekend was the running of the Bull in Dewey Beach. I keep trying to explain to people from NYC what Dewey Beach and the Running of the Bull is like, and it’s been very difficult. The conversation goes something like this:

“So you went to the beach?” they ask.

“We went on Friday, but Dewey is much more about drinking than going to the beach. Everyone goes to this one outdoor bar called Starboard.”

“Is it on the water?”

“No. It’s facing towards the street, away from the water.”

“Oh.”

“It’s really fun, everyone starts drinking at around 10 A.M. And this weekend was the Running of the Bull.”

“What’s that?”

“It only happens once a year. Everyone dresses up in white or red shirts with red bandannas, or in old Halloween costumes. This year we stopped at Walmart and I got a t-shirt with an American Eagle on it, that said ‘American Tradition.’ We also bought Sharpies so we could write explicit things on each others’ shirts.”

“Why did you do that?”

“I don’t know.”

“What did people write on your shirt?”

“’Hot Sex.’ Also, someone wrote ‘Douche’ on my back, with an arrow pointing towards my ass.”

“Is there a real bull there?”

“No, it’s two guys in a cartoon bull costume.”

“What does this bull do?”

“He comes out for a bit and everyone cheers. Then, they close down the street and everyone follows the bull to the beach. Then the bull starts running and everyone runs alongside of the bull on the beach for a few blocks. And then there is a fake bullfight.”

“Fake bullfight?”

“Well, this year an Elvis impersonator came out with a giant jug of Hennessy and a foam sword. He got the bull drunk off that before stabbing him with the sword.”

“Was it real Hennessy?”

“No, it was just pretend.”

“Why does everyone wear red bandannas?”

“I don’t know. I guess in case the bull chases after you and you need something red to distract him.”

“How long did it take you to get there from NYC?”

“About six hours.”

“Ok. I hope you had fun.”

bull2

I imagine that going to the Hamptons is a slightly different experience; however, I’ve never been, so I can’t do a true comparison. But I’m really glad I made it down the MD/DE shore this year. The shore is funny, you love it when you’re a kid for one set of reasons and then you love it when you are an adult for a completely separate set of reasons.

The other funny thing is that people from the rest of America seem to go to the beach … to sit on the beach. This is not the MD/DE shore experience. Aside from drinking, people from MD/DC go to the beach to do the following things:

  1. Eat caramel corn.
  2. Play mini-golf.
  3. Eat all-you-can-eat crabs.
  4. Eat Thrasher’s French fries.
  5. Eat at Nick’s House of Ribs.
  6. Play skee-ball.
  7. Walk on the boardwalk and look at trashy people.

Then there are the bars, which are ridiculous. Aside from Starboard, which one friend simply describes as “heaven”, you have the Ocean City bars. Most people go to Seacrets, which is massive. You have to go through a metal detector to get in, they have several huge music areas (so they might have two different DJs and a band playing on the same night), and they have a huge beach area where you can actually sit in an inner tube and drink in the water.

I prefer Mackey’s, which has a large beach area too, but is much more low key. Also, instead of ordering a drink in a glass, you can order a drink in a kid’s sand bucket instead. It costs $27, but well worth it in order to be the guy at the bar holding a bucket of Orange Crush (the signature MD/DE beach drink) with four straws.

If you make it to the beach, that’s a bonus, but kind of a side item.

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Man Shower

Posted by JewMitch on July 9, 2009

baby shower

A while back, one of my older (over 30) married friends told me that he was having a baby. He also told me that he was having a Man Shower and that I was invited.

“What’s a Man Shower?” I asked.

“It’s like a baby shower, except that only guys are invited. There are no presents, and we’re all going to go to a bar and then probably a strip club.”

“So it’s like a second bachelor party?”

“Yes, except don’t call it. It’s a Man Shower.”

It was a group of fifteen or so guys, mostly in their early thirties, and we met at a decent barbeque restaurant called Rub in Baltimore. We gorged on barbeque, then hit a nearby bar for beers and pool. It wasn’t long before someone shouted, “Let’s go to a strip club!”

I turned to one of the guys I had been talking to and said, “I don’t really understand the appeal of strip clubs. There are hotter girls here at this bar, who I actually have a chance of sleeping with.”

“You’re not married,” he said. “I hate this bar for that exact reason. There are established rules in a strip club, like you can’t touch any of the girls, so I can’t get into trouble. I can just look at naked girls for a bit and then go home to my wife.”

Jesus, is this really what married life is like?

Once again, like every strip club story I’ve ever been involved in, we couldn’t get into any of the good strip clubs because a few of the guys were wearing shorts. So we wondered around the Block (Baltimore’s famous strip club district) for a bit and tried one of the more ghetto clubs, which had only one fat, possibly pregnant, stripper, who was missing several teeth. I am not making this up.

Finally someone remembered that we could get into Night Shift, which is the strip club that people used to go to in high school. It wasn’t as much ghetto, as it was trashy. The night continued to devolve as everyone got bombed and I watched why bad strip clubs stay in business – married guys fucking love these places. They would say things like “That stripper is fucking hot!” regardless of the actual attractiveness of the stripper, and then throw money at her.

Eventually one stripper came out in a full catholic girl costume and a yardstick. Someone told her we were there for a Man Shower, so she immediately went after the soon-to-be-father and tried to pull him on stage.

“No, no,” he said. “Take him instead,” pointing to me.

The next thing I knew, she had pulled me up on stage, ripped open my shirt, and was spanking me with the yardstick. I remember being less excited about this, than concerned about finding the buttons she had just ripped off.

“Find my buttons!” I shouted from the stage, thinking I could sew them back on to the shirt later.

The night ended with me walking about a mile home from the strip club, wearing a shirt that was fastened by only one remaining button, and reeking like strippers. I can’t wait to have kids.

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Brunch

Posted by JewMitch on July 8, 2009

brunch

What is about brunch that seems to define my generation? The Millennials don’t seem to agree on much, but we all seem to like brunch; from the Brooklyn Hipsters to the Southern frat boys. I’m sure it has something to do with the fact that most brunch places serve unlimited mimosas or bloody mary’s, but I figured it would be fun to explore this for a blog post.

The first reason (aside from the unlimited alcohol) is that brunch is a Sunday morning couples’ type of thing to do, and anyone who has ever been in a relationship, links brunch to getting laid. “What’d you do this weekend?” “Oh, I just started dating this new girl, so we just had a lot of morning sex and then went out for brunch.” Even years after she cheats on you and the relationship ends, I believe this connection is firmly stuck in our heads and makes that Eggs Benedict taste all the better.

Second, brunch feels like retirement. Unlike the rest of our working week, when everyone runs around like crazy, brunch is all about wasting time. “Let’s drive to the other side of town, buy a newspaper, and then wait in an hour line for a meal we could have easily made at home.” Taken out of context like this, brunch seems ridiculous. But that’s part of what’s fun about it. Wasting an entire morning around something as simple as breakfast.

Third, you get to combine coffee with alcohol. This is just fun, and would be completely inappropriate in other social settings.

Four, brunch not only has unlimited alcohol, but also has drinks that are perfectly acceptable to drink before noon. Don’t ask me why our society says that you’re an alcoholic if you drink orange juice and vodka before noon, but you can drink four tomato juices and vodka or champagnes and orange juice, and be a healthy productive member of society. It just is this way.

Finally, you get a creative, fancy meal for way less money than it would have cost at dinner time. I’ve been to some fancy restaurants in New York City, that usually charge $50 an entrée, but during brunch you can get a whole meal plus a mimosa for $14.

And for the record, as mentioned in the Seattle blog post, the best brunch in NYC is McAleers, hands down.

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Haircut Day!

Posted by JewMitch on July 7, 2009

haircut

Haircuts have always been a funny thing for me. I have surprisingly soft, super-Jewwy hair that basically does whatever it wants.  When it’s short, it looks straight and normal. At mid length, it looks a little wavy. Then, as it gets longer, it can either look good, or spring up like a giant Jew-clown-fro. Since I’m kind of lazy and it’s fun to watch my hair change so radically, I usually only get 3-4 haircuts a year.

It’s weird, people (meaning girls) are always very opinionated about my hair. Every girl I’ve ever known either encourages me to keep my hair short or grow it long. Depending on whether or not I’m dating the girl, I may get a few more or less haircuts per year, but usually I just stick to the one haircut per season schedule. Although I did once go eight months without cutting my hair at all.

Although it’s not just laziness; it’s fun to be able to get a haircut and look like a completely different person afterward. I really like that feeling of not recognizing myself in the mirror after a haircut. Because isn’t that the worst; when you get a haircut and no one notices? By waiting six months between haircuts, and then cutting off everything, I make sure that everyone notices. This is all probably related to my only-child need for constant attention.

In Baltimore, I used to go to a place called The Beatnik Barbershop in Mt. Vernon. They were always pretty good.  They only charged $16 and they offered you a free cup of coffee or cup of Jim Beam (or a combo) when you got a haircut. Also, the guy who owned the shop used to be a roadie for REM and he had a bunch of stories about those guys. He confirmed that their song, Don’t Go Back to Rockville, was actually about Rockville, MD, which was a huge stupid thrill for me.

However, once I got to New York, my roommate took pity on me and decided to take me to John Allan’s, which was slightly different from The Beatnik Barbershop.

Their shtick is that are a “men’s club” that you can join for $720 a year. Once a member, you can come in for a haircut or “the Full Service,” anytime you want, as much as you want.

Of course, paying $720 a year to get your haircut sounds absolutely ridiculous (you can also pay $65 per Full Service or $51 for just haircut), but it’s New York and here was how the Full Service works. You go in, sit down and are immediately given a free drink. They had decent beer and a really nice high end rum. Then they move you along the line: first with a shampoo and neck massage, then manicure (which was much less gay than I thought it would be), then hot towel, then haircut and style, finished with shoe shine. The whole time you’re there, they are feeding you drinks and flirting with you. It was sort of a like a super high-end Hooters.  They also have a lounge with a full bar and pool table, in case you just want to get trashed in the middle of the day. They don’t have a women’s restroom.

The contrast between this and Baltimore was pretty extreme. It was one of those moments, when you’re like: “Oh, this is what getting a haircut is like for people who have money.” Also, they were not kind to my current haircut. While examining my hair the stylist actually said, “So do you cut your hair yourself?” I replied by saying that I used to get my haircut in Baltimore. She just nodded in understanding.

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Bar Conference – Part 2

Posted by JewMitch on July 3, 2009

chooselaw

We all eventually made our way to the hotel bar, where we had something like a $1,000 bar tab waiting for us. One of my Maryland friends and I got tired of trying to remember everyone’s name, so we just asked people where we they were from, and called them by that. “Hey, New Mexico, can you order another round of shots? Hey Georgia, where are you going?” One girl, we just called “Sequins,” because she was wearing a dress with sequins on it.

I remember that Sequins was a runner and telling everyone how important it was to drink lots of water. I responded by saying that I really don’t like water and asked her how much was enough, because I only drank about one small Dixie cup a day. She looked outraged, and asked me what color my urine was. “Dark brown usually,” I said. We also played the “What’s your most embarrassing story ever?” game.

The hotel bar closed at 3 a.m., so we grabbed the rest of the beer from the bus, and went to someone’s hotel room to after party. And then, like thirteen-year-olds, we scrolled through the pay-per-view porn titles, but no one wanted to actually hit the order button. So one of us finally hit the button, and then we promptly blamed it on New Mexico.

“New Mexico!” we shouted. “Why did you order White Housewives / Black Cocks Part III? Now we have to sit and watch the entire thing!” There were about twelve of us in the room at this time and amazingly, all the girls were cool with the movie. It turned out to be this one male Southern/conservative black lawyer who got upset and turned off the film after one minute. We all booed at him, as he tried to explain that he thought the film was disrespectful to women.

We turned the TV back on, but the movie was no longer on. Taking matters into my own hands, I called the front desk.

“Hello,” I said. “I was watching a pay-per-view film, when I dropped the remote and accidentally turned off the TV. Could you turn it back on for me?”

“Certainly,” she said.

“Thanks.” Then for no necessary reason, I added, “the name of the film was White Housewives / Black Cocks Part III. I’m really looking forward to the ending.”

The movie came back on, and despite protests, once again the black attorney turned off the TV. I’m not sure if it was the interracial stuff that bothered him, or that the film promoted the idea that women should be housewives, but either way we were done watching porn for the night so I started talking to New Mexico.

This was when Sequins tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Stop flirting with New Mexico.” [Note: the best thing about this story is that I am not giving New Mexico an alias. I have no idea what her real name is. We really had been calling people by their state names all night, and everyone else had started doing it too. Sequins really said, “Stop flirting with New Mexico”].

I turned to Sequins, who was wearing a wedding ring, and said, “You’re married.”

To which she replied, “Not really.”

I want to be able to say that Sequins was a total MILF, but she was just a semi-cute woman in her mid thirties. Still, this being a conference, I told her we should get out of here, and that I think I have some cigarettes in my room [Note: this is lamest line ever]. We went back to my room and started making out a little, when my roommate (and co-worker from my law firm) walked in.

“Hey guys, what are you doing?” He was trashed and completely slurring his words. “Nothing,” I said. And then I walked Sequins back to her room and went outside, where I found the one handicapped lawyer from the conference, hanging outside the hotel with two prostitutes. It was about 5 a.m., so we all stood outside and watched the beginning of the sunrise. It was a nice.

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Bar Conference – Part 1

Posted by JewMitch on July 2, 2009

chooselaw

One of the only things that I miss about being a lawyer was going to the quarterly American Bar Association conventions in other states. They reminded me of high school field trips; they all had some stated educational purpose, but really were all about getting trashed and hanging out with lawyers from other states, who you would never see in any other context except at bar conventions.

Paradoxically, these conventions were actually more fun when we went to a no-name city. For example, in L.A. everyone would just go off and do their own thing, so nothing really crazy ever happened. However, in Charlotte, where there’s absolutely nothing to do, all the lawyers would stay up drinking together all night.

These conferences all ended with a dinner/dance type event. The Charlotte event was especially great because it was held at the Lowe’s Motor Speedway racetrack, which for whatever reason, is built like a country club. We were in the main ballroom, and in addition to a sit down dinner and a DJ, they had a full sized racecar in the ballroom that you could practice taking a tire off and putting it back on, as fast as you could, just like you were in a real NASCAR pit. Combined with an open bar, this was amazing.

My Maryland friends and I decided to take matters to the next level by playing a drinking game called “Girl Drink Drunk,” where you are only allowed to order drinks that are colored pink. This is fun for the bartenders (“Just make me something pink”) and gets everyone playing it drunk extremely quickly, as you can you can drink 8 champagnes and cranberry juices before you know it.

For some reason (i.e. because I was drunk when everyone else was grabbing a table), I wound up sitting by myself with a group of lawyers from Oklahoma.

“Wow, you guys are all from Oklahoma. This must be really different for you. Do you guys have things like dishwashers out there?”

“What’s a dishwasher?” they asked, playing along.

“It’s like a miniature shower that you can put plates and bowls inside. And it makes them clean, like magic.”

“What’s a shower? Is that like the creek?” They were good sports.

After dinner, we all got on the bus to go back to the hotel, when everyone started chanting “Party Bus! Party Bus!” Keep in mind that this was a group of adult lawyers. We made the bus driver pull over at a gas station that also sold beer.

I went inside to look for Corn Nuts, which are my absolute favorite gas station snack, and sold at surprisingly few gas stations. But as I was deciding between BBQ and regular, I noticed that the bus was pulling away. I was about to be stranded in suburban Charlotte in the middle of the night.

So I dropped the Corn Nuts and started running after the bus. I caught up with it and started banging on the side of the bus, which thankfully stopped in the middle of the ramp back to the highway. Everyone was trashed on the bus, so they just screamed, “Mitch! You made it. Here’s a beer.”

I immediately passed out on the bus for a while, which turned out to be the perfect drunken power nap, because when I woke up I was ready to go. All the lawyers were milling around the bus outside the hotel, so I started handed out beers, and told everyone that it was legal to drink on the street in Charlotte [This was a complete lie]. Then I started trying to knock over the newspaper vending machines, until someone shouted at me: “Mitch! Take it easy. Stop trying to knock those over.”

I remember shrugging him off and saying that I was fine, and then continuing what I was doing. The next day I found out that had been the president of the Young Lawyers Section of the American Bar Association.

(Part 2 tomorrow)…

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Purple Violets

Posted by JewMitch on July 1, 2009

burns-purple-violets

There is a recent romantic comedy currently running on the premium cable stations called Purple Violets, which stars Ed Burns, Selma Blair, and Patrick Wilson. You may not have heard of this film, as it did not achieve any commercial success and Rottentomatoes.com didn’t even bother to give it a rating.

But of course, I did whatever I do when a new romantic comedy happens to be on TV; I sat down and watched the entire thing. Just like I did for PS I Love You, Little Black Book, Catch and Release, and Failure to Launch. I think I like these bad romantic comedies better than the good ones. I cannot tell you why I like these movies. It’s times like these, when even though I am sure that I’m not gay, I think that I might be a girl.

I mean there really is no excuse for this type of behavior. I had a whole afternoon open, and I chose to ball up on the couch, put on some pajamas, and watch Ed Burns play the only stubborn-Irish-Catholic-incapable-of-showing-emotion character that he is capable of playing. Then… are you ready for this… I sat and reflected on all of my past relationships. Like, really? This is what I choose to do with my free time?

In case you’re wondering about the plot of Purple Violets – it’s this: two awesome guys (Ed Burns and Patrick Wilson) live really cool bachelor lifestyles in New York City and are both wealthy. Then, they both run into their college ex-girlfriends randomly and it awakens a lot of old feelings. Then … spoiler alert… they eventually both get back together with their ex-girlfriends! And this is the happy ending! That everyone gets back together! What the hell?

And of course, I sat through this entire crapfest, thinking: “Isn’t this great! Everyone is going to be so happy. I wish I had an ex-girlfriend from college that was my soul mate – but it really just didn’t work out back then – and maybe we could run into each other in New York – and then get back together.”

I am not joking. This thought actually ran through my head. And to make matters worse, I then took the time to think back on all my old relationships, and realized that none of those girls really qualified as the “first love who got away,” and then got kind of sad that I don’t really have any ex-girlfriends who would allow me to step into the plotline of Purple Violets. Then I opened a bottle of wine and reflected more on this for a while.

Granted there wasn’t much else on that day except for the Scripps National Spelling Bee, but still – really?

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Trivia Night

Posted by JewMitch on June 30, 2009

quizn

When people ask me if I miss living in Baltimore, I usually tell them that aside from the local sports coverage and trivia night, no. And while I can get coverage of the Orioles losing on mlb.com, I have yet to find a trivia night like the one my friends and used to go to in Baltimore.

It was held at Red House Tavern in Canton, which not surprisingly has since gone out of business. Here was the deal: trivia was free, you can have as many people as you want on a team, beers were $1.25 a bottle, and the winning team got a $50 gift certificate to the bar. The bar would also give out free shots to the team who swept the round, and trivia usually had six rounds. If two teams tied a round, then they would have to send a member of each team to participate in a chug-off. The chug-off was also free.

On top of everything, the trivia was hosted in an extremely professional manner. Two guys would be set up at the front of the bar, with laptops and DJ equipment, playing requests and occasionally challenging random teams to a chug off. If you won a chug off against the trivia host, your team won more free shots.

This was a complete dive bar though, and aside from one other group of people, I don’t think anyone knew that trivia was going on at this bar or that this bar existed. It didn’t take long for my friends to realize that if we just brought enough people to trivia each week, we could win just by sheer numbers and the likelihood that one person on our team knew the answer. Granted most of our friends just showed up to get drunk, but I think we won something like five weeks in a row.

It was a beautiful thing; each week we would give them the same folded up $50 gift certificate and after trivia they would give it back to us. With the gift certificate we won each week, plus the free shots, plus the chug-offs, eleven of us could all get trashed and we never had a bar tab. Some weeks we would win so many rounds that we would actually turn down free shots from the bar. It didn’t really make any sense; the bar would provide us with free entertainment and all the booze we could drink, and then invite us back next week.

And because Baltimore is a great drinking town, the night would not end there, but at Claddaghs, where you could get dollar bottles every Thursday night. Even though Cornerstone Tavern in Midtown does dollar mugs and free trivia every Wednesday, people from New York City simply do not believe this story. But then again, it was Baltimore. Which is a great city if you’re a functioning alcoholic in a long term relationship (or asexual), but not ideal for any other member of society.

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Cowboys and Indians and India-Indians

Posted by JewMitch on June 29, 2009

cowboys indians

One of my New York friends had a Cowboys and Indians party last year, where everyone was supposed to dress up like Cowboys and Indians. The friend throwing the party was India-Indian (like from India), so my friend Staci and I decided it would be really fun to dress up like Indians from India, and pretend we didn’t understand the party theme.

Luckily, my friend Azim had a traditional salwar kameez (Indian tunic) and my friend Evan had a turban that I could borrow. Staci actually went out and bought a Saree from this local Indian shop, which took some hunting in Baltimore. We both wore dots on our foreheads. Also, keep in mind that it was a five hour drive to New York City from Baltimore. This is how excited we were about showing up to a Cowboys and Indians party dressed this way.

Although, it was the second night of Passover, so we had to stop at my aunt and uncle’s house in New Jersey to have seder along the way. When we finally got to the party, it had moved from our friend’s apartment to a nearby bar, and almost everyone had abandoned their costumes. So here we are, in a sports bar, dressed up like Indians-Indians, and no one else is even wearing costumes at all. If we weren’t drinking heavily at the time, this might have been awkward. Also playing BuckHunter in Indian costumes turned out to be a lot of fun.

The night progressed through a few venue changes and we finally wound up going to a strip club. Our first stop was the Penthouse club, which let me walk right in (wearing the salwar kameez and turban), but refused entry to Staci and all of our other friends because they did not meet the dress code. Staci was outrage by this.

“How can you let Mitch in, dressed like that, but no one else?”

The bouncer replied, and I quote, “Some of your friends are wearing shorts and dressed sloppy. His outfit looks very put together.”

As proud as I was of this, I decided I couldn’t leave my friends behind and we went a few doors down to the Hustler Club. They were much more accommodating and allowed us all in. It was a shame they wouldn’t let us take photos in the strip club, as getting a lap dance while wearing the turban would have made a great Christmas card. Although the image of Staci getting a lap dance from two girls while wearing the turban was even funnier.

However, something extremely disturbing happened later that night. Another friend was getting a lap dance, when the stripper paused in mid-dance, and then farted on him. In mid-lap dance! She tried to pretend it didn’t happen and kept dancing, but soon the smell took over our entire area. Plus, we all saw her fart. We had to ask her to stop dancing and leave. This was the last time I have been to a strip club, wearing a turban or otherwise.

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NYC Unemployment Guide

Posted by JewMitch on June 26, 2009

unemployment

“Mitch, you live off unemployment in Midtown in New York City. How do you eat?”

That’s a good question. It’s weird, having no money sucks. But then again, trying to spend as little money as possible can seem like a fun challenge. You can make a game of it. Sort of like Life is Beautiful. Except not really, because I don’t have a son.

Because I like sharing, I decided to prepare a fun guide of how I live in New York City. There are a lot of guides out there, but they’re usually like: “Get a fancy pants lobster dinner for $35” or something. No, no, no. I’m talking, how specifically does Mitch live in New York City off of unemployment checks. Much more interesting.

Eating for a dollar:

99¢ Fresh Pizza: 151 E 43rd Street (Midtown East). I eat here maybe once a day. It’s funny how when you visit New York, you only want to go to the “best” pizza place, but when you live here, dollar slices are awesome.

$1 bagels at Ess-a-Bagel: 831 3rd Avenue (Midtown East). These things are huge. Easily a meal.

$1 falafel at Cinderella Falafel: 129 2nd Ave (LES). Okay, so it’s really only half a falafel. But still. Buy two if you’re hungry.

$1 small coffee at Pret a Manger (Midtown). It’s organic coffee too.

Grocery Stores:

Morton Williams. Everybody loves Trader Joes, but the line is around the block. I’ve found that while some things are really expensive in New York, deli meats and fresh meat are almost always on sale. Morton Williams always has at least one type of deli meat for $7 a pound, I’ve gotten chicken for $2 a pound, and London Strip for $3 a pound.

Alcohol:

Here’s where Trader Joes comes in handy. At their wine store at Union Square, you can buy a bottle of Charles Shaw (“2 Buck Chuck”) for $3.24. I particularly recommend the Syrah. Alcoholism, here we come.

Going out:

Cornerstone Tavern Wednesday Trivia Night: 961 2nd Ave (Midtown East). $1 mugs of beer while you play trivia. So it’s free entertainment and $1 mugs. Really not a bad way to spend a Wednesday.

Flight 151: 151 8th Ave (Chelsea). $2 mugs of PBR. All the time. Free popcorn too. And their nightly specials are even a better deal.

McAleers: 425 Amsterdam Ave (UWS). 2 pitchers of beer, 2 orders of wing for $26. All the time.

Iggy’s: 132 Ludlow Street (LES). Conveniently located on the lower east side, pirate themed, and $2 PBRs all the time.

McSorleys: 15 East 7th Street (East Village). $2 beers all the time of McSorleys beer, which only comes in light and dark. You have to order two though at a time (not so bad). Also, feel free to order a cheese plate for $3, which is a sleeve of saltine crackers, sliced processed cheese, and a sliced onion. There’s also spicy mustard on the table.

Rudy Bar and Grill: 627 9th Ave (Lincoln Square). They have super cheap pitchers, including a pitcher of Rudy’s beer for $7. And free hot dogs. All the time.

Crocodile Lounge: 325 East 14th Street (Stuyvesant Square). Order a beer, get a free personal pizza.

123 Burger Shot Beer: 738 10th Ave (Clinton). $1 burgers, $2 shots, $3 beers. Done and done.

Aces and Eights Saloon: 1683 1st Ave (UES). Friday and Saturday nights they have all you can drink beer from 9pm-12am for $10. Seriously. This is in New York City. Also, they have tons of beer pong tables.

Entertainment:

“Sweet” (Comedy Show) at Slipper Room: 167 Orchard Street (LES). Great alternative comedy show, only $5 every Tuesday night, and so far I’ve already seen Kevin Allison and Mike Birbiglia.

Sports:

NYCSSC (New York City Social Sports Club). Only $75 a season when you prove that you’re unemployed. Plus free pizza at the bars after each game and $10 pitchers for flip cup. Not bad. Not bad at all.

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Karaoke and Darryl Strawberry

Posted by JewMitch on June 25, 2009

karoake

I have had a long love affair with karaoke that started back when I first realized that you could request Paradise by the Dashboard Lights by Meatloaf at almost every karaoke bar. This is by far my favorite karaoke song to sing, because it involves a lot of yelling. It is also one of the only popular songs in America that goes through all the stages of a relationship: meeting a girl you like, coercing her to sleep with you, being in love for five minutes, and then counting the days until you can get out of the relationship.

On a date though, there’s only one song to request: Somewhere Out There from An American Tail. Even though this song is sung between Feivel and his sister in the movie, I still think it’s romantic and not wrong to make out afterwards.

If I’m doing karaoke with another guy, I think the way to go is Two Princes by the Spin Doctors. A timeless classic that everyone knows the words too, this song almost begs that you sing it to a girl in the audience. She gets to feel like a princess, you get to feel like a rockstar, and everyone wins.

Lately, if I’m performing by myself, I have been requesting Come to My Window by Melissa Etheridge. This is another classic that may be the greatest American lesbian love song ever written. It’s also really fun to replace the word “window” with “vagina.” Then the lyrics become:

Come to my vagina
Crawl inside, wait by the light
of the moon
Come to my vagina
I’ll be home soon

One time when I was performing this song with these lyrics, I realized halfway through that there was a lesbian couple swaying to the music directly in front of me. Thinking quickly, I dedicated the song to them and “lesbian love everywhere.” I think they liked it.

It turns out that there is a karaoke bar in New York called Keats that is right next to my apartment building. This is dangerous, as it encourages me to go there after I’ve been drinking all night and stay late because home is right around the corner. But the best thing about this bar is that I once ran into Darryl Strawberry there.

Here is the story. I was hanging out with my friend Grasser, and he was doing a fake yawn, where he reached his arm all the way over his head and behind his back. As his arm was coming down, his hand came down and landed directly in the hand of an extremely tall black man, who happened to be walking behind him at the time. But instead of getting freaked out, the tall black man half smiled and half grabbed Grasser’s hand in response. Then he proceeded to walk out of the bar.

One minute after this happened, we found out from everyone else in the bar that the tall black man had been Darryl Strawberry. Awesome.

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Drink the Milk!

Posted by JewMitch on June 24, 2009

cat1

Sometimes I wonder why I’ve had nothing but bad relationships these last few years, where I just wind up getting my heart broken. Then I remember that I spent most of college dating a really sweet girl named Hannah, who loved me completely, and I couldn’t care less. So I guess I deserve some payback.

One of the most awful things I did to her was at a Halloween party back in college. My college friends and I used to play a game at parties called “Pee Club.” The way the game works is that in order to be a member of Pee Club, you need to pee in front of all the other members of Pee Club. I know this sounds like something that five-year-olds would play; but we had all just watched Fight Club and it was a really fun see people’s faces at a crowded party after 10-11 people (guys and girls) all come out of the bathroom at the same time. In retrospect, it’s probably karma that I’ve had so many girls wet my bed.

I have no idea how I maintained a girlfriend with this type of behavior, but for some reason Hannah always stuck with me. Even when I made her pee in front of all my friends at the Halloween party. But amazingly, this was not the worst thing that I did to her at that party.

She was wearing a cat costume at the time, [my costume consisted of a tight blue French connection sweater that had accidentally been delivered to my work office one day. I am not sure why I considered this to be a costume, but it was funny at the time] and after Pee Club, my friends and I decided it would be really funny to make Hannah drink milk, like a cat, out of a bowl, on the floor.

Understandably, Hannah did not want to do this. But there’s only so much of an entire roomful of people chanting, “Drink the milk! Drink the milk!” that one person can take. And after a while, she got on the floor, and drank some of the milk. We have photos of this somewhere. We were awful people.

And the really amazing thing is that after this entire night of poor behavior, I still got laid that night, and she listened to me when I asked her to keep the cat costume on. God I miss college. And in case you’re wondering, yes I did pull out and come on her tail.

In fairness, I did feel a lot of real affection towards Hannah, and had moments when I was really nice to her. For instance, I once gave her a card addressed to the “Prettiest Girl in the World,” and even though I was being a little sarcastic at the time, the sarcasm didn’t translate on paper, and all her friends thought that was really nice. I also once gave her an original Nintendo Entertainment System for our anniversary.

Of course, I dumped her towards the end of college, wallowed in regret and self pity for the next six months, and eventually went to law school mostly so I could just get the hell of DC and away from the situation [I really like to move after breakups]. But the really amazing thing is that the next guy she dated, and eventually married, was also named Mitch. For serious.

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Giving blood; an HIV test and a T-shirt.

Posted by JewMitch on June 23, 2009

give blood

There was a blood drive going on one street away from my apartment building last Friday, and so I decided to give blood. I don’t know why more guys don’t give blood more often. Giving blood is a great way to pick up girls, get drunk, and save lives; all at the same time. Let me explain.

After you give blood, they wrap your arm with a medical dressing that’s similar to something you’d use to tape up a gunshot wound. I like to pretend that I’m a soldier on a battlefield when they do this. Also for some reason, the dressing always comes in a bright color, like green or orange. Not only does this dressing prevent you from bleeding all over yourself, but it also looks awesome, and if you wear a short sleeved shirt, it’s very conspicuous. Girls in bars are guaranteed to approach you and ask you about it.

This sets up a conversation that goes something like this:

“What’s on your arm?”

“I gave blood today and they told me I had to keep this dressing on for the next six hours.”

“That’s a great thing you did.”

“Yes, I know. I probably saved a few lives today. What’d you do today?”

“I went to work.”

“Oh, that’s not quite as good as what I did.”

And for bonus points, you can color coordinate your shirt to bandage.

Another great thing about giving blood is that it literally takes a pint of blood out of your system. Blood alcohol content is based on the ratio of blood to alcohol in your body. Therefore, if you take a pint of blood out of the human body, it’s much easier to get your blood alcohol level up. Which all means that I can usually get trashed on two beers after giving blood, instead of the normal ten or so. If you live in a major city, this can save you tons of money and make it affordable to go to fancier bars.

Finally, giving blood really does save lives. Currently only 3 out of every 100 people in America donate blood and one donation can save up to three lives. How pimp is that? Two hours of your time can save three lives and most people don’t do it because they’re scared of needles? The time to karma ratio on donating blood is through the roof. And best of all, giving blood allows you to be more of an asshole, and still feel like you’re a good person inside. Which is nice.

On top of all of this, you get a free HIV test and a t-shirt, which makes a great present (the t-shirt, not the HIV test). Here is a picture of the one I got on Friday and just gave to my friend Natalie for her birthday.

black history tshirt

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Fun with JDate

Posted by JewMitch on June 22, 2009

jdate

People are constantly telling me to go on JDate. “Go on JDate,” they say, “It’s great for meeting people. Or just to hook up.” I try to explain that I really only like to date blonde non-Jewish girls, but to no avail. “Sign up anyway,” they say. “There are all types on there.”

To settle this matter for once and for all, I’d like to tell the story of my one and only JDate-date. I put up a ridiculous profile hoping to attract a fun girl with a good sense of humor. My photo was cropped in a heart shape. When asked who I was trying to meet, I wrote: “I’m looking for a girl who is extra pretty, extra smart, extra funny. Kind of like an extra value meal.” For my ideal first date, I wrote: “I’d have to go with mild to heavy drinking during happy hour. That way, if we like each other, we can make out without that awkward sober feeling. And if we don’t, I can just drink and watch your mouth move without listening to what you are saying.” When asked what you want your date to know about you, I wrote: “Sometimes, when cuddling, my arm falls asleep. And just because I ask you to roll over, that doesn’t mean that I don’t love you.”

So this one fairly cute girl starts e-mailing me. She seems to have a good sense of humor and not be overweight, so we chat online for a bit before deciding to meet in DC at this great bar called Brickskeller. I immediately know that something is off when she shows up with wet hair.

“Why is your hair wet?” I asked, wondering why it wasn’t blow-dried like in her photo. With internet dating, you expect that people don’t look exactly like their photo, but blow-drying one’s hair seemed simple enough.

“Oh,” she said. “It’s still shabbas.”

“You’re shomer shabbas?” I asked. She nodded. “Shomer shabbas” means that you’re one of those Jews who observe the Sabbath by not using any electricity or driving a car on Saturday (like John Goodman’s character in The Big Lebowski). Such a practice is ancient and beautiful in one sense, and extremely annoying in another.

“Hmm,” I say. “Does this mean we can still order drinks?”

“Drinks are okay,” she said. “But I shouldn’t order any food.”

“Can I order food and just leave it in the middle of the table?”

“Uhm, I guess that’s okay.”

So we order a warmed loaf of bread and two beers. Only she orders a Pabst Blue Ribbon in a can. Normally, this would be perfectly acceptable behavior, except we were in the Brickskeller, which is literally in the Guinness Book of World Records for having a selection of over 1,000 beers in bottles. It’s just not really the place to order a can of PBR. On top of this, she asks for a glass too. “Do you know how dirty cans are?” she asked. “They have like, rat feces on them. I saw a documentary once.”

At this point, I could already tell that this girl may not be my soul mate. What type of a person sits and watches a documentary on aluminum cans? So I decided to pry into this religion thing a little more. “So are you Shomer Negiah?” I asked. Shomer Negiah is when a Jewish person is so observant that they don’t touch members of the opposite sex until they get married, not even hand holding. Obviously, this would have been an instant deal breaker.

“No,” she said. Then she paused for a second before adding, “but I don’t have sex.”

Awesome, I thought. Keeping the ball rolling, I said, “So you must be all about oral?”

She frowned. “Not really. I mean, that’s sort of like having sex for me. Also, I had a bad experience a while back with a boyfriend where I thought I had caught something and it kind of weirded me out towards doing that.”

Finally, the date was going somewhere. “Like herpes?”

“No,” she said. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Like gonorrhea?”

“Like HIV,” she said.

“Really?! You know that HIV is really hard to catch if from oral sex. Were you eating a lot of Captain Crunch right before or something.”

“It’s possible to catch HIV from oral sex!” she said.

“There’s been like one documented case in history.”

“It’s still possible.” Then she proceeded to tell me a long story about how right after she had broken up with a boyfriend, she had gotten a call from a charity that was raising money for AIDS research. And instead of politely declining, or maybe making a small donation, she had decided that the reason they were calling her at this time was because … are you ready for this … her boyfriend had AIDS. So she freaked out and went and got an HIV test, but is still a little nervous from the experience.

Knowing that this date can only get better, I decide to switch the topic from sex back to religion and ask her about one of my favorite philosophical topics: the afterlife.

“So, you believe in the afterlife?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t you think it’s a little convenient? Like everyone was sitting around thinking about how scary death is, and one person says – what if after we die we all go to a happy place? And everyone was like, that’s a great idea, let’s believe that.”

“No,” she said. “I think of it more like the chicken and the egg. Like we don’t know which came first. This life or the afterlife.”

“That’s sort of a good analogy,” I said. “But it would work a lot better if the chickens were this real thing that we saw every day, and eggs were this thing that a lot of people talked about, but no one had ever seen or touched.”

She frowned again. It was at this point in the date where she said, “Well, maybe we can just be friends.”

To which I replied, “That’s okay. But it was nice meeting you.” And that was my last experience with JDate.

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Flaming Tricycle Tattoo

Posted by JewMitch on June 19, 2009

my leg

If anyone has ever seen me in shorts (something my parents haven’t seen in six years), you may have noticed that I have a large flaming tricycle tattoo on my right calf. I guess because most people have never seen a tattoo of a flaming tricycle before, the initial conversation usually goes something like this:

“Is that a bike?”

“No,” I say. “It’s a tricycle.”

“Is it on fire?”

“Yes.”

“You have a tattoo of a flaming tricycle on your leg?”

“Yes.”

“Interesting… Why?”

They always want to hear the story. There are two stories behind the tattoo, the real story and the fake story. The fake story involves a sexual position that I made up called the “Flaming Tricycle,” where two guys have sex with a girl from both sides, during which one of them lights her pubic hair on fire, and then they both try to hold on and ride the “Flaming Tricycle” for as long as they can. This is the story I usually tell people. When they ask if I’ve ever participated in a “Flaming Tricycle,” I just point to my leg and say, “I have the tattoo, don’t I?” My friends and I even went as far as to add this phrase to urbandictionary.com at one point.

However, the real story couldn’t be further than from that. I was about to recap the whole thing on this blog, but then I realized that I had actually written an essay about the tattoo in college, entitled “Apparently Tattoos Don’t Come Off in the Shower.” And because I’m lazy, I’m just going to cut and paste it here. Enjoy:

About two weeks ago, my two best friends in the world told me to put on my coat, we were going out.

“Where?” I asked.

“It’s a surprise,” they told me.

“Do I need anything? Am I dressed okay?”

“You’re fine, don’t worry. C’mon, we’re going to be late.”

It was the day before my twenty-first birthday, so I knew we weren’t just going to the mall. But I honestly had no clue where they were taking me. The cab sped past the familiar restaurants and shops of Georgetown and stopped just short of 32nd and M Street.

“We’re not going there,” my friend Dan said as he pointed at a Chinese food restaurant. “We’re going here.” He then proceeded to walk into a tattoo parlor.

Caught completely off guard, I followed my friends into the house of ink and needles. Apparently, the two of them had been planning this for months.

“I know you’re not afraid of the pain or needles, so you’re doing this,” Dan said.

The tattoo artist had sketched an image of a flaming tricycle. It was an old joke that the three of us had been making since freshman year. We had once decided that our clique needed a name, so we decided to call ourselves the tricycle club. Our slogan was that “we don’t need no fourth wheel.”

Julie and Dan smiled at the design. It was exactly what they had in mind when they had spoken to the tattoo artist over the phone. I, on the other hand, had been left in the dark. They figured they had the best chance of getting me to go through with it if I was given the least amount of time to consider it. They studied my face as I inspected the design.

“C’mon. We’re not letting you go off to law school without this.”

I looked at the tricycle again. There it was on a piece of paper; and my friends wanted me to put it on my body for the rest of my life. Is that possible? Can you just take a design and sketch it onto skin like that? I knew you could, but it didn’t seem like a plausible idea at the time. What does forever even mean anymore? Ten years? Twenty years? I really could not imagine myself more than thirty years old, and that wasn’t such a long time. So sure, I decided to get a tattoo. Rico and the Roughnecks did it in Starship Troopers. This is what friends do when they are getting ready to go off in different directions or fight intergalactic space wars.

“He’s going to do it,” Dan said. “He’s actually going to do it.”

I watched the woman behind the counter swipe Dan and Julie’s credit cards. “There’s no backing out now,” they said.

Dan and Julie were getting their tattoos on their stomach. Looking down at my less-than-hard abs and thinking of my dad’s pot belly, I decided to get the tattoo on my calf. I rationalized that the calf is an area that is almost always covered by pants. No matter what professional situation I’ll ever find myself in later in life, I would be wearing pants. Even if I have to play golf with the boss, golfers usually wear pants. It would be okay. [JewMitch note – I did not consider the possibility of law firm softball games at this time].

But, the one thing that they never tell you about tattoo parlors is that they are dreadfully boring places. Depending on the size of the tattoo, it can take anywhere from thirty minutes to several hours. Julie went first, so Dan and I were left to look at the walls for an hour. The walls of the tattoo parlor were covered with suggested designs that most of the tattoo artists knew how to ink. The majority of the designs were complete clichés: decks of cards, knives, revolvers, half-naked women, lots of daggers stuck in hearts.

Aside from staring at the wall or watching the tattoo artist carve up your friend’s skin, there is nothing else to do in a tattoo parlor. Unlike the place where I get my oil changed, they did not even have a TV. So after a while, I grew restless and walked down the street to buy some newspapers. Wanting the most amount of text for the cheapest price, I picked up a copy of The New York Times and The Washington Post. The total was less than two dollars.

When I returned to the tattoo parlor, I could not help feeling the irony of the situation. I was reading a newspaper, one of the most transient objects in today’s society, in a tattoo parlor. I love newspapers because I can pick them up for almost nothing and throw them away as soon as I am done with them. And here I am getting a tattoo.

Except for the people who already have tattoos, most of my friends are shocked when I tell them what I did. “Wow,” they say. “Is that real?” Most of them feel the need to touch my calf, to authenticate the fact that there is something inked on my skin for eternity. I look at my leg and realize that this tricycle will outlast me. I will die and this thing will still be on my leg. It is a strange feeling.

My girlfriend looked at me completely differently the day after I got inked. It was almost that same look that people give you when you get a radical new haircut, but more intense. She looked at me like I was no longer the same person.

“I’m still the same,” I said. “My leg is just a bit more colorful.” She didn’t get it.

“You can’t have a tattoo,” she said. “You like watching romantic comedies and getting Chinese food delivered. You told your parents that you wanted a subscription to The New York Times and a coffee maker for your birthday. You’re probably going to law school next year. You’re too conservative to have a tattoo.”

“It’s too late, it’s already on me.”

Aside from the pain and the needles, I think the main reason most people are afraid of tattoos is the commitment. You have to make a choice and stick with it for the rest of your life. There is no changing your mind. It is not like your furniture or your clothes. You might have to look at these things everyday, but if you decide that you made a bad decision, you can throw them away and buy new stuff. You cannot really do that with a tattoo. What is done is done.

Our society has become so transient that we really do not really have anything else like that. People get married, they get divorced. People can choose religions by converting to other religions or simply losing their faith. People even change their names at will. I guess people have kids and get stuck with them for the rest of their lives, but that is not the same type of choice. You do not get to pick the color of the kid, or how big it is going to be, or how much it is going to cost. Kids just sort of happen.

The nice thing about tattoos is that even though they will last forever, they require very little effort on my part. Aside from applying Neosporin and lotion for the first two weeks, I do not have to do anything to it. I do not have to continually show affection towards my tattoo, nor renew my faith. My tattoo never gets lonely, and never runs out on me to sleep with my best friend. I can go out and get completely trashed, break a few windows and curse out everyone I know, and my tattoo will still be there for me.

Of course, I can always get it removed. Tattoo removal surgery is a fairly recent invention. I think it is funny that we decided to create this escape for ourselves, as if the concept of forever was too much to bear. But the fact that the tattoo’s removal requires surgery says something about it. In order to get rid of it, I will have to remove a part of myself as well. It is my skin now. And I know I will never be able to be that guy. The guy who used to be cool, and now has a scar because his wife thought that his tattoo did not go well with khaki shorts and polo shirt.

In reflection, I think it is strange that more people do not have tattoos. It seems that most people today are always looking for something to cling onto. From significant others to religions, it seems that people are anxious to find that special something that will always be there for them. Yet the fear of commitment remains. We want to be able to pick up and go at any point and leave our entire lives behind.

But I think it is good to bring some of that baggage with us because you can never really leave it all behind. And personally, I always want to remember the good times Dan, Julie and I had through college. Even if things turn sour and we lose touch, I will always have something to remember them by. And you need that sometimes. Those little reminders which help you recall a time when you were once loved and accepted. And I think a tattoo is a hell of a lot better than a string of photos that was taken in a black-and-white photo booth. I cannot lose this. And that is important. I tend to lose things a lot.

[Author’s Note:  I am pretty sure that my parents still don’t know about the tattoo. I just wear pants whenever I see them. Because why break a Jewish mother’s heart?]

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Guys Night Out

Posted by JewMitch on June 18, 2009

pixar-up-logo-large

One problem with going to movies in New York is that they’re fucking expensive. Fortunately, my friends and I have a found several loopholes around this. The first is that there’s a theater in Kip’s Bay that has $6 dollar matinees on Friday through Sunday, so long as the movie starts before 12pm.

This is kind of a pain in the ass for most people, but when you don’t work, going to an 11:30am viewing of Star Trek on a Friday sounds awesome. Which is what I did, except I went on a Thursday, because Fandango told me that the ticket would only be $6. I later found out that this was a mistake and the deal is only valid Friday through Sunday.  Why would it be cheaper on the weekend? I have no idea, except that it appears that AMC is run by mentally challenged people.

When I got to the movie theater I found a bunch of trekkie nerds all arguing with the manager, who was trying to explain the mistake. Stepping up to the plate, I simply told the manager the situation, explained that we were all here for the $6 price, and that she could either honor the Fandango price, or not. She replied by saying that the computer would not let her charge us $6, but she could give us all free movie vouchers. Score.

And after seeing one movie for free, I decided to stop in and see Wolverine too. Because why not make a giant nerd day of it? Except for the fact that Wolverine sucked ass. An adamantium bullet to the brain? Seriously?

Another way to get into the movies for free is to know someone who works at the movie theater. Or at least say you do. This worked out beautifully for my friends and me one Friday night when we all got trashed at the Dead Poet (great UWS bar) and decided it would be a good idea to go see Pixar’s “UP” in 3D. Except when we got to the theater, we found out they were charging $16 a ticket. For a fucking movie! Seriously?

My friend Evan thought he knew someone who worked at the theater, so he started asking the ticket taker if she knew his friend. She didn’t (it turned out he worked at a completely different theater), so he asked if we all promised to buy candy, could she just let us into the movie?

Apparently 16 year old ticket takers don’t care about AMC’s corporate success, because she said sure. So we walked in, went to the concession stand, bought about three pounds of candy, and started walking towards the theater.

“Hey!” the ticket taker shouted. “I told you that you could come in to buy candy. You need tickets to go to the movie.”

Drunkenly, we all stopped in our tracks. “But ….. we thought….” We were all confused and sad.

“I’m just kidding with you guys,” she said. “Have fun.”

After getting thoroughly punked by a 16 year old, we all then raced to the theater, grabbed our 3D glasses, and Sam and I promptly fell asleep in our seats, with Evan sitting in the middle. Except, I also remember there was one really sad part and I may or may not have cried a little. It was an awesome Friday night out with the guys.

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Drunk and Headed to Seattle

Posted by JewMitch on June 17, 2009

seattle 2

This time last year, my father was having a medical procedure done in Seattle, and I had to spend a few weekends out there helping out the family. In order to try to not miss that much work, I would try to go out there on the weekends, which is easier said than done, because Baltimore to Seattle is not a popular commuter flight. The airlines that actually flew to Seattle only made one trip a day, and when you add connections into the mix, it was a sure recipe for airport hell.

Sometimes, I missed a flight because I did eight jello shots the night before at a karaoke bar and it was completely my fault. But sometimes it wasn’t. On one trip out there, I got to the airport and was told that my connection to New York had been delayed, and that I would definitely miss my flight to Seattle. I could either go home and come back tomorrow, or wait for the delayed flight and catch the 3pm flight from New York to Seattle the next day. Since there is absolutely nothing worse than giving up and going home from the airport after you’ve already put your car in long term parking, I made sure a New York buddy was going to be around and told them I’d fly to New York that night. Although this sucked, because it meant I was going to miss the season premier of Battlestar Galactica that night.

If you’ve never been at BWI on a Friday night with a few hours to kill, it’s actually a pretty fun scene. They have one bar that serves yards of beer and I met a bunch of Germans there that were flying to Hamburg. Well actually, there were two German men in their mid-thirties and one twenty year old college girl from Virginia, who was one of their girlfriends and also flying to Hamburg with them. I told them that my last name was German (it is actually the name of a German city) and we were all instantly friends.

I imagine that drinking with foreign strangers in an airport is similar to drinking with foreigners while backpacking. It’s fun because: (1) you’re drinking with people from another country, and (2) you’ll never see any of these people again. The Germans really could drink, and I think we had 4 yards each. They also taught me the fun German drinking expression, “Hau’ weg das Zeug!”, which they translated to mean “Drink that shit down!” Needless to say, I was bombed by the time I got on my flight.

But this was fine, as there was more alcohol on my plane. And on top of this, since it was JetBlue, they had TVs on the plane and I was able to watch the season premier of Battlestar Galactica, live, on the plane, in the air. How cool is that? It’s so amazing when you’re really drunk and the universe manages to give you exactly what you want, when you want it. It’s moments like that which make me want to believe in God in a little. Or The Secret. Or just that alcohol is magic.

Once at JFK, the line for a taxi was fifty people deep, so I paid some sketchy guy in a black town car sixty dollars to drive me to my friend’s house. Once there, my friend asked if I was ready to go out. I said “sure,” put my bag down, sat down in a love seat, and promptly passed out.

The next day we went out for brunch to my favorite brunch place in New York, McAlleers. They are an Irish pub that makes amazing Irish crème French toast (with real Baily’s in it) and thick homemade sausages. Plus, for $16 you can get a big plate of food and unlimited bloody mary’s or mimosas. And this is in New York City. I think McAlleers brunch was a major deciding factor for me to move to New York.

Before I knew it, I was drunk again, in a Super Shuttle back to the airport, rambling about McAlleers to the other Super Shuttle Passengers. And on top of it all, it turned out that JetBlue had just finished building a brand new hub with free high speed internet, so I could drunkenly watch Vampire Weekend music videos on my laptop while I waited for my plane. So once again, I was drunk and magically got exactly what I wanted. It was probably the second best 24 hour layover I had ever had.

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Motorcyles and Moving On

Posted by JewMitch on June 16, 2009

21496_0_1_2_eliminator 125_Image credits - Kawasaki

Since I was little, I have always wanted to learn how to ride a motorcycle. While most people want to get a motorcycle license so they can go really fast or pick up girls, I have secretly always wanted my motorcycle license because if there is a zombie apocalypse of some sort – motorcycles will clearly be the ideal form of transportation. And although this may have something to do with reading The Stand several times when I was a kid, I still think this is a completely logical thought. All the roads will be congested with broken down cars, and unless you want to push a gay shopping cart like in Cormac McCarthy’s The Road, you better know how to riding a fucking bike.

Unlike most people who would have a thought like this and then move on with their lives, one summer I decided to actually do it. I found out that the Maryland MVA teaches a class on how to ride a motorcycle for like $250 and at the end of the class, they give you your motorcycle license test. So I signed up, took the class, passed the test by one point (despite being a little hung over) and got my license.

That should have been the end of it; I now knew how to ride a motorcycle and would be adequately prepared for post-apocalyptic society.  Except for a girl I met at a block party, who was beautiful and crazy. The relationship lasted a few tumultuous months before coming to a screeching halt one night when I found out that she had been sleeping around and lying to me a lot. We wound up breaking up with one of those huge “lets never talk again” fights, which I’m now becoming famous for.

The next morning I woke up and asked my roommate if she could give me a ride to the motorcycle dealership. She said, “Didn’t you break up with your girlfriend last night? Are you sure you want to make such a major purchase on impulse like this?” To which I replied, “Yes.” And off we went.

I found a great starter bike that was only $2,400 (it’s actually the same model that is in the picture at the top of this post), took out a five year loan so that my payments were only like $60 a month, and the bike was mine. The only problem was that I wasn’t very good at riding it. Which is surprising, because I had spent an entire FOUR days learning.

I kept the bike for two years, and amazingly only fell off it twice, and incurred only minor injuries each time. But when I decided to move to New York (another impulse/post break-up decision), I knew I needed to sell the bike because if I brought it to New York I was sure I’d be dead in a week. Or at least have a broken leg. But probably be dead.

A friend offered to buy the bike and we made a fool proof plan, where I would rent a U-Haul to move to New York, put my stuff and the bike in the U-Haul, and then drop off the bike on my way to New York. Everything would have worked out perfectly, except U-Haul makes you pay by the mile, so I wound up renting a truck from Budget, and Budget’s ten foot trucks don’t have ramps.

Picking up the bike didn’t work; my bike weighed close to 700 pounds. Hypothetically, I could have rode the bike to my friend’s house, except he lived way out in the county, and like I said, I wasn’t very good at riding the bike. Around my neighborhood – fine. On the highway – no fucking way. Plus, could you imagine getting into a motorcycle accident on the day you’re supposed to move to New York City?

I called my dad and we came up with a brilliant, but ridiculous solution. We would go to Home Depot, buy wood, and make a ramp. We made sides for the ramp, used reinforced wood, and the bike went up the ramp like a champ. Of course, getting it down the ramp was another story, and when we finally delivered the bike, it didn’t want to start. But I still consider this to be an amazing testament to human ingenuity. And I just really wanted an excuse to share this awesome photo on the blog:

0324091822

Like Maguiver. If he had access to a Home Depot.

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One Part Beautiful; Two Parts Crazy

Posted by JewMitch on June 15, 2009

block party

I have one truly great pick up story in my life, and this is it. It was several summers ago and her name was Anne (all names changed). I was at a block party in Baltimore that I had been invited to by a random friend named Vicky who I didn’t really know all that well and she was busy talking to her friends for most of the party, so I had to make my own fun. Fortunately, this was one of the best block parties that I have ever been to.

One of the people throwing the party had a bbq catering business, so he was out grilling all day. We’re talking full sized ribs, bbq chicken, burgers, sides, everything. The people throwing the party got Magic Hat to sponsor it, so there was tons of Magic Hat beer, followed by kegs of Coors light. There was a stage that several live bands performed at, two full sized ice luges, and a full bar of a high end liquor to pour down them. Everything was free. Plus the crowd was completely mixed and great. No joke, at one point the mailwoman delivering the mail stopped by and did a shot off the ice luge. It was that type of scene.

At one point in the party, Vicky turns to me and points out a girl wearing an engagement ring. “She’s not really engaged,” Vicky said. “She is just wearing it for attention.”

“Perfect,” I said. “I’m going to go flirt with her.”

“Go for it,” she said. “She’s cute.”

I’m not really the type of guy who guys up to random girls wearing engagement rings and hits on them, but this seemed like the perfect time to start. I had inside information, I had been drinking, and this girl was really good looking. We’re talking long auburn hair, perfect teeth, a face that sort of resembled Denise Richards, great body. She looked like she could have been the girl that the heroes of an 80s comedy were trying to sleep with. Which is totally my type.

She was selling raffle tickets at the time and the prize was a $100 gift certificate to a hot new named Salt. I pulled out six dollars (tickets were $1 each) and after grilling her about the quality of the restaurant, I told her that the only way I was buying any raffle tickets was if she would promise to go with me to dinner if I won. She laughed and said sure.

As the party went on, everyone got trashed and during a lull in the party, I grabbed Vicky (who had also been one of the organizers) and told her that now would be a great time to call the raffle. She obliged and began to call out the winning raffle numbers in a low voice, with me and only two other people paying attention. It took about ten numbers or so before one of my tickets hit and I won the gift certificate. Then with gift certificate in hand, I found Anne and told her that I needed her phone number because we were going out to dinner. The whole thing seemed like destiny, when it really was just extreme drunkenness and one quick idea.

She gave it to me, we went out to dinner, and within a few months I had fallen in love with her. Of course, I got my heart broken in the end, but the whole thing felt like a sitcom. Some highlights of that relationship included:

–         Finding out that the engagement ring she was wearing had been real; a college friend that she had never dated had publicly proposed to her out of the blue years after college. They never got engaged, but he insisted she keep the ring.

–         Finding out that she had been proposed to six times before (she was 26), and had been engaged three or four times, and that she had a collection of three engagement rings that she wore in rotation.

–         Finding out that she had once been in a Ford commercial and grown up on a dairy farm that her family owned, as the youngest of eight children.

–         Going out to dinner with her one night when she decided it would be fun to dress up like Jewish grandmother (a t-shirt with a seashell on the front, lots of bronzer, about five gold bracelets on each wrist).

–         Going to a concert with her and making her wear a shirt that said, “Shiksa.”

–         Watching her convince a bunch of my friends that she was a Christian Scientist.

–         Having my roommate’s great aunt walk in on us the first time we were hooking up.

–         Dog sitting her beagle for days at a time, who would often get scared and poo in my roommate’s room.

–         Taking her to an Orthodox wedding in Toronto, where she was the only non-Jewish girl. She drank too much and then wet the bed in the hotel.

–         Getting suckered into paying for her beagle’s vet fees.

–         Letting her borrow my car one weekend when I was out of town and finding out that she had drunkenly gotten into an accident with it.

–         Driving my grandmother back from New Jersey with her in the car and then making her go the synagogue with my grandmother and me that night. We needed synagogue clothes, so I wore my dad’s suit and she wore my aunt’s old purple pantsuit. I wound up introducing her to my childhood rabbi.

–         Having her disappear for several days at a time when she wouldn’t pick up the phone or answer e-mail. Some of those times, I was stuck watching her dog.

–         Finding out that she had told her roommate that we were just “friends” and had never hooked up.

–         Finding out that she was a compulsive liar, and I couldn’t really believe half the things she told me.

Like I said, of course I got my heart broken. A nice Jewish boy like me didn’t stand a chance.

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Law School is Fun School

Posted by JewMitch on June 11, 2009

law school

A lot people are surprised to find out that I really had a great time in law school, even during first year (which is supposed to be the hell year). I think a big part of this had to do with the attitude that I went to law school with. I basically went to school on a whim; the girl I was dating at the time had really wanted to go to Maryland Law, so I figured I might as well take the LSATs and go see if I could get in too. I got in, she didn’t, we broke up, and I went to Maryland; half just to rub it in her face and half because I had nothing better to do. Also, I got in-state tuition, so it seemed like a bargain compared to my private undergrad university.

Once in school, I had no desire to become a lawyer and figured that I’d drop out after my first year. Thankfully, my class was one of the youngest ever in Maryland Law history and I was able to find a group of friends who took a similar cavalier attitude toward law school. Instead of spending late nights cramming in the library, we used to do things like pass notes in constitutional law class. Granted, we all had laptops and could have easily instant messaged each other, but it was much more fun to ask the tight assed guy in a tie to pass a hand written note across the room that said, “Do you want to go to lunch? Pick one. Yes, No, Maybe.”

One of the most ridiculous moments was when a female friend and I decided that it would be a good idea to have a wrestling match in the hallway of the law school by the lockers. We were surprisingly well matched (she was a lot stronger than she looked; she used to play lacrosse) and what started off as a friendly goof turned into a real fight – with us throwing each other into lockers in front of a crowd. Students walking by had no idea what to think, and the wrestling match was eventually broken up by one of the deans. I think the only reason that we didn’t get into trouble was because the dean was so flabbergasted by what we were doing and really had no idea how to handle the situation.

Another reason law school was fun for me was because we all drank a lot. Like 4-5 times a week. Monday was wings and pitchers. Thursday was pitchers and karaoke. Friday through Sunday, we were just drunk. We once threw a keg party mid-week because the forecast said a hurricane was coming and we were sure that we wouldn’t have class the next day. Sure enough, the hurricane came and school was cancelled the next day. But the really amazing thing about that party was that I had my first legal writing and research paper due the next day, so I brought my notes and laptop to the party, and wrote the entire thing after a few beers while the party raged on. I got a B+.

In retrospect, I guess my law school experience doesn’t make any sense. I was drunk all the time, tortured my professors with insane hypotheticals (Example: Shouldn’t 1st degree murder be punished less severely than manslaughter, since people who intend to murder the people they kill are usually killing people who have done something to deserve it, while a negligent driver kills a true innocent?), studied half the time of any of my friends, and graduated in the top 13% of my class. Then again, maybe I’m just awesome.

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Internet Networking Event

Posted by JewMitch on June 10, 2009

networking

The other night I had nothing to do and it happened to be Internet week in New York, so I decided to go to a dot com start-up networking happy hour. Why, you ask?

Well for one, I have a weird thing where I actually like going to networking events. I like meeting new people and I think it’s really fun to watch awkwardness unfold, especially if the event is for lawyers or computer people.

In Baltimore, we used to play this game called “Conference,” where we would go to this bar that was right near the conference center, look for people who were clearly part of the conference (khakis, name sticker, looking uncomfortable) and then we’d introduce ourselves by saying, “Are you here for the conference too?” The trick of the game was to try to figure out what the conference was, and then feign knowledge in that particular area. However, we were on home turf at the time, so we had a distinctive advantage.

This night was going to be rougher, but I did have a quasi-legitimate reason to be there, as I had been doing some legal marketing stuff recently and applying for legal marketing jobs. If nothing else, it always pays for me to know whatever the new hot Internet thing is so that I sound good in interviews. Also, there was a comedy show I really wanted to go to that was just a few blocks from the event.

So I put I grabbed a bunch of my old business cards, handwrote “ex” in front of “attorney-at-law” and then wrote in my Gmail address. They looked surprisingly hip. I think I’m going to get some real ones made in a similar style.

I managed to find one of the guys in charge of the event, grabbed a free drink coupon and we were good to go. Some highlights of the event included:

–         Meeting a guy who runs a fashion website, and happened to be carrying the same duck umbrella that I am.

–         Meeting a guy wearing a Threadless t-shirt that I own (tank goldfish) and had almost worn to this event.

–         Getting a free screwdriver kit that looks like an old school beeper and USB drive from some company.

–         Meeting an older Latvian woman who was a very close talker, and who also didn’t understand “say it, don’t spray it,” but seemed quite taken with me, and wanted me to help her get Americans to invest in businesses in Latvia.

–         Meeting Miss United States Virginia 2008 (who now works for some social networking website) and giving her advice on the fact that her boyfriend was moving to LA soon.

Not bad for a free event. The comedy show was awesome too; it was hosted by Seth Herzog and John Hamburg (writer/director of “I Love You Man”) and only cost $5. The best part was definitely a black Jewish comedian who was making fun of the fact that people expect him to do Black Jewish humor. For example, “I’m black and Jewish, so I have to sit in the back of the gas chamber.” Amazing.

Of course, I got lost coming home and that took me about an hour, but all in all, a pretty good night.

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Comic Book Convention

Posted by JewMitch on June 9, 2009

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Last weekend was the Museum of Comic and Cartoon Art Festival in New York, so I was there selling issues of my comic book, Assholes (which you can read at www.assholescomic.com). I cannot draw at all, but my friend Josh can, and so a few years ago we decided to put out a comic book. The two main characters are named Mitch and Josh, although it’s really just my personality split into two different characters, so that I could write dialogue scenes. And since Josh did most of the work on the book, I let him be the smooth-talking, ladies man character.

The book is about half fiction and half real-life drinking stories and includes such great Mitch stories as the time I convinced a group of 20 girls at Seacrets in Ocean City that we were celebrating my Indian friend’s bachelor party and he was having an arranged marriage the next day and the time I went to Mexico and got really bad diarrhea. There are no super heroes, lots of profanity, and a plethora of vagina jokes. Needless to say, our comic does not really fit in with the rest of the comics at this convention, which are more likely to be put out by bitchy girls who can’t draw and lonely artistic types.

Josh is more of a comic book guy, so he is the one who signs us up for these things and fits into the crowd. Like our comic book, I do not fit into these shows at all. For instance, while most people wear their favorite graphic novel t-shirts and demolished cargo shorts, I am there in khakis and a t-shirt from the Economist, reading the New York Times.

Still it’s fun to sit at a table and yell things out like “Offensive Comics for Sale! Vagina Jokes Right on the Cover!” Especially when older women stop by our table and ask us to explain why one of the characters is throwing a hot dog down a hallway. Josh tries to be tactful, while I’ll just bluntly say: “The hall way represents a large vagina. The hot dog is a penis.” Then they say, “Oh,” and quietly move on.

It’s surprising though who reads our book. Every now and then though a middle aged guy pushing a stroller will come and buy five copies. Although, I think the best moment from any of these shows though was when a couple of guys in their late teens came up to us and said, “You guys are our heroes. We can’t believe you guys do this for a living.” We didn’t have the heart to tell we had boring day jobs, so instead I just said, “Keep following your dreams.”

We usually sell about fifty books or more per show, which is really good for a book that is self published and put out by no-name guys. It’s kind of like Chasing Amy – although we have like ten fans and we don’t try to fuck each other after the show. Still it is cool when someone from last year comes back to buy the second issue and tells you that they really liked your book. And even if I never become famous, I can at least take comfort that I put my fair share of dick and fart jokes out into the world. That’s really all I want on my tombstone anyway.

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Hangovers and Pedialyte

Posted by JewMitch on June 8, 2009

pedialyte

Hangovers are a tricky thing; many people avoid drinking excessively because they hate them so much. However, when you’re a borderline alcoholic, this isn’t an option. You have to tackle that hangover full on. And since I’m a generous person, I’d like to share some of my wealth of knowledge concerning hangovers with you today. Also, I am currently hungover and this seems like an appropriate post to do today.

First off, I think it’s absolutely essential to eat something before I go to sleep, preferably pizza, a soft pretzel, or a soft pizza pretzel. My personal theory is that the bread and cheese sit in your stomach over night and sop up all the alcohol, so instead of feeling hungover the next day, you just have bad diarrhea. Not so bad. And I’ll take diarrhea any day over feeling nauseous.

Also, everyone knows that drinking water the night before helps, but if you really want to take your game to the next level, stock your fridge up with Pedialyte. Pedialyte is a beverage designed to be drunk by little kids who have diarrhea to rehydrate them, but is also perfect for rehydrating yourself after binge drinking. The problem though is that Pedialyte is sold in the children’s section of grocery/drug stores, and you feel like a pedophile while buying it.

True story: I was once at the drug store and Pedialyte and condoms happened to be on sale, so I decided to stock up on both. So I am walking to the check out line, with large amounts of these two products in my basket (and nothing else), and I run into a friend from law school. She looks down into the basket, makes a face, and just says, “I’m not even going to ask,” and walks away.

But aside from this risk, Pedialyte before bed can work wonders. It’s good the next morning too, and in the summer they sell Pedialyte popsicles that you can store in your freezer. Great for hangovers on sunny days. Personally, I love the fruit punch flavored powder packs (“Pedialyte Oral Electrolyte Maintenance Powder”) which are a lot less expensive than the bottles, and are perfect for leaving in your desk at work for hungover mornings. But whatever you do, don’t ever buy the original unflavored “flavor;” it’s super gross. [Note: Pedialyte also just started selling these eloctrolyte strips that dissolve on your tongue — excellent for those drunk nights when drinking a bottle of liquid Pedialyte is just too much work.]

I also used to buy Chaser Pills, which are a little expensive and made of charcoal. These are awful in the sense that you don’t get as drunk when you take them, but they work really well if you know you need to binge drink one night, and be somewhere important the next morning. This situation really only applies to me on Christmas Eve when I’m dating a Christian girl. Because for those of you who don’t know, Christmas Eve is probably the biggest Jewish drinking night of the year, mainly because most of us have shit to do the next day. Except for me, who’s an asshole and always dates non-Jewish girls, and then usually has to do all the same shit that Christians do on Christmas day. One year, I actually missed Christmas breakfast with a new girlfriend’s family because I was so hungover that I was physically incapable of driving to her parents’ house (I threw up twice on the side of I-95), but that’s another blog entry.

Okay, but say it’s too late, you’re already hungover and you don’t have any Pedialyte. In my opinion, the ultimate hangover meal is a tall glass of original Coke and Kraft macaroni and cheese. This is a classic, and there is something magical about the combination of these two foods. Although for some reason, it has to be original Coke (in a glass bottle is best, followed by fountain coke over crushed iced) and Kraft. Don’t ask me why, it just is this way.

Diners are also an excellent way to fight a hangover, which is why I try to always live within walking distance of one. The following is my favorite thing to order at a diner when I’m hung over: 1 milkshake, 1 coke, 1 coffee, 1 water, hash browns, eggs, and toast. This is an excellent combination, since it provides the necessary oil, starch, salt, sugar and caffeine to relieve a hangover. I was once at a diner with a friend who ordered the same thing, which led to a hilarious looking table, filled with 8 beverages and two small plates of food.

Another excellent hangover beverage is orange juice with honey stirred in. Orange juice plus honey equals gross when you’re sober, but is awesome when you’re hungover. Try it. Also, Airborne always makes me feel better, and is much less embarrassing to buy at the drug store than Pedialyte. [Side note: Airborne and vodka is my favorite cocktail to drink when I have a cold. I’ll literally bring a container of Airborne to the bar with me and order a vodka and water.]

Finally, if you have a headache, I highly recommend Excedrin Migraine. It’s a combination of Tylenol, Aspirin, and caffeine. Aleve is also a close second, because it contains a muscle relaxer too, which is great when you’re hungover and stressed. However, do not make the rookie move of keeping these essential drugs in your bathroom medicine cabinet – which is about a thousand miles away from your bed when you’re hungover the next morning. Instead – keep them in your bedside table. Trust me on this one; you can thank me later. Also, as an advanced move, keep some over the counter sleeping pills in your bedside table too; perfect for when you wake up at 7am with a splitting headache and just want to go back to sleep until noon or so.

I hope this was helpful, and remember that you should never not have a tequila shot or mix wine with scotch because you might get a hangover the next day. Hangovers are just part of the wonderful world of drinking. And if dealt with properly (so no headache or nausea), I kind of enjoy being hungover. Everything is a little dulled, I don’t have to think for a day, and can just enjoy watching crappy TV for six hours. But I’m kind of weird like that.

Update: Wikipedia now links this blog entry as an authoritative source in its pedialyte entry: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pedialyte.

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Spin and Pilates Classes

Posted by JewMitch on June 5, 2009

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Since I have most days free, I started going whatever class my gym offers at noon each day. (“Wait Mitch – how do you afford a gym in NYC?” Answer: “It’s a recession. So I was able to find a nice gym for $49 a month with no contract. What do you pay? Oh, that’s a lot”).

These classes are all pretty funny, because I’m usually the only guy in the class and they’re mostly geared towards girls. For instance, my spin class is called STAR Treatment – and then we all do yoga afterwards. Still, I am unemployed and have no problem with the instructor yelling, “Pedal Harder Ladies!”, so I show up every day. And I’m getting in awesome shape.

Yesterday was pilates. Which I learned is a really awesome class to take when you’re hung over. I knew things were bad when I got really nauseous just from lying down on the mat. Then I proceeded to scissor kick and do various other leg raises, all while trying not to vomit. But after about half an hour, I felt better and got a great core work out. So I highly recommend it.

The worst thing about taking girl classes at the gym is that they’re actually really hard. Spin is taught by this domineering black woman, who constantly threatens to come over and turn the resistance up on my bike herself if she doesn’t feel that I’m struggling enough. And then the next day, I have to tell people that the reason I can barely walk is because of “Spin” class. 

I’m curious why classes like Pilates and Spin are almost all girls. Oh that’s right. It’s because they’re called Pilates and Spin. Pilates sounds like a French piece of clothing or some new coffee drink and Spin just sounds gay. Like we spent an hour spinning in circles. Which is sort of what we did. And a Kelly Clarkson remix was blaring at the time. Nevermind.

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Stand Up Comedy

Posted by JewMitch on June 3, 2009

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I did stand up at the PIT last Tuesday, which is so far the best open mike night that I’ve been to in New York. Granted I’ve been to three so far.

My first open mike night made me almost want to quit doing stand up for good. It took place at 7pm, in the basement of a taco shop. And not a cool – hipster taco shop, but a corporate, fast food-esque, downtown type taco shop. Also, one area of the basement had been leaking, so we couldn’t even use the elevated stage area. Instead, there were 8 of us in the corner, waiting for our seven minutes “on stage” where we could perform in front of one another. It felt like being at an AA meeting. Only, I imagine that AA meetings are more glamorous. And we had each paid a ten dollar “cover” for this.

Open mike stand up comedy is a weird thing. In one way, it’s a lot like karaoke, where every day citizens are allowed to take the stage for a few minutes, no matter how awful they are. But unlike karaoke, where people are restricted to performing pre-approved popular songs, open mike nights are a place where people can come and express their deepest darkest secrets and oddities to strangers.

The taco stand up night was hosted by this incredibly sad and dumb woman in her late thirties, who seemed like she had once gotten along by being bubbly and mildly attractive, but was now well on her way to being very sad and lonely. I’m also fairly certain that the therapist she had seen after her divorce had suggested that she deal with her emotions by doing stand up.

I know that she was divorced, because she mentioned her divorce almost every single time she was on stage (which was in between each comic) and didn’t really tell jokes, as much as she just talked about her divorce. I learned about her divorce lawyer, her divorce trial, her divorce settlement, and her new attitude after the divorce. And amazingly, she wasn’t the worst stand up performer that night.

I think my weirdest experience was one guy who said he was a computer programmer. He looked a little dorkier, but fairly normal, almost good looking. Then he went on to say how he doesn’t need glasses, but wears them as a “shield” from the public and that he also wears a thick puffy jacket for the same reason. Then he told us that he worked as a computer programmer because he wanted to avoid talking to people and that he hadn’t really spoken to anyone in five years. And that the reason he was here was to start talking to people again.

Then he proceeded to lay on the stage, and pretend that he was playing with a cat. But then everything got very violent and all of the sudden he screamed: “Why do you have such large claws! You’re hurting me!” He then proceeded to mime a two minute fight scene with the cat to the crowd’s awkward silence.

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Bedwetting

Posted by JewMitch on June 2, 2009

laundry1

I seem to have a problem that few guys my age have; girls keep wetting my bed. Or beds that I happen to be sleeping in. I have had not one, not two, but three separate girls wet my bed. Two of which, did it on more than one occasion. This is an absolutely ridiculous statistic. And I know you might be thinking, “Mitch, maybe you should stop going home with really drunk girls?” And while you have a valid point, these instances have occurred after a wide variety of social settings, some of them not even involving alcohol. One girl just happened to have a thyroid problem. Seriously. It’s like a gypsy cursed me at some point during my twenties.

I don’t know if you’ve ever been peed on before while you’re sleeping, but it’s the absolute worst. It’s like, you’re dry and warm and all cozy, and the next minute you’re still warm, but a little wet. So you roll over a little bit, but the wetness continues to creep over to your side of the bed. And the bed keeps getting wetter and warmer, until you realize, that this isn’t a dream, this is pee. And it’s not your pee. And it’s all over you.

And now, you need to wake up, wake her up, explain to her what she did, explain – no, this is your pee, this is not my pee, take the sheets off the bed, throw them in the washer, scrub the bed down with soapy water, set up a fan to help dry the mattress, get out the spare blankets, put her in the shower, put yourself in the shower, and then set her up on the couch, while you sleep on a chair or recliner, thinking about how you just got peed on. There’s something about this situation that puts neither of you in the mood to cuddle. 

And while you’re trying to maintain control over the situation, the girl just wants to go back to sleep, because after all, it’s her pee, and your own pee isn’t so bad. I actually had one girl put her hand on the wet bed and say, “Oh, it’s mostly water.”

It’s like, I don’t really need a chemistry lesson here. I am aware what the chemical make-up of pee is. I am aware that pee is sterile when it comes out of the body. But that really doesn’t change this situation or make it any more fun for me.

But to tell you the truth, getting peed on doesn’t really bother that much anymore. The last time it happened, I was like, “Oh, this is my life. Let’s take off the sheets, etc. etc.”

I know the drill now. I mean, it’s a pain in the ass, but it’s happened so many times that I’m not really surprised anymore. And the one saving grace is that it automatically gives you a trump card for future arguments. “I may have passed out on the floor and called your friend fat, but is there any pee on you right now? No? Then I don’t think you can really complain that much, can you?”

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PBR Sunday

Posted by JewMitch on June 1, 2009

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People often ask me, Mitch – you make zero dollars, how to afford to live in one of the most expensive cities in America?

Well first off, I collect unemployment. So thank you, America.

Second – I have gotten really good at finding free things to do in NYC. Everyone knows that most museums in New York offer a free day and that the Met is “pay what you wish”, but when you have the free time that I have and you’re a border line alcoholic, you have to dig a little deeper. Fortunately, there are several blogs and listservs devoted exclusively to this purpose and I follow all of them. For example, on Sunday, Pabst Blue Ribbon was sponsoring a bbq at some posh roof deck in the East Village and there was a free open mike night near there that promised free buns and jello shots.

Two free food/alcohol based events in one day! Perfect. So I called a friend of mine who also does stand up, and we decided to make a day of it. The PBR bbq was actually $3 for a plate of food, but PBR tall boys were free until 4:30. So at 4:27 we asked the bartender for a six pack for all our “friends.” Score. Then we loaded up our plates with burgers and chicken wings, while talking to tall blonde Estonian (yes – like from Estonia) women who had showed up for the live techno music. We also met a teacher who lived in Harlem but was moving downtown in two weeks. I kept trying to sing the Jefferson’s theme song to her, and she kept correcting me: “No, I’m moving downtown.” Still, I think she was amused since she gave me her phone number later.

Afterwards, we went to the comedy show. I was really hoping for cinnamon buns, but instead, they only had Mexican buns, that tasted like cardboard with frosting on top. Which I guess is what Mexican buns are supposed to taste like. My stand up set went fairly well, I rambled for a few minutes about farting at weddings, past girlfriends who have peed on me, and a guy who I had seen earlier that only had one leg and was rollerblading. I got laughs, but the host didn’t seem to like us very much – and instead of asking us back next week, he told us that next time they were going to use a lottery system and not let as many people go on stage.

Still, I feel like getting up on stage and not bombing is an achievement in itself, which a lot of people who claim to be interested in comedy never do. And then afterwards, I got to hang out with the other comics (some of whom were really good) and bullshit around for a bit. Which may not sound like much, but it’s sort of the ultimate for someone who’s been going to comedy shows as long as I have. And regardless of if I ever “make it” in any real capacity, it’s cool to have at least done that.

Anyway; here’s a breakdown for my spending for yesterday: $1 (everything bagel for breakfast) + $3 (bbq plate) + $1 (tip) + $4 (paid for one more beer after we drank all our free beers) + $1 (late night pizza slice) == $10 total for food + entertainment. Just living the dream.

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Baltimore Wedding Fun

Posted by JewMitch on May 31, 2009

wedding

Last weekend, I had to head back to Baltimore for a wedding, my first trip back since moving to New York. I was mildly exciting for the wedding – until I realized that not one, but two ex-girlfriends would be there. But oh well, I live in New York City now, and am awesome, and there would be unlimited Miller Lite there (or so I thought).

 So I grabbed the train down to DC to spend some quality time with the folks before the wedding, which was nice, but I had to keep reminding them that this visit counted double (I spent two nights at home) and that I would not be coming back to DC until Rosh Hashanah. It was okay though; they bought way too much food (8 steaks for 4 people), there was beer and some Maker’s Mark (which I had forced my dad to buy earlier), and it was actually nice to spend a weekend in suburbia after living in New York the last couple of months.

The wedding itself was fairly standard – sit in the church for a while, watch my friends make a promise before god, go to a cocktail hour, go to a reception and listen to the same songs that are played at every wedding. But they played Journey too (it was a Baltimore wedding) and that made me happy. Plus, as I get older, it seems like I need to go to weddings for no other reason than to see old friends that I don’t see anywhere else.

Since I couldn’t stay at my ex-girlfriend’s house – I called my one (one!) single male friend who I knew was going to the wedding and asked if I could stay with him. His apartment was also very conveniently located near the train station. It’s funny; when you’re younger and in college, you think that weddings will all be super fun. You picture an open bar, tons of hot single bridesmaids that are looking to hook up, and a wild party that goes all night. When in reality, many weddings today only have wine and beer, there are almost no single people there, the party is always kind of tame, and instead of hooking up – you get to talk to a lot of aunts and then pay a dry cleaning bill.

Still, it is kind of fun for some reason. And it is nice to believe in love for a minute as your friends exchange vows. And even if the marriage eventually ends in utter failure, maybe that couple will at least always have a memory of that time when they believed in each other so much that they decided it’d be a really great idea to spend thirty grand on a party that lasts five hours.

And aside from the beer running out around the third hour, then the caterers buying more beer, but instituting a one-beer-per-person-at-a-time rule, then running out again, then running out of champagne, then running out of wine with an hour left to go in the wedding; it was a nice day.

Oh, but this all brings me to the most important part of the story, and the reason I deemed this worthy blog material; the part where I saw my most recent ex-girlfriend at the reception. There are a lot of theories about how to handle seeing an ex that you haven’t seen in a while. These range from playing the jealously card, to playing it cool, to making a big scene with lots of yelling, to taking tranquilizers, to just staying home and crying in your room. But I think I came up with something much better than all of those.

So the ex and I are making small talk – how you doing, you look nice, blah blah blah. When all the sudden, I needed to fart. So instead of excusing myself, I turned slightly away from her, farted in her direction, and then used my hand as a fan to waft it over to her. She immediately smelled it and made one of those “I just smelled a fart” faces and looked at me. To which I replied: “I just farted on you.”

I put it down as one of my favorite Mitch life moments of the year so far.

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Kickball

Posted by JewMitch on May 29, 2009

GrownupKickball

So last night was my first kickball game in New York. I had been playing dodgeball, but decided to switch for the sole reason that there were hardly any attractive single girls in my league. But I understand, if I was a cute girl, I probably wouldn’t want guys throwing dodgeballs at my face at 100mph either.

The kickball games were held in the lower east side, on a fairly small black top – that was really a parking lot. That still had cars parked in it. But it was fun – because you could kick the ball into the cars or over the fence and into traffic. However, the weather was super shitty – like high fifties and spitting rain.

We managed to play okay despite the fact that a lot of girls on our team didn’t know basic rules (like that you could step on a base when you’re holding a ball to get someone out) and we were so disorganized that we managed to play a whole inning without a shortstop. Still, we lost, and it was raining and afterwards someone else had stolen our pizza (each team gets a pizza at the bar after the game) so we were generally in a bad mood.

This left me wondering why I sign up for team after team and subject myself to this. I’ve never been particularly great at sports – and new teams are always so awkward. The people who know each other from before break off together, and I was sitting there thinking, I should never try to make new friends again. These guys were mostly all younger than me and from Long Island.

BUT then I noticed that one of the flip cup tables had opened up and grabbed it for my team. Within fifteen minutes, everything changed for the better. We were suddenly all best friends, playing competitive flip cup. More pizza came – and the beer just flowed. And while I suck at kickball, I am a reliable anchor to any flip cup team. And I was in the zone last night, hitting almost every single cup on my first or second try.

We reigned supreme on the flip cup table and my memories from the night are a little scattered. Some highlights include – one girl from the team stopping the flip cup game to tell us about all these charity projects she was doing and asking the team for donations. And me cutting her off after 10 minutes by saying, “Yeah, that’s great and all, but this is kind of flip cup time.”

There were some clutch last second wins, more high fives, and I must have drank a ton of beer because I had to get off the subway on the stop before mine, so I could throw up repeatedly into a trashcan on the platform. In front of a crowd. Then I somehow woke up on my couch, wearing just a pair of boxers. Which normally would have been fine, but a few of my roommates friends were staying at the house that night – one of whom I had never met before. So I’m sure he thinks I’m awesome now. But I made it home with my cell phone and MP3 player, so the night was generally a success. And more importantly, I remember why I love kickball. Although next time, I need to remember that when I’m trying to meet girls, I shouldn’t drink 1,000 beers during flip cup. Oh well.

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Flesh Lights

Posted by JewMitch on May 28, 2009

fleshlight

www.fleshlight.com

Have you guys seen this? It’s a sex toy for guys, that is made to look like a flashlight. Then you can take the flashlight head off – and viola…. There’s this fake female part for you to have sex with. But what’s really crazy about this product is that it comes in four different styles. There’s mouth, butt, lady (vagina), and stealth. What the hell is stealth? In reality, stealth looks like a coin slot. But who is the guy who is like – oh I’m so tired of fake mouths, anuses and vaginas. What I’m really craving is the ability to fuck some new orifice that doesn’t exist in reality. Something called stealth. It’s like – sorry god, I know you gave me 3 great holes, but that just isn’t good enough for me. I’m going to have to do you one better and fuck stealth. It sounds like a member of the x-men.

Also, I want to classify this as the absolute worst possible product for your parents to find. Just imagine if your mother found this. During a blackout. Because when else would your mother be grabbing flashlights from your room.

So it’s pitch black. And your mom finds your fleshlight.

“Honey, why doesn’t your flashlight work. It’s so dark.”

“Hold on, I’m unscrewing it to change the batteries. It’s so light, it must not have any batteries in.”

“What this? This doesn’t feel like a flashlight.”

“What’s this liquid coming out of the flashlight? Were the batteries leaking? Why does it feel like that inside the flashlight?”

This would then lead to the most horribly awkward encounter you can possibly imagine with your mother. As you can see, you cannot own this product unless you live by yourself and never have visitors ever. Or you have a backup generator in case of blackouts.

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