-In two weeks, I will celebrate a major milestone, my twenty-fourth birthday.  Well, maybe “major” isn’t the right word.  You see, I just don’t think turning twenty-four is that big of a deal.  Turning nineteen is an important birthday, that’s your last year as a teenager.  Similarly, twenty, of course, is the first year of your twenties.  And at twenty-one, you become legal.  But from twenty-two to twenty-four, not much happens.  You get into a groove for three years and try not to look ahead.  Then your twenty-fifth birthday comes around and all hell breaks loose, next thing you know you’re married and living in Westchester and going to Crate & Barrel to shop for placemats.  Thankfully, I’m not there yet.  At twenty-three going on twenty-four, I’m still sort of going with the flow.  In fact, if your adolescence can be described as the “Wonder Years,” then I say the ages twenty-two, twenty-three, and twenty-four deserve to get their own name too.  And so I’d like to welcome you to the “Whatever Years.”

-I don’t know what scares me more, the fact that my mom asked me if I want luggage for my birthday, or the fact that I think I do.

-In honor of my birthday, earlier today I decided to write down all of the major things that have happened to me in the last decade of my life.  I only wanted to list the most memorable and life-altering events.  Here’s what I came up with: witnessed Rangers win Stanley Cup, graduated high school, lost virginity, graduated college, perfected left-handed masturbation, published book.  That’s it.  Ten years of living and all I have to show for it is two diplomas, a poster, a paperback, a sore wrist, and a lifetime of frustration.  Why do I even bother?

-Where you live during the Whatever Years is crucial.  I’m getting kind of fed up with my cramped New York apartment.  I long to live in a place that doesn’t require twenty IKEA halogen lamps to light, that has a “living room” not a “common room,” that has a refrigerator with one of those cool ice-cube makers in the door, and that has a bed with a headboard so I can have sex without worrying about flying through temporary plaster wall that separates my room from my roommate’s room.

-I’m not too worried about getting old, though.  There are so many reasons why I still feel like I kid.  For instance, whenever I find out that someone speaks a foreign language, I still ask them how to say “shit” and “fart.”  Most of my t-shirts still say something to effect of “Zeta Beta Tau Toga Party.”  No matter how hard I try, I still don’t understand half the jokes that Dennis Miller or Bill Maher make.  You can still see the hole in my ear even though I haven’t worn an earring in years.  The other day I got yelled at at my fancy gym for throwing around one of those giant bouncy balls.  Oh yeah, and I still went to a pediatrician until like last year.  What?  The nurses there are hot.

-Here’s two ways you can tell that you’re getting old.  When you have a party at your house or apartment, do you close the door of your bedroom so that no one goes in there?  Also, have you started calling your friends by their first names when you’ve only called them by their last names for the past twenty years?  If you answered yes to either of these questions, I recommend you see a pediatrician immediately!

-Since some of my friends are now moving on to their second jobs since leaving college, I’ve been asked a few times to write letters of recommendation for them.  It always goes something like this: “Hey Karo, I was wondering if you could write a letter about me for this new job I’m trying to get.  Here’s the thing, don’t mention anything about that time I almost burned down the fraternity house.  Or punched that cop.  Or stole that car.  Or that I failed Accounting.  Or that I never actually graduated.  Or that I’m functionally illiterate.”  I’m like, sure, no problem, one complete lie coming up!

-Another thing that I think a lot of guys in their Whatever Years experience is the sudden realization that, like it or not, we’re turning into our dads.  First, I started getting a bit of a beer belly.  Then, I started making that subtle sigh that my dad makes when annoyed.  The other day I found myself saying to a friend that signature dad-phrase, “Don’t worry about anyone but yourself.”  Next thing you know I’ll be wearing khaki shorts from Eddie Bauer and a knee brace while sitting in a leather recliner watching “Emeril Live” and munching on Cheese Nips.

-As I near my twenty-fourth birthday, I can’t help but look back and think about all the time I wasted this year.  All the time I wasted in line at CVS waiting for one uninterested clerk to ring up the seven thousand people in front of me.  All the time I waited in line outside overcrowded lounges waiting for one uninterested bouncer to let me in even though I came with seventeen model chicks and had my name on four different VIP lists.  All the time I waited in line for the one bathroom inside the overcrowded lounge while the six chicks jammed into the one stall tried to figure out how to take a piss while wearing a belt that purposely doesn’t go through the loops of their pants.  All the time I waited for my “high-speed cable modem” to load up ESPN.com so I could check the score of the Yankees game that started over four hours ago and is still going.  And all the time I’ve waited for a food delivery only to have the guy come two hours later with half the order wrong, the other half missing, the wrong credit card charged, and a sly grin that says “I can’t understand a word of English so I will be of no help.”  My God, at this rate, by the time I’m twenty-five, I’ll be thirty-two.

-You know what I’m tired of?  People saying, “I’m very disappointed in you.”  When I was a kid and got in trouble, my parents always gave me that same speech: “We’re very disappointed in you.”  In college, when my fraternity got in trouble, we were told by an administrator, “I’m very disappointed in you.”  At work, when I messed up, my bosses said to me, “We’re not your parents and this isn’t college anymore…but we’re very disappointed in you.”  You know what?  Shut the fuck up already.  I’m sick of everyone having such high expectations.  And when do I get to be the one disappointed, huh?

-Quote of the Month.  The Whatever Years are also the first time in your life that you’re actually making some real money.  Too often making the money is the easy part but saving the money is the hard part.  The other day I was sitting around with a bunch of my buddies talking about how much we should put into our 401k (yes, I know that is the most boring conversation of all time).  But it was impossible for any of us to fathom why we should put our beer money away now and then not be able to touch it for over thirty years.  Finally, my frustrated friend just burst out and said, “Honestly guys, if I actually need the money in my 401k by the time I’m old, I’ll just kill myself instead.”

-Speaking of the future, when I get married, there is absolutely no way I’m going to get a joint email address with my wife.  Have you seen this?  I get emails from like janeandbobbywilson@aol.com.  Oh that is so very, very lame.

-For some reason, I think it’s really cool that I was born in 1979.  I meet anyone born after me and I’m like, “Dude, you’re so eighties.  I was born in the seventies man, yeah!”  Right.  For the six months I was alive in the seventies, my life consisted of spitting up on myself and babbling incoherently.  And if you see me at my birthday party in two weeks, you’ll see that not much has changed.

-Living in New York, most weekend nights are dedicated to celebrating people’s birthdays.  Let’s face it, there are about six people that you can really get excited about their birthday, and the rest of the people you just need to “make an appearance” at their party to perpetuate the thinly-veiled fabrication that you actually care.

-There is one thing that will prevent me from attending a birthday party, no matter who it is, and that is if they send me an Evite.  Enough with the fucking Evites already!  It’s always the same drill: a picture of a record player in the background and directions to some bar in the West Village that no one has ever heard of.  Then you have the guest list that is always some abnormally high number like 237 invited guests.  Then you look at the “yes” section in which the first seven responses are the birthday girl’s sister, roommates, cousins, and boyfriend, all with a little comment like “Wouldn’t miss it for the world baby doll!”  Then you have the “maybe” section, also known as the “there’s no fucking way I’m coming but I’m trying to be nice” section.  Finally, there is the “no” section that usually consists of only a few scattered responses from friends in California or Europe who actually have a legitimate reason why they can’t come.  And just to punish the birthday girl for sending an Evite, no matter how detailed it was, the other 217 people who didn’t respond always call up about half an hour before the party and say, “So, what’s the deal for tonight again?”

-No matter where you look, the Whatever Years are filled with signs of a fading childhood and the growing responsibility that adulthood represents.  In two months, I have an engagement party for a close friend (I don’t get it, aren’t we celebrating at the wedding, what the fuck is this party?).  A few months ago, I got an email from classmates.com about my upcoming high school reunion (uh, I graduated in 1997, I think we have a little time to plan guys).  And every time I run into a friend from college, I hear of another former animal of a fraternity brother who’s getting married (from kegs and taps to Crate & Barrel in the blink of an eye!).  I don’t think I’m ready for any of that yet.  Hell, at my last birthday party I stood up on a table while blindingly drunk and was nearly decapitated by a ceiling fan.  And I expect more of the same in two weeks.  Just don’t expect me to send an Evite.  Would I disappoint you like that?

-As always, here are some random things I’ve been ruminating about lately…

-I hate when my friends call me frantically to tell me to turn the TV on because they are behind home plate at the Yankees game or behind the bench at the Nets game.  I know you claim to be waving a giant foam hand right behind George Steinbrenner, but I can’t fucking see you, please stop calling.

-Last week was Memorial Day.  No one ever wants to make plans around Memorial Day.  “Oh that weekend, no, no, can’t do it, it’s Memorial Day weekend, no one will be around.”  Have you ever noticed that everyone says they are going to go away for Memorial Day but no one ever actually goes anywhere?  More people left the city the weekend of the University of Michigan’s graduation than last weekend.

-I think one of the most annoying questions you can ever be asked is “How was your trip?”  You just got back from vacation and now you have to tell the same damn story over and over again to a bunch of people who don’t really care.  And every time you tell the story it gets shorter and shorter.  My friend Kim left last month to travel around the world for a full year.  I feel really bad for her having to come up with an answer to that question for such a long trip.  So when she gets back I’ll just ask her the only question I actually care about: Did you get laid?

-Memo to whoever is in charge of the weather in New York:  hey, just wanted to let you know that the saying is “April showers bring May flowers” not “April showers bring May showers and then more showers in June.”  Where the hell are the flowers?

-I feel like every room I’ve ever lived in has had furniture where there was that one-inch black hole of space between it and the wall.  And you know that eventually something is going to fall back there but you just hope for the best and then one day your American Express slips in the crack and next thing you know you’ve got a flashlight in one hand, a misshapen hanger in the other, and you’re smashing your face against the wall desperately searching the black hole for any sign of life before giving up and canceling your credit card.

-I dread the moment when I get in the elevator of my apartment and press my floor but then another guy jumps in the elevator at the last moment and goes to press his floor, only to realize that it’s already pressed.  Am I obligated to introduce myself to him because he lives on my floor?  Do we really need to make idle conversation about the state of the building’s air conditioning system?  Must I say “Hey” accompanied by a subtle head nod every time I see him in the lobby thereafter?  Sometimes I wish I lived in a walk-up.

-Is it some sort of requirement to have that black and white picture of construction workers having lunch on top of a skyscraper hanging in your apartment?

-When we leave the bathroom and then are immediately introduced to someone and shake their hand, do we really need to say, “Oh, it’s only water” when referring to our wet hand?  Isn’t it safe to assume that if your hand is that wet, it’s water?  Maybe one time just for kicks I’ll say, “Hey, nice to meet you.  I’m Karo, and I just pissed all over myself.”

-I love the game of trying to guess who is calling you when an unfamiliar number comes up on caller ID.  You’ll be sitting around with your buddies and all of a sudden your cell phone rings and you’re like, “Who is this?  Area code 617?  Where’s that?”  Then someone yells out “Miami!”  “Houston!”  “San Diego?” “No dog, that’s Boston!”  “Boston?  Who do I know in Boston?  Who could possibly be calling me from Boston?  Should I pick it up?”  “No, let it go to voicemail.”  “Boston, Boston…shit, it stopped ringing.”  “Who was it?”  “They didn’t leave a message.”  “I guess we’ll never know.”

-I don’t think that it’s possible to eat Cheerios and not have one fall off the table and roll away so you can’t find it.  Now if it falls in the one-inch crack between the table and the wall, then you’re really screwed.

-When it comes to money, I think trance/electronic music fans have to be some of the most illogical people I’ve ever met.  No matter how dire their financial situation, if a big DJ is in town, they will spend exorbitant amounts of money to see him.  My buddy Claudio will be like, “Yeah dude, I’m going to a show tonight, tickets were only eighty bucks!”  And I’ll say, “But you have no money, you haven’t worked in six months, and you haven’t bought your dad a Father’s Day Present yet.”  The response: “Whatever man, it’s Oakenfold!!”

-I saw X-Men 2 the other day.  I thought it was a pretty cool flick.  The only thing I didn’t get was why the mutants were so amazed by the other mutants’ powers.  One guy was like, “Wow, you can shoot fire from your hands?”  I’m like, are you really that impressed?  You can bend metal with your mind!

-Ever notice that you can’t talk about the Matrix without starting to sound like a nerd?  At first you’re like, yeah the fight scenes were ridiculous and that Monica Bellucci chick is hot as hell!  Then you’re like, but what did you think when he went into the mainframe at the end and it turned out that there was just an anomaly in the computer that caused the program to overload even though the encryption code was assimilated to the…whoah…where the fuck did that come from?

-If you’ve been to a movie in the past month or so, you’ve undoubtedly seen countless previews for the new Hulk movie.  I love watching the trailer and then seeing everyone turn to their friend and ask, “Wait, why was the Hulk flying?  Can the Hulk fly now?  And why is he so damn big?  What’s going on?”

-There is no doubt in my mind that having a girlfriend changes your whole mentality.  Last Saturday morning at about 11am, after an all-night rager, I was woken up by my roommate Brian who wanted to know if I wanted to go to brunch with him and his girlfriend.  Brunch?  Are you fucking kidding me?  Brunch?  What happened to the days when we used to get up at 2pm, get bacon, egg, and cheese sandwiches and 64-ounce lemon lime Gatorades, watch SportsCenter, and then go back to sleep for three more hours?  Brunch?  Don’t you know that no single guys go to brunch?  Anyway, could you, um, bring me back an omelet?

-What is going on on TV these days?  The other day I saw a commercial that described mascara as “revolutionary” followed by another commercial that described a new television show as “daring.”  But the weird part was that skateboarder Tony Hawk was in both of them!

-Memo to guys wearing those old school mesh baseball caps crooked to the front: holy shit!  Are you Ashton Kutcher?  Wait a minute, you’re not.  So why the hell are you wearing your hat like that?

-Memo to chicks wearing really low-cut shirts or really short skirts or low-rider jeans with your thong all hanging out: you are my reason for living.  However, please stop fidgeting with your clothes.  When you left the house, you knew half your ass was showing, now just let it be.

-Why on a Friday night is there always that one guy who has to hold everyone up because he has to buy cigarettes and go to the ATM before we can get a cab?

-Why is there a sign outside the sauna in the men’s locker room of my gym that says: “Do not use if pregnant.”?

-How my come my computer hasn’t shut down properly in like two years?

-Why are there more personnel at the airport helping people who can’t figure out how to use the “self-service” e-ticket machine than anywhere else?

-And, finally, have you ever brought something into a store that you already bought and then had to convince them that it’s yours?  I was walking back from the gym the other day and I stopped in a deli to get something to eat.  I brought a bottle of water from the gym with me.  I paid for my food and was about to walk out when the cashier noticed the water in my hand.  “Excuse me, sir,” she said, “You have to pay for that.”  I told her that I brought it with me from the gym.  But she said that since they sell the same exact bottle of water at the deli and she didn’t see me come in with it, she had to charge me.  At this point I started to get angry.  I said, “Are you saying that I’m trying to steal this bottle of water?  Why would I do that? It’s two bucks!  And even if I did, why would I just walk out the door so nonchalantly and not try to conceal it?  If I was going to steal it why wouldn’t I just slip it into my backpack, then you would never have seen it and I would have gotten out of here no problem!”  I waited for her response.  “Sir,” the cashier finally said after a long pause, “I’m going to have to search your bag.”  Fuck me.

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